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HOUSE OF CARDS. SUKUNA / M!READER

summary. amidst clickers and runners, you are tasked to hunt down a man who's intercepted dozens of military convoys, leaving no soldier alive. now that you have him, though, you really wish you didn't.

wc. 13.4k

tags. smut | bottom sukuna, top reader. the last of us au. mention of guns/gore/death/injuries/blood (typical zombie world stuff). so much lore it aint even funny. enemies to lovers, flirty bratty sukuna, bounty hunter (ish) reader, trigger warning you work for the american military, they are both rabid freaks who like fighting, reader is described as a big guy. aphrodisiacs, kinda dub con. oral (r. receiving), facefucking, facial (sukuna receiving), no prep, spit as lube, against the wall, multiple orgasms

notes. tried to have sukuna call reader a crayon eater but was devastated to learn that the term originated from the 2010s and is therefore too late for a tlou au </3

[ requested ]

"Take a walk, they said. Take a long walk off a short pier. But they're dead and I'm not so who's walkin' now? Fuckin' assholes, got what was coming for 'em..."

You feel your nerves fraying. You sit back in the wooden dining chair, half-eaten by lichen, and steadily count the bullets in your spare clips again. Anything to keep the sound of his constant muttering out of your head.

"Oi, hottie, look at me for a bit. If I'm going to die, I want a good view of something God-made before I do."

The chair squawks indignantly as you shoot to your feet, your brow furrowed into a deep sneer. You hook a finger through your belt loop and stare down at him, your gaze raking his bloodied, ragged figure. His close-cropped hair is crusted red with blood, and you had to loop the ropes up to his elbows to ensure he wouldn't chew his way out of them.

"Shut your mouth," you growl. "You're property of the military from this moment until the one where your body gets tossed in the pit. Any sane person would use this time to gain favour with the man whose gun is at your head."

Sukuna stares defiantly up at you despite the dirt caked on his skin and the sharpness of his cheekbones. He leans back against the dirty white wall of what was once a living room. He shuffles against the radiator he's tied to, tugging fruitlessly, and gets comfortable, tucking his boot under his knee. Or as comfortably as he can, given that he's been stabbed in the shoulder and stomach.

He smirks, tilting his head to one side. He licks his cut lip. "Shouldn't frown, hottie. You'll get wrinkles."

You close the gap between you in three quick strides. The back of your hand cuts across his cheek with a loud slap and he jerks, groaning in pain as it reopens several clotted wounds. He spits out a wad of blood.

You kneel in front of him, your heavy, trusty revolver perfectly polished in your curled grasp. You take his jaw in your hand and he winces as you jerk it straight to face you.

Your eyes are dark and unimpressed, sharp and severe. He huffs and stares back challengingly. You say, "Don't test me. The only reason you're still alive is because they want you."

He grins, licking the blood spilling from his split lip. His eyes are half-lidded, glittering with amusement. "Your bosses must have fun up there, deciding who lives and who dies while growing fat in their chairs. What about you – do you like your career prospects, or are you happy with collecting their trash for the rest of your life?"

You click your tongue and shove his face away, standing and looming over him with the silent severity of a K9 not quite chained up. You know your strength. Sukuna wasn't weak, and you wiped the floor with him. Not that it was his fault – looking at you properly, you certainly aren't lacking for food like he is. If the stick up your ass wasn't so tightly wedged, he might consider you a potential ally.

That'd mean he could see you more often. Maybe even watch you use large calibres.

"I'm a sergeant," you snap, "not a janitor. Do you know how dangerous it can be to wrangle people like you? My life would be easier if I could just kill you and bag you like trash."

"People like me?" he parrots. He gestures to himself as best he can with bound hands. "Don't lump me in with the rest. It's an achievement to best me in close quarters. Say – since we're going to be here for a while, why don't you tell me a few stories? If they're any good, I'll share a couple of mine."

You glare at him. "You're too chatty. I'll gag you if I have to."

He smirks, adopting a purposely airy tone. "It's 'cause I've never been held prisoner before. It's rather exciting. What'll you gag me with, babe?"

