Absinthe

Absinthe

Vampire!Choso x reader

Warnings: nsfw/mdni. shameless smut. mentions of murder/suicide, blood and gore, slight body horror, mild predator/prey dynamic, yandere!choso. monsterfucking, biting, blood play, blood drinking, face sitting/riding, cunnilingus, semi-public sex, somnophilia mention, mildly dubious consent (the reader is into it but they're also slightly terrified, tagging it as this just in case), mild praise kink (choso calls the reader a good girl), fem reader.

Summary: when a series of violent murders plagues your sleepy town, your life is seemingly turned on its head. more and more women are being killed by the day. the possible threat of a serial killer looms over your head. you find yourself seeking comfort in your strange, but beautiful roommate

Word count: 7.6k

jjk masterlist

tagging: @naoyas90dayfiance @jujutsukuna :)

There's something weird about your roommate.

More specifically, his older brother.

When you first found this place, it almost seemed too good to be true. A three bedroom house for rent, within walking distance of your work, with rent going for dirt cheap. The one—and seemingly only—downside was that the top floor of the house was under renovations, and was barren, leaving only one working bathroom downstairs. Which you didn't mind. The owner of the house was an older woman, renting the place out to earn some extra money after the death of her husband.

In a town full of college kids, the offer was too good to pass up. Who knew when an opportunity like that would just fall into your lap again?

Though you and your roommate could cover the rent together, having a third roommate would take some stress off the two of you. Along came Itadori, a freshman at the nearby college. Yuji was a sweet kid. A little odd, but not outstandingly weird. Although ideally you wanted your third roommate to be another woman, he was nice enough, and he could pay rent on time. Yuji was the least strangest person out of everyone who applied, so not long after he was moving in.

And in the first few months, you didn't see much of him. Your work schedules are complete opposites, and he had class during the day. He always says hi to you when you run into him in the hall, and he gladly takes any leftovers you have when you cook. He’s a little dumb, but sweet, and seems to make friends with everyone he meets.

After your other roommate found a job in another city, and had to move out, you were desperate for another one. Between a college student making slightly more than minimum wage, and your job at the morgue, there was little money to spare. Plus, there was an extra room in the house. Soon, finding a new roommate became a priority.

Then along came Choso.

Choso is pleasant enough, albeit stranger than his little brother. You've met him a handful of times. Mostly on late, drunken nights where you're fumbling with the keys to your house. You can't say you know him too well. Your conversations were typically short, and always in passing. Even before he moved in, he was often over, visiting Itadori. The two are close. Yuji vouched for him, your landlord liked him well enough, and soon he was moving in.

Over the past few weeks, not much has changed in your daily routine. Your job consumed most of your time. Choso, however strange, yet oddly charming, became nothing more than background noise. He settled in rather fast. He paid his rent on time, and though he seemed to sleep at the strangest hours of the day, he was respectful, and quiet. A step above some of the previous roommates you've had.

Slowly he fell to the back of your mind.

Then it happened.

A body was found. Out in the woods behind an apartment complex. On the riverbank trail. As it's a fairly busy path, the body was discovered quickly.

The first was deemed an accident. Primarily a suicide, as the woman showed no signs of self defense, but had a boxcutter on her person.

Her body was completely drained of blood.

You've never seen anything like it.

It's an odd way to commit suicide. Women generally overdose as a method. Such a gruesome act is uncommon. As a whole, such a method is hard, as not many people are able to stab themselves in the throat in such a way. When people end up on your table, it's usually from natural causes, and the occasional car accident. Not suicide. That’s not to say it's impossible. But it's rare.

It's a big city. One near a college. People—usually students—go missing. Either of their own free will, or from drunken accidents. Murders happen, sure, but not frequently. And most are often solved within weeks. There's no rivaling gangs, or some sick serial killer on the loose.

Or so people first assumed.

The incisions on their necks are clean. Not clean enough to have been done with a scalpel, but clean. No tears. Right down to their carotid artery. Severing it completely.

Such a cut would kill any normal human in minutes. Seconds, sometimes. Blood loss would kick in and they would fall unconscious. But they show no signs of fighting back. There's no signs of a struggle at each of the crime scenes. The victims either knew their attacker, or were caught completely off guard.

But none of them knew each other. One girl wasn't even from town. There's nothing connecting the victims that keep appearing on your table, except for they are all around your age. Mid twenties. Young, but not too young. Most are freshly out of college, or are in their final years. And they’re all women.

