marriedtochoso

19 she/her Black Girlie, Got married on 18/11/23

25 posts

907.

a commission piece for a lovely nonnie <33

Suna Rintaro x female reader w.c 4.4k

tw: noncon, blood, murder, slight gore, yandere vibes, nsfw, horror elements

Your grandmother called it ‘the gift’.

Once upon a time, you viewed it that way, too. A blessing, rather than a curse.

She had on a red sweater. A turtleneck, reminded me of the one you used to wear. That’s why I picked her over the others – she made me think of you.

Lips drag along the column of your throat, teeth catching – nipping sharply – at the sensitive flesh.

Cute smile, all doe eyed and dumb.

Blunt, blood-stained fingernails dig into your hips. Another searing stab between your thighs.

They’re always so fucking dumb. Naive, too; she let me tie her up without breaking a sweat. Let me blindfold her. Stupid bitch never saw it coming.

Again and again and again. You haven’t cried in weeks now, haven’t let him see you weak and terrified since the very beginning, but there’s no helping the way your body shakes. Or the nausea that curdles in your stomach.

A low groan rumbles against your skin.

Do you know the sound a human body makes as blood fills its lungs? It’s sort of a choked of gurgle, all wet and rasping. You should see the way their faces look, how they freak out, clawing at nothing.

He stills. A shudder ripples through tensed muscles. And then–

Next time, I want you there with me. I want you to see it.

– spurts of hot cum paint your insides white.

Panting atop you, your tormentor grins.

—

Most of the time, you tune the thoughts in your head out. It’s like walking into a crowded restaurant, or the Louvre in Paris, the steady hum of conversation, voices too interwoven to pick and pry at the individual threads.

At least, not without some degree of effort.

It’s for that very reason you’ve always preferred the city over the country. Fewer voices in your head made it a challenge to ignore them, the voices distinct. Clearer.

The city, or any heavily populated place really, offered peace and quiet, strange as it may sound. It offered a choice.

On the nights that you can’t sleep, you’ll lie there in a city of millions, carefully plucking through the tapestry of thoughts to listen in on. Mundane things – thoughts of meetings and work waiting in the morning, disagreements still unresolved, sex and drunken, late night musings. Sometimes you even get bits and pieces of dreams. A semi-coherent commentary of unconscious desires, which usually ranged from mildly disturbing to surprisingly entertaining.

And perhaps it’d feel invasive, listening in to your neighbours’ innermost thoughts and feeling, if you actually knew who they belonged to, but you don’t. You’re not sure if you’ve ever even had a proper conversation with any of the people in your apartment complex – a nod and a smile at the couple who live in the apartment next to yours, a ten second exchange about the weather outside when you’re caught in the elevator, beyond that though, nothing.

They’re strangers.

You’ve made a conscious effort never to pry into the minds of your loved ones. Or, you’ve tried to, at least. Sometimes you can’t help it, especially when you were younger.

Sometimes their thoughts are loud. Unignorable.

Sometimes you hear things that hurt you.

But never in your wildest imagination did you ever anticipate that this beautiful, strange, double edged gift of yours would end up hurting you like this.

—

There’s a poster of a missing girl plastered over the bus stop out the front of your apartment. One morning, you find a friend of yours staring curiously at it, a slight crinkle appearing between her brows.

“Huh,” she murmurs, “weird. She kinda looks like you.”

You know she means nothing by it. She has a habit of saying things without thinking them through, and you’ve long since come to accept that.

The comment would’ve been easy to brush off had it not been for that uneasy prickling at the nape of your neck.

The feeling of eyes burning holes into your back that’s plagued you for a few days now.

—

–elp me, help me, oh god, please someone HELP ME!

A loud thump echoes from above, jerking you from a fitful sleep. You shoot upright, breath just out of reach.

Sweat beads at your temples, your pulse pounding in your ear. The only light in your bedroom is a thin beam of moonlight filtering through the crack in your curtains, and for a moment, you just sit there, chest heaving, fingers twisting in your sheets.

What the hell was that?

You swallow, a lump lying heavy and tight in your throat. The voice (was it a voice? A figment of your imagination? A dream, maybe?) sounded feminine. Terrified.

Screaming.

You’ve never heard anything like it before. Every once in a while there’s a voice in your head that’s louder than the others, usually when emotions are running high, but nothing like this.

As quickly as it’d come, it falls silent, settling back into the hum of interwoven noise inside your head.