"For fuck's sake." You spin on your heel to grab your assault rifle. It's sleek, black, and boring. Perfectly military-standard. You check the magazine, sling it over your shoulder, and lift the slick black Rhino revolver from the table. You palm the cylinder, making sure it'll be ready at a moment's notice, and slip it into the holster at your hip. Sukuna watches in unabashed interest.

He whistles lowly. "That's not something you see every day. Pretty thing." He cranes his neck, exhaling as his heavy clothes shift against his bruised ribs. "You're packing up. Where we going?"

"We've stayed here long enough."

It's the only thing you say. Your back is turned but there's an edge to your voice that wasn't there before.

He straightens. "They're not coming."

You glance over, brows twitching into a brief frown. You grab your knife and tuck it into the sheath at the back of your belt. "We'll meet up with them. There's a checkpoint three days from here."

"We could make it in two."

You halt, your open hand hovering over Sukuna's rifle. The blood-red wood shines with loving care. "We'll do it in three."

He scoffs, leaning back against the wall. "Untie me and we'll be faster. What if a pack of clickers gnaw off your shooting arm?"

"All soldiers are taught how to fire with both. I'll make it work." You tighten the straps of your backpack and move towards him, pulling a single thread of rope. The whole knot comes loose from the radiator and Sukuna blinks in surprise at his still-bound hands. You grab his elbow and pull him up, pushing him off you when he staggers into your chest. His rifle is firmly strapped to the side of your bag.

"You can't be serious." He grunts as you push him out of the aged, mouldy apartment and into the damp corridor outside, shoving his backpack into his hands. He shivers as the wet cold pierces through his bones. "You're actually fucking serious."

"I'm never not serious. Now move it, killer."

He rolls his eyes, trudging down the hall. His hands bounce awkwardly in front of him and he bunches his canvas bag in his fists to stop it swinging so deeply. Judging by the scars on your hands and the look in your eyes, you're no stranger to his crime, either. You just happen to be on the right side of the law – whatever the fuck that is, and whatever remains of it.

"This is fucking bullshit," he mutters, watching as you motion him back and peer down the coiling, windowless stairwell. Your flashlight scans the darkness. Somewhere, water drips into a puddle, and the soft plinking is surprisingly peaceful. "You should untie me. I pinky-promise I won't try anything. With sprinkles on top."

"I'm leading you to a trial that almost certainly leads to summary execution." Your voice begins to echo as you push him to move down the steps. In front of you, Sukuna picks his way down, grimacing at the rotting green shine of the walls. "If you don't try anything, I'd worry."

Sukuna skids on a wet step as it crumbles beneath his foot. Your arm shoots out and seizes him by the back of his collar, fist tight and hard against his spine, and he stares down at the dark pit below with a thumping heart. The slab of concrete thuds far below, echoing back up to him.

"Watch your step," you comment, releasing him.

"Is it a rule in the military to be the most callous asshole possible?" he grumbles. "Usually after a near-death experience, people ask 'are you alright?' and fret."

You eye him, exiting the stairwell by shoving the heavy, rusted door with your shoulder. It crunches. You let out a soft exhale. "Why would I? You're walking and talking. Clearly, you aren't hurt."

"It's called manners. Why's the criminal talking about manners to the soldier, huh?"

Abruptly, you grab his injured shoulder and halt. Sukuna is annoyed with how effective it is. He tracks the direction of your attention. A fresh corpse sits slumped against the wall of the foyer.

It wasn't there a day ago.

You unholster your revolver, pushing your rifle back, and approach slowly. Before you get three feet, a pebble smacks the body in the head. You swing back to glare at Sukuna, whose hands are full of concrete chunks.

He meets your eyes and chucks a bigger piece.

The body doesn't move. You crouch beside it, pushing the head to tilt the other way. A dark, dry bullet hole gapes in his temple. A small silenced handgun lies in his open palm, which you collect.

You sigh softly and pat down the body, checking the pockets and boots for anything stashed away. You find a mostly-empty box of ammunition in an inner pocket but nothing else.

"Hey, Eastwood. Look at his arm."

You grab it, turning it over. Arced around his forearm is a crooked, festering bite, the deep marks indicating the loss of a few teeth. You inspect the skin around the wound.

"Probably a day old before he offed himself," you declare, dropping his wrist. "It'd just started to spread. I'd keep an eye out for any runners within a day's walk from here."