Worst of all, where does all the blood go? Though it's rare for you to see the crime scenes itself, you’ve been shown photos. The blood is gone. If the women were killed there, there would be blood. Everywhere. But there isn't. And if the bodies were moved, there would be bruising, or dirt on the deceased. But again, there isn't. There's no sign of the bodies being moved after their time of death.

For others, this was worrying. For you, this became a typical Tuesday. If it was a murder, it’d be solved soon. But tracking down murderers isn't your job. Dealing with the dead is. Slowly you pushed these thoughts to the back of your mind.

He comes to you in the dead of sleep. Soft. Cold. Silent.

You used to find solace in being alone. You're a solitary person, finding comfort in loneliness, taking much joy in it. Often you'd make jokes that you prefer the dead over the living. But lately, you find yourself turning from your solitude. Wondering what the dark on your walk home brings. What lurks in the shadows that follow you.

His visits are fleeting. So is his touch. But in its wake it brings a cold comfort.

At first they were nightmares. Sleep paralysis. Or so you've explained it as. In the late hours of the night, bleeding into the early hours of the morning, you find yourself frozen in fear. The silhouette that lurks in the corner of your room never speaks, only watching you with cold eyes. Some days he comes to sit on the edge of your bed. You don't truly know if it's a he. But the figure much resembles a man, though you never get to see his face.

You've stopped drinking. Alcohol only makes you feel sick. And the older you get, the longer your hangovers last, and the more your anxiety spikes during them. You don't understand how Yuji can go out partying each night, and come home to get ready for classes the next morning.

The boys continue on with their daily life. Yuji goes to class. Choso goes to work.

You find comfort in being around Choso. Yuji is gone most hours of the day. Hanging out with friends, or going to classes. Choso works nights. Though his schedule seems to change around a lot. You're not quite sure what he does for a living. He sleeps all day, only to be up and ready for work by the time you arrive home in the evenings.

More bodies appear. Two women.

They were discovered the same day, but times of death varied. The one had been dead for over several days when she was found, while the other was still warm. Medical examiner placed her time of death a few hours before she was found, not far from the other body. Neither bodies showed any sign of being moved—or other traumas—after death.

It's slowly sinking in that there may be a serial killer on the loose. One that takes much joy in draining the blood of young women. A silent, cold terror falls over your sleepy town.

The killings were slow at first. The original was discovered weeks before the second two. But the cause of death was too similar in both cases to overlook.

It didn't start to get to you until one of your coworkers wound up on your table. Her pale body drained of blood. She had invited you out for drinks. Which you refused. You had said goodnight to her the previous evening.

And little did you know, you would be the last person to see her alive.

You can't help but wonder what would have happened to you if you agreed. Would that be you? Would you have been the one on your cold metal table? Would your family be called in to identify your pale, bloodless body?

You were quickly ruled out as a suspect. The cameras outside your work caught you heading home at 6:30pm. She was killed somewhere around midnight. Not to mention, the cameras at the train station caught you taking your usual ride home. Out of everyone questioned, all of them said you weren't capable of such a thing.

The rest of the day was a blur of questions. That night you would come home, dragging your feet through the door. Yuji was away at a party. Choso was the only one home, sitting on the couch, idly switching his attention between his phone, and a movie. It was his day off. Even when he's not working, he's practically nocturnal. Though he's rather quiet, and respectful of everyone's sleep schedules, so you can't complain too much.

Maybe he noticed your grim appearance. Up until now, he'd been distant. He was rather timid, and shy. You made polite small talk when you ran into each other before work, but aside from that, your interactions were few. He was a little awkward, but had the same charms as his brother. Talking to him was rather easy.

"How was work?" He asks.

"Okay," you say. Out of respect for the dead, you generally skip the details. "Tiring. But since when is that new?"

You join him on the couch, tossing your keys and purse onto the coffee table. There's a certain slump to your shoulders that he hasn't noticed before. The dark circles under your eyes are only getting bigger. You're practically dragging yourself through the house. You’re not certain you have enough energy to both cook dinner, and shower, so you find yourself wondering which one you need to do the least.

"What's the matter?"

You're silent for a moment. You consider whether or not it's a big enough issue to tell him, or to just drop it.