And yet you feel it still; an imprint echoing quietly, unable to leave. Licking your lips, you frantically concentrate, picking and pulling at the various threads to see if you can find it – her – again.

… keeps snoring, I’m gonna shove this pillow…

… looks so hot on her knees, fuck, maybe I should film…

…diet’s ruined anyway, might as well see what’s open…

… then at eleven there’s the presentation with the boss…

Nothing.

Nothing but the same mundane, simple thoughts you hear every night. Frustrated and stressed and tired and horny – and not so much as a hint of that awful terror and panic.

If what you heard was somebody’s thoughts, if they were genuinely in trouble and needed help, surely you’d be able to pick it up.

Surely they’d be calling out, too, and somebody else would hear it.

With a heavy exhale, your body loses some of its tension. Maybe it was all in your head, a dream that wasn’t quite a dream. Reaching blindly for your phone, you fumble until the screen lights up, squinting against the sudden brightness to read the time.

2:48.

Damn.

The past few days have sapped the energy right out of you, you just need a good, uninterrupted night’s sleep. That’s all. Setting the phone back on your nightstand, you slip back beneath the covers and shut your eyes once more.

You breathe in and you breathe out, wriggling slightly to make yourself more comfortable.

Another thump reverberates through the room and you fight that niggle of irritation, burrowing yourself further into your bed as if that’ll somehow erase the disturbance. It’s a universal thing, right; upstairs neighbours clomping around at ridiculous hours. Still, doing so at three am on a Friday morning feels a little excessive.

All you need is a few decent hours of sleep, and–

Stupid fucking bitch.

Exhausted eyes snap open.

—

“You need to tell somebody,” your friend mutters.

The two of you are out on your balcony, her leaning out over the railing, you loosely curled in one of the wicker chairs of your outdoor set. “And say what? ‘Hi officer, I think I heard a woman screaming for help inside my brain? And then another voice – again, totally in my head – insulting her. Though, on second thought, the two may or may not be related’?” You laugh humorlessly, “Yeah, that’ll go down a treat.”

She frowns, “Well, okay, maybe not phrased exactly like that, but you could’ve said something. Told them you actually heard her screaming, or about the thumping upstairs.”

“That thumping could’ve been anything. I don’t even know if the voice was real in the first place, I just–” you break off with a huff, dropping your head to your knees. “I don’t know.”

And that’s the worst thing. You’ve spent the past few hours running it over and over in your head, trying to piece everything together. What you’d heard and felt and sensed. That voice, the woman – whoever she was – she’d sounded so desperate, so terrified, and yet you can’t even be sure that she wasn’t a figment of your own exhausted imagination. If you can’t be certain of that, how the hell can you be sure of anything else?

The thought, creeping and insidious, hasn’t left you alone, won’t let you rest easy or brush it aside – what if it wasn’t your imagination. What if the woman was real and genuinely needed help?

Why did she suddenly fall silent?

Your friend sighs, pushing away from the railing to come to your side. Her hand falls to your shoulder and squeezes. Hey,” she says, and waits until you lift your watery eyes to meet hers to continue, “I’m sorry, forget about it, yeah?” She tries for a smile, “You said it yourself, you’re tired, it’s been a long week. This is probably a stress thing, don’t let it get to you.”

Neither of you really believe that, but you nod all the same.

A week later, there’s a second poster plastered beside the first. Another smiling face, and a desperate plea for information.

—

You come home one afternoon to find a package sitting at your doorstep. Considering your online shopping habits, it’s hardly cause for concern – no, that comes when you pick up the box and read the name scrawled across the label.

Suna Rintaro.

Apartment 907.

You live in 807, meaning that the intended recipient of the package – Suna Rintaro, you suppose – lives in the apartment directly above yours.

Almost two weeks have passed now since that night, and your upstairs neighbour – and the cries in your head – have mercifully been silent.

Which doesn’t necessarily put your heart at ease, climbing the steps of the fire escape up to his apartment.

The plan is to leave it on his doorstep, no need for knocking, no need for any kind of interaction whatsoever. Better, actually, if there isn’t.

There’s a saying though, about the best laid plans. You’re midway through setting the package down on the doormat when abruptly, there’s a pointed cough behind you.

You drop it with a yelp of surprise, jerking backwards, one foot catching on the other causing you to lose your balance. The only thing that keeps you from falling onto your ass is a steady hand that shoots out to grab at your forearm.