"Ah, poor fucker," Sukuna murmurs, stepping over the body. "Being alone's the worst."

"Really?" you say drily. "You were alone when I found you."

"I know."

You trudge out of the building. The concrete paths are warped with bomb craters and thick tree roots. It's not uneven enough to really make it difficult, but it does get tiring having to pick your way around crumbling edges and avoid mud getting between the laces of your combat boots. Behind you, Sukuna shuffles along, his eyes trained on the tall, cracked windows of the surrounding high-rises of the business district.

He remains blissfully silent for the entire trip out of the city. It felt as if he hadn't stopped talking since you found him picking through a crashed military convoy – one of many he'd been said to have attacked. It'd been carrying food supplies, and the scattered bodies of hunters and far-from-home bandits lying next to military personnel could only mean that people were getting desperate. Winter is near, and the snow will soon begin to pack the bears in their dens.

But your peace only lasts so long.

"I could really use my hands right now."

"Why?" you ask tiredly.

Sukuna steps over a fallen log, a patch of moss along the underside prodding at the soft muddy ground. "Well, would you like to hold my dick for me? I have to piss."

"Couldn't have gone earlier?"

"Earlier? Like, what? Before you fucking bit me and tied me up like I was the rabid dog?" The sarcasm in his voice vanishes. "I really need to piss."

You grab him by the shoulder to turn him towards you, gripping his wrists as you untie the complicated knots. Before he can run off, however, your hand tightens. You glare. "I am not afraid to discipline a man with his pants down."

He snorts. "Sir, yes, sir. Now let go. That's my dick-holding hand."

When he finds a suitable tree, you do not, as he expected, give him any sort of privacy. He would even accept five steps away in any direction. Instead, you stand right fucking behind him, so close he can hear the steel click of your assault rifle's barrel when it knocks into his belt.

Eventually, he shakes himself off, tucks himself away, and offers his wrists. You take one look at them and click your tongue, trudging off in the direction you were originally headed in. The trees begin to thicken, and the knobbly, pathetic little bushes fade beneath calf-high grass.

"So," he drawls, several hours into the forest trek. "What do you like to do in your free time?"

You don't respond. You've already spoken to him ten times too many.

"Do they have a functioning gym where you're stationed?" he tries instead, gazing up at the dapples of pale sky behind dark branch lattices. His gaze drops, wandering over the breadth of your shoulders, then further down. He smirks. "Because damn. If all bounty hunters looked like you, everyone'd be doin' crimes left and right to get you to notice 'em."

"Quiet," you mutter. "We might not be alone."

"What does that matter to me? You have all our weapons. If they come, they come, and I'm not throwing myself fist-first into a pack of clickers."

The thick grass ends when you hear the bubbling of a river. Twigs bend and snap under your boots. Without his hands dangling awkwardly in front of him, Sukuna is noticeably quieter than you, stealing through the damp undergrowth like a snake through tall reeds. You have to glance back every so often to make sure he's still there; he notices it.

He smirks, cocking an eyebrow. "What? Like what you see?" His eyes flicker to the ground in front of you and he gestures at a cobweb-covered bush. "Seems you were right. We aren't alone."

A simple small-game trap is laid using the bush as cover. All it consists of is a loop of wire, one end tied tightly around a thin tree trunk. Nobody's checked up on it for a day – leaves cover the bottom part of the snare wire, and the dull grey colour makes it nearly impossible to spot amongst the dappled green-brown undergrowth.

You're almost impressed.

"What happens when we get there?" Sukuna asks, batting some branches out of the way. Gathered raindrops flick onto his shoulder, and he brushes them off. "To your, uh, checkpoint?"

"It's a safehouse. I'll radio the rest of my team," you reply simply, "and find out what the hell's taking them so long. They'll take you to the court for your trial."

He frowns. "What? You're not coming with me?"

You glance back. "Of course not. I have others to bring to justice – murderers and revolutionaries, deserters and spies. If all went well, I would've been rid of you half a day ago, but luck isn't on my side."

He snorts. "'Bring to justice' – sure. You're just killing people. Like me."

"They deserve it," you snap, continuing forward with the rapid measured clip of a lifetime soldier.