"I had to process one of my coworkers today." You say. "I don't know what the hell I’m supposed to tell her husband. She invited me to go out to a bar with her last night. I didn't feel up to it, so I cancelled on her,

“And I know it's probably selfish of me to think this, but I could have just as easily been the one on the table today. Ready to be dissected by all my unknowing co-workers. And I'm just relieved it wasn't me,

"I realize that's a shitty thing to say. That doesn't suddenly exclude me from this guy's sick fantasies. The police aren't any closer to finding him than they first were!"

He can hear the anger in your voice. The frustration, and grief. He wants to do something to help, though he’s struck with uncertainty. You need time to grieve. Perhaps being alone is what's best for you right now.

Though you aren't looking at him, you feel his gaze turn to you. His eyes linger on you for a while before he speaks.

“I think you’re smart enough that he won't go after you.” He says.

Somehow you don't believe him.

Because you’re the killer’s type.

"I know this sounds weird," you say, "but can you… hold me? Just for a little bit?"

He nods, and opens his arms, not even taking a moment to consider it, just agreeing. Almost as if he's been waiting for this moment. Instinctively you go into them. He's not very warm, but there's an odd comfort to his presence. He pulls you to sit in his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist. His body rocks yours with each breath he takes.

You could swear there's not a heartbeat in his chest. You chalk it up to the thick hoodie he wears. The fabric of it is rather soft, and you run your fingers across it to help calm yourself.

"You really tired yourself out today, huh?" He asks.

You nod.

It would be easier to stay awake if you weren't so tired, or if his hoodie wasn't so soft, or if he wasn't softly rocking you in his arms.

He's there when you fall asleep. By the time you wake up, the sun has long since set, and he's gone to work. A blanket has been thrown over you, but you're still wearing your work clothes.

As time wears on, you spend more time around Choso. Exhaustion seeps into your very core. No matter how many hours you sleep, you wake up bone tired. He helps you cook, clean, and keep things around the house in order. Though you can very well do them yourself, he insists. And some nights you're too tired to refuse.

Mysterious scratches have begun appearing on your body. You've always moved around a lot in your sleep. At first, you didn't think much of it. But as more kept appearing, and as you grew more tired despite sleeping the same each night, you began to get worried. This prompted you to visit your doctor. It was about time you go in for a yearly checkup anyway.

Your doctor said your iron was low, and gave you a prescription for some vitamins. After taking them, and getting more rest, you began to feel better. Healing was a gradual, slow process, but soon you were cleared to go back to work. Choso still helped around the house. The routine you settled into felt like that of partners, more than of roommates.

And when more bodies would wind up on your table, lifeless against the cold metal slab, you would fall asleep in his arms. Sometimes on the couch. Sometimes you'd crawl into his bed, like a child wanting comfort from their parents after a nightmare. Seeking out his presence for the few hours before he had to leave for work. And most nights he was awake, Opening his arms for you to crawl into. He was always respectful, never making any odd comments, or touching you if you didn't want to be touched. There was a healthy apprehension behind his actions, that of any man thrown into such a position. He was sweet. Always making sure you were eating enough, and getting enough sleep, never wanting to make you uncomfortable.

More often than not, you were in his bed. Even when he was away, it provided a sense of comfort. It always smelled so nice—like him, and his cologne—and was far more comfortable than your own. As fall turned into winter, and the house's heating stopped working, you found yourself seeking him out more. Together the two of you would nap, and bask in the other's warmth.

Or his lack of such.

You hardly remember the night. It was a Friday. Yuji was—to no one's surprise—out partying, and would be gone for most of the weekend. After work you stopped at the farmers market, catching it before it shut down for the night, gathering some ingredients needed to make a soup.

The walk home was uneventful. Normally you'd take the train. But it was nice out, and the sky was clear, albeit cold.

Choso is sitting on the couch when you get home. A movie plays on the tv, though he pays no attention to it. He's only wearing sweatpants. His hair is down loose around his shoulders, and is still damp. He must have just gotten out of the shower. You hope there's still some hot water left.

You're not subtle in the way your gaze lingers on him. He’s attractive, you won't deny that. He hides himself in baggy clothes. It's no surprise to you. You've spent many nights tracing the hard planes of muscle. His arms have always brought you a feeling of security. Many nights you spent with your head leaned against his chest, listening for the beating of his heart.