And the man that hand is attached to.

Bored eyes and an impassive face stare back at you as you scramble to right yourself, his grip only relenting – on the verge of reluctance, the fingers slowly prying back– when you’re back on solid footing. “Can I help you?”

“Uh no, the um…the package – your package, I mean – it got delivered to me by mistake.” You swallow. “I live beneath you.”

The man isn’t what you expected. Not that you had any expectations per se (because you’ve spent the past two weeks pretending that Everything is Fine and Nothing is Wrong) only that if you had, it wouldn’t have been him.

Standing slightly over six three, he towers over you, clad in a grey hoodie and black sweats. At a guess, you’d put him at a few years older than yourself, you might even go so far as to call the man attractive, in a college drop-out, maybe-definitely sells drugs on the side kind of way.

Attractive– and utterly empty.

His eyes track your movements with unnerving focus, a flat void of pale gold. Uneasiness stirs inside of you, harkening back to the days of hunter and hunted. Your skin crawls.

“Thanks, I guess,” he drawls, the last part tacked on as an afterthought. As if it’s more effort than it’s worth pretending to be polite and neighbourly after you’ve done him this favour.

The glint in those cold, lifeless eyes, however, tells a different story.

Every cell within your body screams at you to run, run, run.

You nod, plastering a too tight smile across your face as you force yourself to breathe in and put some distance between you two, “Right, well, um… I should go. I have– things.”

Things. Yes, excellent excuse.

The man – Suna – nods, looking barely interested. “Mhm.” He’s already moving around you, lazily lifting the package with one arm as he fishes for his keys in his pocket. You turn on your heel, glad for the excuse to escape the awkward encounter and scurry on back to the relative safety of your own apartment.

You’re almost at the stairwell when you hear it, that same flat tone forcing its way to the surface;

What’s got you so on edge, angel? Hearing things you shouldn’t?

—

He’s there in the elevator when you arrive home from after work drinks with your friends, arm slung low around some girl you’ve never seen before. His gaze flickers to yours when you step in after them, the corners of his lips twitching just a fraction.

The girl pays you no mind, the flush of alcohol high on her cheeks, her pupils glazed with it.

She’s pretty hot, right?

You stiffen, your grip tightening around the strap of your purse. You refuse to acknowledge him beyond that, though. Won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s getting to you.

Hot, and dumb as all fuck – but hey, that’s not exactly a dealbreaker. You know how it is.

The red letters on the panel steadily inch upwards. From the corner of your eye, you spy him leaning down to whisper in her ear, absently toying with a lock of her hair. Whatever it is that he says to her, she giggles in response, the blush on her cheeks deepening. Your stomach flips.

Third floor… fourth… fifth… this must be the slowest elevator in the goddamn country, you would’ve been better taking the stairs. Or maybe it’s just that being in such close proximity with Suna makes every second feel like a lifetime.

In the reflection of the panelled metal, yellow eyes shift your way.

The dumb ones make it easy.

Relief washes over you when you finally stop at the eighth floor, the elevator doors barely creaking open before you’re slipping through them, all but racing for your apartment. It’s a fleeting thing, that relief, quickly overshadowed by a sense of foreboding that has your hands trembling – making the simple task of unlocking your door unnecessarily challenging.

You can hear them upstairs, walking around. Muffled voices.

You have to remind yourself that you’re being paranoid, that the only thing you know with any degree of certainty is that your upstairs neighbour is an asshole.

An asshole who for whatever reason seems to have realised that you can read his mind and is now amusing himself by trying to upset you with that knowledge.

Because that’s what this is, right? He’s trying to mess with you.

That girl he was with (with her pretty face and hair like yours – like the other girls whose faces are now plastered across missing persons flyers throughout the city) hadn’t appeared distressed in the slightest.

No, from the way she was giggling and clinging to Suna, she definitely wanted to be there with him.

And when the thumps start up again, a rhythmic banging that’s impossible for you to tune out, you remind yourself of that.

Sex isn’t a crime. Bringing home random girls isn’t a crime.

You have absolutely no reason to think that there’s anything amiss with any of this.

To quell the ball of unease sitting like a lump in your throat, you crawl into bed and put on your headphones, blasting music until it drowns out all else. Fatigue and the lingering alcohol in your system begin to make you sluggish, your own exhaustion warring with concern.

You’re being paranoid.

(You’re so tired. So, so tired.)

He’s not doing anything wrong.