"You know, things get messy when everyone believes they only kill those who deserve it," he says coyly. "What if a murderer's only a murderer because she protected her daughter? What if the revolutionary's fighting because you fucks shot his family on the street for running a fever?"

"I don't get into sob stories," you say, shoulders thrown back comfortably. "That's above my pay grade. I do my job. That's it."

Sukuna chuckles, reaching down and grabbing a spike of green sticking out of the grass. He tugs on it as he steps off, and a pale bulbed tuber uproots from the ground. He brushes it off and sticks it into one of his many pockets. "Damn, even empathy's above your pay grade? You're worse than the feral mutts on the street."

In half a second, you slam him against a tree, the bulk of your forearm cutting into his throat. He hisses, gripping your sleeve as if to twist your arm off him, but he stills as the hard barrel of your revolver digs into the stab wound in his gut. You lean in.

"Run your mouth again and I'll sew it up," you growl, your fist tightening in the front of his shirt. "You murdered dozens of people, good people – just kids doing what their parents asked of them. All for what? A handful of canned peaches?" Your expression darkens. "Don't fucking preach to me about morals."

He grins, sharp and sly, and raises his hands in placating surrender. "Hit a sore spot, did I?"

You shove off of him, marching away without a second glance back. He exhales, wincing as he touches his wounded side, and pats his clothes down. He wanders after you.

His lazy voice floats through the trees not long after. "Don't you wonder about that? Wonder what kind of parent flings their child into hordes of infected before they're allowed to come back home?"

"I don't."

"Maybe you should." He looks you up and down. "You look about my age. Are your parents still alive?"

Your grip tightens on the rifle in your hands. He continues, oblivious.

"I had some shitty ones. Was bitter about it for a long while. Got orphaned during Outbreak Day. Best thing they ever did for me was die." He trudges forward, the long grass brushing against his calves. "But then my brother became a dad, and I watched how he treated his fat, useless little drooling baby and realised: good parents throw themselves into the hordes for even a chance to keep their children safe. So, I don't know what propaganda they've been feeding you, but child soldiers like you were aren't, you know, good. Morally."

"Shut up," you mutter. "Shut the fuck up. You're not my therapist."

"Maybe I should be," he snarks. "I keep talking and you keep responding. Did you watch one too many battle buddies get reduced to a clicker's chew toy? Did you run and leave them to die? Do you still hear their screams?"

"You are pushing it," you snarl, spinning on him. "I haven't slept in three fucking days because of you, and it would be oh-so easy to do a little whoopsie and find a bullet in your big fuckin' head!" You jab his forehead and he tilts his head back, staring at the sky for a mocking few seconds. "I'll say you got yourself infected before I found you and had to put you down."

"Yeah, and how'll you get paid, dumbass? The government's not gonna just believe you," he growls. "Can't even trust you with live squad mates. You think you work best as a lone wolf – but you're sent out alone because everyone's fucking afraid of you, isn't it? That's why you clam up. They can't see what you don't let out, right?"

You look fucking livid.

"I'll cut your head off and piss down your neck hole," you hiss, shoving his chest. Still very much injured, he stumbles back several steps. You advance, eyes blazing and lips curled to bare your teeth. Your muscles are coiled like steel rope. "Is that what you want to hear? That I'll hack at your throat with a fire axe not because it's the most efficient thing to do but because I know you fuckin' deserve it? Is that what you fucking want, Sukuna?"

His smile begins small. It grows larger with every passing second, fanged like a snake. He laughs, getting all up in your space, and grabs you by your backpack harness, yanking you down.

"There he is," he chuckles, grip tightening when you try to push away. His grin broadens. "You're no better than me. You, so high and mighty, are no better than a common criminal! A murderer, a freak, a hypocrite – we're exactly the same, you and I. Animals. Petty, selfish animals. What do you say to that? Huh, killer?"

You look like you're about to kill him. For real this time. Your fingers twitch for your gun and Sukuna adjusts his hold on you, tugging you in, goading you like he's paid for it.

You wrench yourself out of his grasp, long strides hastening towards the horizon.

Sukuna exhales softly. He ruffles his hair, heart hammering from all the excitement. "Almost," he grumbles to himself, sauntering along in your wake. He'd found the right buttons to press; he just needs another opportunity.