You set the groceries down, and head to your room to change out of your work clothes. From a pile of clothes abandoned on your chair you pull a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. You've been meaning to fold your laundry, but between work, and everything else going on in life, it's slipped your mind. You make a mental note to do laundry tomorrow morning. Your basket is getting full.

He’s still on the couch when you come out, idly scrolling through his phone. You sit beside him. Though you’re hungry, you’ll wait a bit to start dinner. It won't take long, it's only a matter of thawing some meat, and boiling everything in a pot together. Not particularly complex, though a bit time consuming. With the weather growing colder, it sounded nice.

You join Choso on the couch, practically sprawling out across his lap. His arms find your waist and pull you to sit a little closer to him. You lean into his touch, your arms wrapping around his neck.

"How was work?" He asks.

"A shitshow." You say. "Another girl turned up."

"That's the second one this week?"

"Third." You say. Though you didn't know her personally, she worked in your building. A receptionist. Only a few years younger than you. Out of college for two years. Studied mortuary science. “This keeps happening! They’re never going to find who’s doing it!”

The irritation in your voice is palpable. Choso doesn't like seeing you in distress. One of his hands finds your head, stroking your hair. His nails are getting long, and feel nice against your scalp.

"You'll be alright.” He says. “I won't let anything happen to you.”

He can't promise that unless you never leave his side. Which you just might.

That's when he pulls you into a kiss.

It catches you entirely off guard. His lips are soft, and the smell of his shampoo is so inviting you can feel yourself leaning into him. For a moment you forget to breathe.

He’s the first to pull away. A faint blush dusts his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and his ears. He turns his head away to hide the smile that creeps up on his lips. From this angle, all you can see is the panic that flashes across his eyes.

“I sorry if that was too forward-” apologies are spilling from his mouth in an instant.

“Choso,” you say, “we’ve been sleeping in the same bed. I'm alright with you kissing me.”

He takes that as permission to continue, pulling you back to deepen the kiss. Your hands tangle in his soft hair. His hands find your hips, greedily kneading the soft flesh of your ass. It's hard to deny the heat that pools between your thighs. His touch sends shocks of electricity up your spine. Wherever his fingers touch, warmth blooms across your skin. You're left with an ache in your core, one that can only be fixed by his touch. He doesn't protest as you grind down against his toned thigh.

You don't even know how long he's wanted to do this.

It's only when you're out of breath, and have to come up for air that he speaks.

“Ride my face.” He says.

You stop. And for a moment he worries he's crossed a line.

"I'm too heavy," you say, "I-I'd suffocate you-"

"Please do." He says, swallowing hard. “I’d die a happy man."

The thought of you using him to get off in such a way warms his cold blood. His pupils have shrunk down to pinpricks.

“Just… shove me off if it gets to be too much,” you say, “or pinch me, or something. I don't want you dying on me.”

“Of course.” He says. The monotone edge to his voice is forced. Behind it you can hear excitement bubbling through.

He's quick to help free you of your shorts, letting out a soft hum of amusement as he realizes you have nothing on underneath. You rarely slept with panties on. Or at least you didn't until you started crawling into bed with him. Either out of modesty, or respect for him, you started wearing shorts with every night shirt you wore to bed. He misses when he could get a good look at your sleeping body. But having you in his own bed was far better than watching you sleep from the corner of your room.

Before you can even stop him, he’s leaning back, pulling you to rest over his face. He's a lot stronger than he looks, manhandling you like you weigh nothing. The feeling of your warm thighs around his head is nearly enough to make him moan. He's not shy about how he adores this. How the taste of your cunt is enough to make his cock stand to attention. How the gasps and moans that leave you are like music to his ears. Your body is so warm and full of life against his. He’s savoring everything about you; how you sound, how you smell, how you taste. He’s quick to bring you to orgasm, working you up with his skilled tongue. Maybe it's the stress. Maybe it's because you haven't had sex in a while. You’ve had past partners, but none as attentive as him. Maybe you’re more pent up than you thought.

You ride out your orgasm on his face for all it's worth. Choso practically forces it out of you. He won't let you go until you’re shaking, and whimpering, and crying out his name like a prayer.

He helps guide you to sit in his lap. Exhausted, and thoroughly fucked-out. Your head falls into the crook of his neck, pressing soft kisses to the junction of flesh where his neck and shoulder meet. Idly your fingers trace the muscles in his arms. Those strong arms that have always made you feel so safe and secure.