(You can’t remember the last decent night’s sleep you’ve had.)

Listening in would be a gross invasion of privacy.

(You could close your eyes. A few seconds, that’s all.)

You’re just being…

…paranoid…

Somewhere above you, a door slams shut and you jerk back to the present with a start.

The clock on your laptop informs you that hours have passed, your headphones long since having fallen silent. You exhale, a breathy, shuddering thing. Now, both your bedroom and the apartment above loom in eerie silence. No footsteps. No thumping.

You tell yourself that it’s a good thing. It’s late. People are sleeping.

Maybe the girl stumbled off back home after getting what she came for. Maybe she’s asleep in his bed right now. Either way, it’s none of your concern. You’re working yourself up over nothing.

Everything is fine.

—

There’s a gift waiting on your doorstep come morning; an envelope wrapped in a thin maroon coloured ribbon. Curiosity gets the best of you, and you reach down to grab it, carefully untying the ribbon and ripping off the edge to get it open.

Inside you find a note, folded in two, and a thin, gold chain. Tipping it into your palm and prodding at it, you find that the chain is actually a necklace, old and delicate, with a small heart shaped pendant at the end. Your heart, however, thunders as you examine it closer.

Splashed over the tiny golden links, there’s a rust coloured stain. Blood, you realise with mute horror. It's blood

And though your hands shake, your stomach churning and every sensible instinct screaming at you not to, you turn your attention to the note still tucked away inside.

Tugging it out, you unfold the letter to read the message scrawled there in tiny, messy handwriting.

I prefer a challenge. Makes things interesting.

You drop them both, the note and the necklace, and run to your bathroom to heave up your guts.

—

Your friend picks up on the third ring, and you can barely talk through gasping, stricken sobs.

Her car’s out the front of your place in twenty, but it’s only when she has you safe within the confines of her small, one bedroom home that you manage to speak the words, to tell her what happened.

She listens, without judgement, without interruption, the expression on her face growing graver with every word.

And then, when you’re finished, empty and hollow and on the verge of shattering into a thousand tiny pieces, she hugs you tight.

“I don’t care if you go to the cops or not, I don’t care if you never tell another soul,” she promises, her voice thick and muffled against your shoulder, “but you’re not going back there. You’re gonna stay here with me, and we’ll figure it out. Together.”

She waits until you’ve calmed somewhat, making sure that you’ve eaten something – even if that something is juice and two-minute ramen – before she leaves you.

“I’ll grab enough for the next few days, alright? Clothes and your toothbrush and stuff. If you think of anything you need, just text me. I won’t be long.”

It’s gonna be okay. I promise you.

Numbly, you nod.

I won’t be long, she’d said, but the clock on the wall steadily ticks by and she doesn’t return. One hour. Two. She doesn’t read the increasingly concerned messages you send, doesn’t answer the phone when you call, and slowly but surely that pit of worry sitting heavy in your heart grows impossible to ignore.

The sun slips lower on the horizon, shadows creeping across the room, when finally you reach your breaking point.

You take the bus home, leg bouncing, fingers twisting in your lap. It occurs to you, as you ascend the steps to the foyer of your building, that maybe you should have called the police. Another friend. Anybody.

That maybe you shouldn’t have let her come here by herself in the first place.

But you weren’t thinking straight, you’re still not. And there’s a thought bouncing around your head that tells you that with every minute that passes the chances of her being found safe and unhurt grow slimmer.

You want to believe that her car broke down, and her phone ran out of battery. That the silence from her end is nothing more than a series of unfortunate but ultimately harmless mishaps.

As the ancient elevator comes to a stop on the eighth floor, though, a voice inside of you tells you that you know better. When you reach the end of the hallway and turn the corner, it’s a suspicion that’s proven correct.

Your front door’s hanging ajar.

The smart thing to do would be to go and get help. Your panic and worry over your friend, however, drowns out all common sense. You run towards it without a second thought.

Her purse sits atop your table, car keys lying just beside. On your couch lies an open duffle, clothes and various toiletries hastily shoved inside, but there’s no sign of her. Of anyone. Nothing but an eerie stillness.

And here I thought you’d be smarter than this.

There’s a sharp pinch at your neck, and the world fades to black.

—

“Do you want to see her?”

You blink at him.

You’ve been awake now for a short while, trapped in an unfamiliar room, a thick, iron cuff locked around your ankle. Trapped, but otherwise unharmed.