—

Two long and arduous days later, you duck into a small, vine-covered cabin beneath a radio tower, forcing the door open with your shoulder. A heavy filing cabinet was shoved up against it, which left scratch marks on the floor inside. The small building has steel-shuttered windows and a surprisingly clean set of communication equipment on a table by the far wall.

"Huh. Lefty's winning."

You glance up from brushing your fingers over the knobs and buttons, checking the light layer of dust over everything. Nothing had been touched in the last few days. On the other side of the shack, Sukuna's analysing a hand of playing cards, having picked it up from the square table with two steel chairs next to the mattresses. He tosses them down carelessly and swaggers over to your side. He leans a hip against the table.

"Any gossip over the waves?" he asks, idly fiddling with radio knobs. "Shit looks fancy."

You smack his hand away. "We just got here, give me a minute," you mutter, and Sukuna's a little disappointed in the neutrality in your voice. You haven't risen to his taunts since that time in the forest. Ever the obedient soldier. "Stop bothering me."

"And do what, exactly?" he drawls, gesturing wide to the open room. "This place is spartan. We got cards and cabinets and nothing else."

You ignore him and flick a set of levers, and when nothing turns on, you reach under the table and pull out a notebook from a drawer. Inside are a bunch of scribbled notes – radio logs and activity entries from other soldiers. You toss it next to the boxy radio equipment and lean down, pulling the red-wood hunting rifle from your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. You start for the door.

"Oi."

You turn. Sukuna's staring at the rifle, a tightness in his jaw. You huff, tugging open the heavy door. "It's assurance so you don't run off. Gotta turn on the generator out back. Don't move, killer."

Sukuna glares daggers at the door as it swings closed behind you. If that gun comes back with so much as a scratch...

A few minutes later, the generator rumbles to life, steadily trucking along. A single light above the building's entrance flickers on in the semi-darkness and you sigh in relief. Things looked a little dangerous for a moment when the generator's pull-cord whistled dead and empty on the first few tugs. It is, however, rattlier than expected, and louder. You'll have to watch the perimeter closely tonight.

You shoulder the door open, already slinging off the rifle. Sukuna's sprawled on one of the steel chairs, head resting against the wall with his eyes closed. He sits up at the sound of your entrance.

"Done," you say, flicking the light switch. Above you, the single bulb blinks to life, spearing a cone of yellow light into the darkness. Only half the room is illuminated, but it'll do. "We'll stay here until your escort comes or I get a message telling us otherwise, so get comfortable."

"Yeah, yeah. You know where they keep the fuel?" He jerks his head in the direction of a kerosene camping lamp on the table. "Fuckin' freezing in here."

"That's a lantern, not a heater," you say snidely. "Whatever. Here." You tug open a bottom file cabinet and lift out a red petrol can. You untwist the can and waft it under your nose. "Gimme the lantern."

"Get it yourself. You're not the one with extra holes in the gut."

Unfortunately, you don't offer much of a reaction. You just silently fill the lamp, set it upright, and let the wick gobble up the kerosene before letting it burn. A steady orange light blooms within the glass, throwing elongated shadows across the walls.

You set the lantern in the centre of the table between the two hands of cards, still face-down. "Hungry?"

"What?"

"Are you hungry," you repeat, less of a question this time. "There's a food stash somewhere around here. Go take a look for us. I need time with the radio."

"You trust me with dinner? Bold choice," he chuckles, though he swings his legs, stands, and stretches carefully, shaking out his aching body.

"I don't. That's why you're eating nothing until I'm done with this. I just don't want you breathing down my neck because you're bored."

He shrugs, wandering over to the cabinets and little hideaway nooks and crannies. He kicks open a drawer and begins to search.

He's still got the print of your teeth embedded in his hand, he notices as he rifles around inside. The way you sank your teeth into his meat after he sent you a triumphant grin was what tripped him up. Honestly, you fought more like a beast than a man, opting for a knife over your guns when you first tracked him down. Even when you swung your blade, you only really used it to force him back, to make space, so you could punch him in the mouth, knuckles braced by the knife handle in your fist.

He doesn't think they taught that at child-soldier school. It wasn't strategic. Wasn't quieter or easier. You just seemed to prefer it. He wonders if that's why you are what you are – a dog on a leash, bringing back bones for its master but not allowed to sit by the dining table. You were close enough to be controlled, but not so close as to become a liability.