Your free hand works lower, palming the bulge of his cock through his sweatpants. The sight of it is nearly enough to make you drool. You’re certain he wants it too. He’s painfully hard, leaking precum against his equally toned thighs, letting out the cutest noises as you grind against him.

The kiss he pulls you into is soft. You can taste yourself on his lips. Not that you mind. His hand moves to cup your face, his thumb tracing slow circles across your cheek.

You hardly hear the jingle of keys in the door.

Yuji drunkenly stumbles through the front door. You pull a blanket into your lap to help cover yourself, and hide Choso, who doesn't seem to be bothered by this at all. You should consider yourself lucky the couch is faced away from the door.

"Oh hey roomie!" Yuji says. "Where's Cho?"

You lean to the side, giving Yuji a better look at his brother. He greets him, and leaves, heading for the bathroom, where you soon hear the shower running.

He either does know, and is choosing not to say anything, or is blissfully ignorant. Both of which are equally possible. Yuji may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but credit where credit is due. He's not too stupid.

As much as you’d like to return the favor—or go for another round, as Choso tried to insist—you went straight to bed. Separate this time. You’re not about to fuck your roommate with his brother in the next room over.

Choso managed to keep his promise.

Less bodies began showing up.

It wasn't a gradual thing. They quite literally stopped appearing. There was the one unrelated murder, and a suicide, plus your usual deaths from natural causes, but no more exanguanations.

Slowly things returned to normal. It was like a fog had lifted. Winter dragged on like an endless death march, leaving the trees dead, and the grass brown. The new year rolled around, though you didn't do much to celebrate. Less and less you found yourself looking over your shoulder.

Choso was worried he had made things awkward. To be fair, things were awkward from the start. You began sleeping in your own bed again. Though you weren't necessarily cold towards him, you were more distant than in past weeks. As things at work began to settle down, you went back to your old routine.

Something has to change.

Maybe it started because of the colder weather, or lack of sunlight. You often found yourself exhausted, and sick. You were colder than normal. Not that the cold has been too much of an issue for you in the past, but it was like you couldn't warm up.

Choso—poor, sweet Choso—had a heated blanket that you spent many nights curled up under, on the opposite side of his bed. You sought him out for the little warmth he could provide.

And provide he did. Letting you curl up next to him, bringing you tea and soup when you’d fall sick, eating you out when you’d wake up in the early hours of the morning begging for him, a growing wetness between your thighs. It was odd how he rarely asked you to return the favor, but you did little to protest when he insisted on a second—or even a third—round.

If his younger brother noticed something was up, he never said anything about it. Though, knowing Yuji, he might have just thought the two of you were close friends.

The presence of his younger brother didn't stop him from fucking you across every flat surface in your house. In your own rooms, over the counter in the kitchen, on the couch when you have the place to yourself. Sometimes Yuji was home, sometimes he wasn't. He’d take you on the porch outside if you so pleased. But you don't. And you don't want your neighbors complaining any more than they do. You’re loud enough as it is with several walls separating you. But you make such sweet noises, and Choso wants everyone to hear them.

There are few things he likes seeing more than your pretty body writhing under his.

It was one of the not-so rare days you were calling out sick from work. You were told to rest up, and feel better soon. Which you had all intentions of. Choso had errands to run, and was gone before you even woke up. The other side of the bed was cold by the time you were up and moving.

You go about your day as normal, making tea, and breakfast although it's well past noon. Eggs and bacon sounded good. After breakfast, you settle down on the couch, with a blanket and more tea, intending on marathoning movies. The late morning turns into the early afternoon. Before you know it, the sun is setting.

When the door opens, you expect it to be Yuji, coming home after his classes.

In walks Choso, his arms drenched in blood.

It takes you nearly a minute to process the scene in front of you. During that time, the two of you both stare at each other, waiting for the other to speak.

Did he get hurt? Did someone attack him? Is this serial killer going after men now?!

“Holy shit!” You say. “What the hell happened?! Were you hurt?”

“Oh,” Choso says softly, “you’re home. I thought you’d still be at work.”

Though his tone is monotone, as usual, there's a hint of excitement behind his voice. Barely restrained. Like he's holding back.

“Come here,” you say, and slowly he walks forward, joining you on the couch, “are you going to tell me what happened?”