At your silence, Suna’s eyebrow lifts, expecting an answer.

“I-is she okay?” you ask, your voice still thick with sleep, a little raspy. You haven’t had water in god knows how long, your mouth dry and cottony.

That’s not what I asked.

He isn’t smiling. You’re not sure he’s capable of smiling, yet the corners of his lips twitch upwards, faint amusement ghosting over his features. He’s enjoying this imbalance of power, now that all the cards are laid out on the table.

The answer is no, of course, both to his question and your own. You know it before you even open your mouth.

You can’t hear her. Can’t hear anybody but him.

“Yes. Please.”

He nods, making his way over to unlock the chain at your ankle. He smells like iron and menthol cigarettes and cedar and musk, the scent of him burning an imprint into your consciousness.

You’re not wearing the necklace. Not your style?

You ignore the thought, taking the hand that he offers only because you’re not certain you’d be able to stand without it. His hands are cold, but your flinch has little to do with the temperature.

Your limbs move sluggishly – an aftereffect of the drugs, Suna explains as he leads you out of the room and along the hallway, it should be out of your system in another hour or so.

Down the stairs. Slow and steady, Suna chuckling when you stumble and have to lean into him to catch yourself.

His arm comes around your waist after that.

You catch a glimpse of the kitchen and room with a TV and some couches on the first floor, deducing that wherever you are, it must be a house of some sort, but Suna ushers you on before you can truly get a good look.

Stopping at another locked door, he pulls the same ring of keys he’d unlocked your cuff with to pluck out an older style bronze key, slipping it into the lock and twisting.

It clicks.

“Ready?”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips – a movement that Suna tracks with heavy interest.

He doesn’t wait for your answer, doesn’t truly care. The door swings open with a soft creak and Suna flicks on the lights.

Fluorescent brightness illuminates the room, and you instantly wish it hadn’t.

A body lies on the concrete floor, limbs sprawled at awkward angles. Her face, with its glazed, milky eyes and mouth twisted in a soundless scream, stares back at you and bile climbs your throat, your knees going weak.

Don’t you wanna go say hi?

You shake your head, dizziness and panic and horror crashing into you like waves against rock, threatening to drown you entirely. You can’t look at the mess he’s made of her neck, your eyes forcibly skipping the gruesome, macabre sight in an act of self preservation.

Blood is everywhere. On the floor, her clothes, the walls. Sprays of it coating the ceiling.

Dead.

She’s dead.

You push Suna away, his grip relenting to allow you to stumble towards her. Falling to your knees you sob – a heart wrenching wail as your hands flutter uselessly over her broken body. As if somehow you can help her still. Save her.

Footsteps echo over the concrete as he approaches, crouching down beside you. You ignore him, too lost in your grief and pain to even notice he’s there.

“Look at me.”

Agony swallows you whole, every sob ripping through your chest. Tears and snot drip down your face, your shoulders heaving with the force of every gasping, shuddery breath. Dead, dead, dead.

Pay attention, now.

A warning that goes unheeded. With a frustrated huff, Suna reaches out and grabs your chin, twisting your face to meet his.

His mouth clashes against your own, violent and brutal, hungry. There’s blood on his lips, the tang of it souring in your mouth as his tongue slips inside – his, maybe, or yours, you don’t know.

Forcing you to the floor beside your best friend’s body, he parts only long enough to take in a quick breath, yellow eyes drinking down your agonised expression.

Like the devil, he smirks and kisses you harder.

You’re numb, your body uncooperative as you struggle pathetically against him. It makes no difference, he pushes the fabric of your skirt up to your stomach, greedy touch lingering over the expanse of bare, soft skin.

She cried for you, y’know. Begged me not to hurt you.

He sounds amused by the thought.

Stupid cunt had it coming.

The clink of his buckle echoes with a horrible finality in the cold stillness of the basement. Your eyes squeeze closed, body locking up as your panties are tugged aside.

Not my usual type but for you, angel–

His cock, hard and lengthy, twitches at your pussy. A moment’s grace, that’s all he gives you before hastily sheathing himself inside of you.

–I’ll make as many exceptions as I need to.

You only sob louder.

—

Tell me to stop.

You don’t. You can’t. Suna moans above you, another harsh thrust spearing into your aching, dripping sex. There’s fresh blood on his hands, smeared across your skin.

Even if you did, it wouldn’t make a difference.

He never listens.

907.

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