The low sound of your voice repeating introductions and requests into the radio brings him out of his thoughts. He has two plain silver cans of 'beef stew', if he can believe the labels. Eating real meat would be the one good thing about getting caught – he wonders if they still do last meals for people on death row.

He sets them down next to you and the kerosene lamp. He rests against the edge of the table, folding his arms. "Think it's real beef?"

"Yes. What else would it be? Human? Just don't expect much of it." You flick through channels of static and silence.

"Better than what civvies get. They said soldiers steal their rations – that true?"

"Probably." You drop the radio wire with an exhausted sigh, leaning back in the hard metal chair. You glance up at him, scanning his figure from head to toe. "If civilians in QZs starve, how'd you get so big, huh?"

"Smuggling jobs got me additional ration cards and shit. Blackmail was easy, too. And I've always been naturally handsome and muscular – even the end of the world couldn't take that from me."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Another line to stick on your criminal record, then. They'll add another guy to the firing squad to kill you harder."

"For the crime of what? Being painfully good-looking?"

"For coercion, dipshit." You push the nearest can of stew around idly with your finger. "Your fuckin'... smugness ruins your face, anyway."

"Oh, so you think I'm hot when I'm not?" He pulls out a silver vacuum-sealed bag and tears it open with his teeth, shaking it slightly to loosen the food inside. He peers inside and digs around, popping a small dark cube into his mouth.

You glower at him. "You just make shit up when you feel like it, don't you?"

"That wasn't a no. Y'know, you'd be a pretty shit bounty hunter if you let every prisoner get under your skin so easy, but you're still alive, so you can't be shit. I'd say I'm special because of it." He offers the silver bag and shakes it invitingly when you roll your eyes. "Oh, c'mon, take one. You watched me open the damn thing."

"If you think you're special or that I think you're handsome because I threatened to piss down your throat, there's something really fucking wrong with you. What are you even eating?"

"No idea. Someone wrote 'for fun' in big letters on the bag, so it must be something good." He pops another in his mouth and talks with his mouth full. "It's not terrible. Chewy. Kinda sweet, kinda bitter. Like tea leaves. You've had tea, right?"

"I'm not a caveman."

"Uh-huh. Just checking." He shifts, nodding towards the radio. "Any luck?"

"Not an ounce," you mutter, rising to your feet. The chair scrapes against the floor. "I'll try again in the morning. Until then, I'll get the stove going."

You'd been wary of using an open flame near a murderer known for doing whatever necessary to win and survive, but Sukuna seems too preoccupied with the stew to care about killing you. He eats two cans in five minutes, scarfing them down like he hasn't eaten in weeks.

He shoves a chunk of beef into his mouth and moans, head and eyes rolling back briefly. "Holy shit, man. Soldiers get rations like this? On a daily basis? Shouldn't've turned down that enlistment notice. This is heaven in a goddamn can. Jesus."

You watch him quietly, sitting opposite him on the floor. It seems that a good meal makes him talkative – well, more talkative. The small, lit camping stove stands between you, its flickering flames providing some heat in the uninsulated building. Idly, you push some peas around the stew with your spoon.

He continues, spooning carrots and potatoes into his mouth, "Being professional cannon fodder is a joke, but this would make it worth it. They should've told us about the better food instead of going on a useless spiel about 'protecting community' and 'saving the world'. Woulda convinced me in a heartbeat."

Silently, you trace the edge of the can with your fingertip. It's not quite sharp enough to cut.

Swallowing his mouthful of stew, Sukuna wipes his mouth. "So, this safehouse, right – how many people use it?"

"What do you mean?" Your teeth scrape against the spoon.

"As in, how often does the military come by to restock? Are there more?"

You chew slowly. "Couple dozen of 'em across the country, I'd wager. Restocks depend on the location. This particular one doesn't see a lot of traffic, so in practice, it's mine."

"Hm."

"You'll be dead next week. Don't dream about easy food runs."

"I'm not."

"You are. Don't antagonise me."

He sends you an impish grin. "But you're hot when you're angry."

You sigh, shifting to sit more comfortably. You scrape the sides of the can with the spoon. "What does flirting with me do for you?"