You give him a once over for any injuries, but find none. Is this blood even his?! The entire time he's silent, watching you through half-lidded eyes. Most of the people you deal with are dead. The living aren't exactly your forte.

“Hey, we need to get you to a doctor.” You say. “I can only do so much here. Why don't you go get changed. I’ll give you a ride to the ER.”

That's when he licks his hand.

“Gross!” You say, grabbing his wrist and wrenching it from his mouth. Is he having some sort of mental break? Do you need to call an ambulance? “Don't do that! Do you know how many diseases you could have just given yourself?!”

You cringe away as he tries to kiss you, planting your hands on his chest and giving him a good shove. Even as you think back to the morning’s—and the previous night’s—events, you find nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing outside of your normal routine has happened.

Aside from you calling out of work sick.

“Why don't we go get you cleaned up,” you say, trying to guide him to the bathroom, “we don't need you getting any blood on the furniture.”

Maybe if you distract him long enough it’ll give you time to call an ambulance. Or the police.

Just what has your poor, sweet Choso gotten himself into?

He doesn't protest as you run a bath, and help him get undressed. He tries to help you undress, but you simply swat his hands away, and tell him to let you take care of him.

If something happened, then his clothes might be evidence, so you make a mental note to not wash them. One of your neighbors must have seen something. A man walking home covered in blood in almost broad daylight wouldn't go unnoticed. Or so you’d assume. Granted, the overcast weather, and the setting sun would leave it pretty dark.

What makes you the most worried is the lack of wounds overall. If he got into a fight, it's more than likely he would have wounds on his hands. Even if he were using a weapon, the force needed to stab, slash, or cut another human being would bruise him. It's a lot harder to stab a person than you’d think. Not to mention you’ve got bones and muscles in the way. Unless you truly knew where to aim—or got really lucky—there would be signs.

The water turns a bright shade of pink as you help scrub him down. He can't help but think of how much better it’d be if you got into the water with him. And how nice your body would look covered in red.

Choso can sense the way your pulse quickens. You're very good at hiding your fear. Though you must be terrified. Years in your line of work has hardened you, and left you calm and collected under pressure.

He hates seeing you in distress. But there's a sweet, intoxicating feeling that accompanies it. He wonders how sweet your blood has gotten, mixed with adrenaline. Fear makes it taste better. He hopes you know that. But yours never needed fear to make it the best he’s ever had. You couldn't imagine how many nights he spent debating whether or not to drain you dry.

To kill you would be a waste. You are truly something special.

In his defense, he never took enough to kill you. Really, he didn't need to drain all those women. He doesn't need to feed that much to survive. It was only a plus that you curled up to him each night, seeking his presence. Oh how he’d kill a hundred men just to suckle at your neck while deep in your cunt.

It'll be even better now that you’re awake.

“Get in the water with me,” he says.

“Once I get all this blood off,” you say, holding his hand up to inspect it, “then I’ll refill the tub and get in. I don't want to get sick.”

But he wants you in now.

You stay true to your word. Once you get the majority of the blood off, you drain the water, and start refilling the tubm watching the last of the pink water swirling down the drain. In the meantime, you get undressed, and settle into the shallow, slowly rising water. You add in some soaps, and bath salts you’ve been saving for a special occasion. Supposedly they help with stress, but you’re more anxious than you’ve ever been.

In his arms you used to find comfort. Now they're little more than something to keep track of in case you have to run.

His grip around your waist tightens, pulling you to sit in his lap. His lips find your neck, littering it with kisses, and softly sucking at the sensitive skin. Your neck smells so nice. He finds a washcloth, and some soap, dragging the rough fabric across your skin, admiring the softness of it. If the context were any different, such an action would be completely innocent.

"Choso?" You can hardly choke out his name. "Did you kill all those people?!"

"Not all of them," he says, "some were accidents. But they were done by my kind, if that's what you’re asking.”

Does Yuji know about this? You doubt it. You’d be hard pressed to find something Yuji does know about. You're mentally steeling yourself, eyes frantically scanning the room for a way out. There's nothing nearby you can use as a weapon, save for a ceramic pot, still holding a houseplant. Maybe a good whack over the head will deter him. But knowing Choso…

“I can get to the door before you.” You say.

“Can you?” He asks. “I think I’m faster.”

There's a sharp, stinging pain and his teeth dig into your neck. Though you’re mostly silent, caught by surprise, a small squeak escapes you. It only hurts for a moment. His grip around your waist tightens. And he's saying something- but your head is too foggy to make out any words.

What the hell was that? Did he just draw blood?

The warm feeling of his tongue against your neck is enough to make you shudder. A shock of pleasure is sent up your spine, one which should most surely be pain. Your body is a little too receptive to this. Maybe it's the warm water, but you could almost swear your body is heating up.

Danger and arousal practically overlap in the human mind. Those neurons are very close, practically crossing over in some cases.

While part of you is frozen in fear, part of you finds this extremely hot.

"Sorry, love. I hope it doesn't hurt too bad," he says, "I can't help myself. Yours is the sweetest."

Nobody else compares to you.

He does let you break free. Though you’re soaking wet, you make it out of the bathroom, and down the hall before he catches you. This time you scream, only for one of his large hands to cover your mouth.

“Don't run,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s swooping you up into his arms bridal style, “I’ll always catch you.”

Your elbow swings out, slamming into his sternum hard. He lets out a soft grunt of surprise, though it hurts you more than it hurts him. He's a lot stronger than you. A shock of pain is sent up your arm. It's like hitting a brick wall. By reflex, he drops you, giving you an opening to dash for the door.

But that's where he’s expecting you to go.

You make a sudden left for his bedroom, where there's a sliding glass door that leads out to the porch. From there, you suppose you’ll yell for help. Maybe one of your neighbors will take pity on you, a poor, naked girl running from her insane lover.

In your moment of hesitation, he’s caught up to you, grabbing you by the shoulder and yanking you back. Your terrified gasp much resembles a moan in nature, as heat pools not only in your face, but between your legs.

You’re enjoying this little game of cat and mouse…

In Choso’s mind it only solidifies his view of you as his own. A pretty little thing to preen, and feed off of. His partner. His mate. Oh how pretty your sleeping form looked, oblivious to the way he fed from you.

You pray for Yuji to come home early. For him to not go out partying for once. But your prayers are ignored.

“Don't get my intentions misconstrued,” Choso says, “I have no plans to kill you.”

You're far more valuable to him alive.

You swallow hard. The heat between your legs only builds in intensity. Your teeth find your bottom lip, digging into it hard. Soon the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth.

The sight of him standing before you, naked, with water still dripping off of him is enough to pool the fire that burns in your belly. His hair is loose around his shoulders, his long, dark locks falling into his face. Albeit terrifying, he is handsome.

The worst part is his eyes.

They aren't the eyes of a monster. Nor do they hold any sort of malice, or anger. He looks at you with such adoration that you want to sob. He looks at you like you’re the sun, the moon, and all the stars. Like you’re the world to him.

In his defense, he does love you. Just in the twisted way that his undead heart will allow. You loved him too. At one point.

“There was only so much I could take without harming you.” He says. “Only feeding from you proved to have detrimental consequences to your health. If I didn't feed from others, you likely would have died.”

Is that why he’s been so nice? Why he’s been cooking for you, and insisting you take your vitamins?

Your head spins. Maybe it's from the hot water. Maybe this is a nightmare, and in a few minutes you’ll wake up.

Your hand falls to your neck, where warm blood trickles down onto your heaving chest. You don't expect it to come away wet with blood. The red sight makes you nauseous.

“Your neck,” he coos, “why don't you let me help with the bleeding.”

“Like hell I will!”

You back up, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed. With a gasp, you fall, hitting the mattress. The bed that was once so inviting is now cold, and unforgiving.

You hardly notice as he crawls in beside you, pulling you to rest against his chest. His lips attack your neck, sukling the small wound. The pleased grunts and groans he makes are enough to fuel the fire burning in your stomach. Every cell in your being is crying out for him to touch you, though the rational part of your brain wants you to fight.

His hand trails lower, eventually finding the slick that pools around your entrance, humming in amusement.

“My good girl,” he coos, “so wet for me.”

His words are enough to send a shock of pleasure up your spine. The months you two have spent together have given him enough time to figure out just what makes you tick. His fingers find your clit, working circles around the bundle of nerves, eliciting a small moan from you. You're so soft, so warm and reactive to his touch. When around you, Choso feels truly alive.

His thumb works circles around your clit while he pumps his fingers. His touch leaves your body feeling warm. And though most of your being wants you to run, you can't help but relax into his touch. He’s your Choso, after all. The same man that let you curl up next to him after a nightmare, and would bring you tea and soup when you were sick.