"Makes me warm and excited, for one. Secondly, you're embarrassingly easy to rile up. It's fun."

"That's a frivolous thing to want when you're going to die."

"Who said I'm going to die?" He smirks, leaning back against the wall. "Said it yourself – I'm being escorted by others for the other half of the journey. That's plenty of time to make a break for it."

"There'll be four of them."

"So? They're weak." He sneers. "They won't get out the driveway before I kill them."

"I'll just hunt you down again. The upside is that I'll get paid twice to bring back the same guy, so feel free to try it. I'll be happy to knock you out one more time."

"Ah, but now I know you. Know your tricks. It'll be child's play to avoid you."

"If you think I don't know how to adapt, you're delusional," you say flatly.

"Hm, fine. What can I do to convince you to let me go?" He settles down as much as his wounds allow him. "What if I told you I needed those military supplies to help find someone? A kid – my brother's. Dumbass nephew got himself in a bit of a pickle, and he might just die if I don't get to him in time."

"I told you, sob stories don't do anything to me."

Sukuna just chuckles drily, shoving another spoonful into his mouth. After a moment, he sits back and jerks his head towards the mattresses on the floor in the corner of the room. "You gonna get some shut-eye tonight? You're looking rough."

"You think you look any better?"

"My head tells me you'll try not to," he says, pointedly ignoring you, "but my gut says you will."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Everyone needs sleep. You'll knock yourself out, one way or another." He points his spoon at you with a lazy grin. "If I promise not to choke you to death in your sleep, can I get my shit back?"

"And wake up with a bullet in my brain? Hard pass."

He sighs. "Damn. How about if I promise not to kill you at all? Won't lay hands on you, won't shoot you, all of it. Not a single malicious act – towards you, at least. But your soldier mates can fend for themselves."

It's so stupid that you can't help but huff an incredulous laugh. "Do you know how stupid that deal sounds? Oh, I can trust the word of a killer. I'm going to give him a gun."

"And smuggler," Sukuna points out. "I've also got charges for assault and battery, arson, theft, handling stolen goods, and resisting arrest. I have layers beyond plain, you know—" He fires two finger guns at you in quick succession, accompanied by appropriate mouth sounds. "Murder."

"You can't have been very good at any of them if you were caught."

His eyes narrow. "Watch it, hottie. I like you, but don't push it."

You tilt your head. "So it's fine if you insult me, but I can't do it back? Don't dish out what you can't take."

His lips thin into a line.

Suddenly, he grins and slides towards you. You jerk away, hand flying to the gun on your hip. His gaze flickers down to it, eyes coy and flashing red in the low light. He uses his newfound proximity to place his hand on your thigh casually.

"You see, sergeant, it's not so much about the insults as it is about lookin' good in front of you," he begins. "You're something new. Something interesting. Even when I ran a merry band of idiots who hung on my every word, practically worshipped the ground I walked on, nothing beats the feeling of having your attention on little old me."

You stare at him, brow furrowed. "What you're saying... is that you have a crush on me. Am I hearing you right?"

"No, sir." He squeezes your leg. "I'd call it more than a crush – I'm not twelve anymore, you get me?"

"If you're hoping to get out of your trial," you sigh, pushing his hand off, "you'll be sorely disappointed. Will you leave me the fuck alone if I say you were right?"

"I'm always right." He pauses and sits back. "Remind me what about?"

You run a hand down your face, staring into the little camping heater in front of you. "The things you said about the academy. How everyone expects you to kill just to get a seat at the dinner table. Back there, you were rewarded for winning: for coming first, for being the strongest, for enduring the most. So, I made sure I won – every single time. I graduated at fifteen, the youngest that year. After that, it was just easier to turn off my thoughts, become the weapon they wanted. Easier to deal with the hatred that way."

"Hatred?" he asks inquisitively.

"Of my handlers, my parents, the barking dogs at the top who funnelled their shit down to me. It's just how things are, I told myself. If I killed them all, nothing would change except the institution in charge. The Fireflies would love that power vacuum, and since I've hunted and killed a number of their own, they'd never let me live. So I kept my head down and nothing disrupted the status quo." You glance aside at him, reaching for your can of stew. "Until you came prancing along, killing half the soldiers in the district single-handedly."

"But killing those fat cats would feel good," he points out.