How could someone so doting be such a monster?

It doesn't take him long to settle into a pattern that makes your toes curl, drawing soft moans from you. Tension builds in your stomach like a rubber band being stretched tight. He's making a mess out of you both. And he’d make a mess out of you every day for the rest of your lives if you’d let him.

This is so wrong. Not that you're complaining.

He's a murderer! But complying might be your best chance at getting out of this.

The heat in your stomach is practically unbearable. Your face buries in his covers, unintentionally inhaling his scent. He just smells so nice. More than anything, you want him to fuck you.

Slowly, gently, he guides you to lay on your back, caging your body under his. You clench around the sudden emptiness, wishing for nothing more than his hand to return. His eyes meet yours for only a moment. Though yours are full of fright, his are filled with affection.

He really does love you. Just in his own way. One that humans don't understand. One that borders on the line of obsession.

Choso leaves a path of wet kisses down your stomach, his lips stained red with blood. The wound on your neck has mostly stopped bleeding. The pain has reduced to a dull ache that throbs with each beat of your heart. The small ways your body reacts, your back arching up towards him, your pulse quickening, only solidifies the thought in his mind that you’re his.

His head comes to rest on your stomach. His hair tickles the sensitive skin of your lower belly, and thighs. You nod, giving him silent permission to continue.

You gasp at the feeling of his cool tongue against your clit, lavishing it with affections. Your cunt is almost as sweet as your blood. And he makes sure you know that, moaning nearly as loud as you at the taste. His arms hook around your legs, pulling you closer to him. Choso is a lot stronger than he looks. You get the impression that—if he so pleased—could keep you there forever.

And he just might, working you closer to orgasm, letting you creep up on that edge but never falling down the other side. Not until you’re crying out his name, and begging to cum. He's making such a mess. Out of you, and himself, and the sheets. If Choso could purr, he would be.

“Please, Cho,” you whine, “I wanna cum!”

This only draws a dark laugh from him. He pulls away, his chin covered in saliva, and your own slick.

“Not yet, love.” He says. “It’ll feel so much better when you finally cum on my cock.”

He wastes no time in lining himself up, giving his already hardened cock a few pumps before pressing into you. There's no stinging as he pushes in. There hardly ever is. Choso isn't a selfish lover in the slightest. He knows his size is intimidating. He always makes sure you’re prepped enough to take him.

Choso doesn't bother using a condom. There's no need, now that you’re his. Oh how he’s been waiting for the day to see your fucked-out form leaking his cum. You truly are his now.

It's oddly intimate, the way he litters your neck with kisses as he ruts into you. His lips leave your skin feeling warm. He tries to pace himself, really, but the warm, velvety feeling of your cunt is too much. You feel too good, he can't hold himself back. Though he hasn't felt human in a long time, you truly make him feel like one.

His hands plant on the back of your knees, shoving them up towards your chest. There's a pleasant stretch in your hips as he guides you into a mating press. The sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room. Your moans are hardly drowned out by his words of praise, calling you a good girl, telling you how well you take him, how much he loves you.

And you really are starting to believe it.

“Cho- I'm gonna-”

“Do it then,” he says, “cum for me.”

When you finally cum, you cum hard. Your orgasm rolls over you like a wave, pulling you under, and spitting you back out wrong. Your body twitches, overcome with pleasure, riding out your orgasm on his cock. Exhaustion slowly sets in, leaving your limbs heavy, and your eyes struggling to stay open.

He’s not far behind, his thrusts growing unsteadier. His words of praise turn into babble, incoherent sentence fragments, mostly which consist of “I love you”s. He gives no warning when he’s about to cum, instead, making sure that you take every last drop of it. The cold feeling of his cum makes you shudder. It's not outright unpleasant, though it feels strange. He doesn't bother pulling out, only settling down beside you on the bed, softening cock still inside you. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush to his chest.

Just what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into?

Part of you wishes for your roommate to stumble through the front door. Part of you is content in your lover's arms. Has anything really changed about your Choso? Would Yuji even help? He’s his brother after all.

Your limbs feel heavy, though your head feels light. Weightless. It's not a normal feeling. It's like you're drunk, but you haven't touched a drop of alcohol. His lips find your neck, lapping at the steady stream of blood from the reopened wound.

You’re completely helpless as you fall into the cold grasp of sleep.