"At the cost of dinners like these," you retort, lifting the can. He purses his lips and shrugs, nodding in agreement. What remained of the government was good for one thing, at least.

"Is that really the reason you held back?" he asks. "No special somebody who's the exception to all the horror, no dreams of a better world?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "You think people could love someone like me? Said it yourself – I'm a vicious, selfish animal. It keeps me alive but doesn't keep company." You spoon the last of the stew into your mouth. "I'll leave the dreaming to the revolutionaries and the wishful thinkers. I hope they keep going, 'cause without them, I'd be out of a job."

"I wouldn't say you're completely unlovable," Sukuna reasons. "For one, you're a total bombshell. For two, you handle a rifle almost as well as I do."

"'Almost'." You roll your eyes. "I'm sorry, who's the child soldier out of the two of us? I've been training since I could hold a gun."

"Yeah, but you prefer to get up close, don't you?" He brushes his fingers over your knuckles, scars criss-crossing your skin. You tense under his touch. "I get it, you know. Rifles get the job done and there's pride in being able to hit a shot from three hundred yards away. But throwing all your weight behind a single point of your body, feeling their skin split and their blood run down your knuckles... nothing beats it. The anticipation. The exhilaration. It's raw, it's brutal, and we enjoy it. Call me crazy, but when you stabbed me the first time, I leaked a little."

Your brow furrows in confusion. You glance down at his lazy grin. It dawns on you and you shove him away, lip curling in disgust. "Oh, you're fucking kidding me. Not only are you a flirt, you're a freak, too. Just my damn luck."

"Hey, I have feelings." He places his hand over his chest. "Feelings for you, sweetheart."

"You're disgusting," you sigh, shaking your head. This conversation is giving you a headache. "How are your wounds?"

He blinks, taken aback by the change in topic. "What?"

"It's been a couple of days. I should change the bandages. I didn't do all this work just for you to keel over from sepsis."

"You expect us to be stuck here for that long?"

"Sepsis can lead to organ failure in as little as twelve hours," you say nonchalantly. "I also got you in the gut. If I nicked your stomach, acids could leak out and dissolve you from the inside out."

He pulls a face. "Gross."

"Yeah."

"Guessing you got stuff for that sort of thing, then?" Sukuna sighs, stretching his legs out with a wince. He's getting old. The cold makes him ache more than it used to and the extra pockets in him aren't helping. "Should I strip, or would you like to do the honours yourself?"

"You think you're the shit, huh?"

"Of course. I'm real pretty. You should be glad I'm not charging you to see me half-naked."

"No charge for full-nakedness?" you quip.

"Getting to that point is the payment itself." He smirks and rises to his feet, pressing his palm to his side where the bandages hold him together. "Want me to lie down or what? How'd you do this last time when you knocked me out?"

You shrug and gesture towards the mattresses laid on the floor, getting up yourself to rustle around for medical supplies in the cabinets. "Did some pushing, some lifting – the works. You're lighter than you look."

"Yeah, yeah, don't brag, big guy." He peels off his coat, letting it drop to the floor. He's also wearing a sweater, a T-shirt, and a thermal beneath it. For someone who's been alone for at least the last eight months, he's not doing the worst in terms of clothing. He spots you looking and lifts a brow, the corner of his lips twitching up as he tosses his shirt to the floor. "Ha – you're regretting not taking me up on my offer now, aren't you, sarge?"

You scoff, pulling out a backpack filled with needles, bandages, and pill bottles. "Stop flexing, Sukuna. You'll split your stitches. I'm not wasting more meds on you."

"Who cares?" he groans, wincing slightly as he peels bloodied white gauze off his stomach. Quite rudely, you'd split him open below the rib, and he refrains from touching the hot, tender skin. "Just ask your bosses for more. They can grow the penicillin next to the beef."

You place a hand on his bare shoulder, your touch warm and callused, leading him to the mattress. You guide him down and he obliges with a rough exhale, abruptly aware in this quietness that hiking for miles over uneven terrain has done nothing for his body.

You kneel next to him and inspect his figure, silently pushing him down to lie completely on his back rather than propping himself up on an elbow. It's an awfully vulnerable position. You push a rag under his side, then tear open a pack and snap on a pair of latex gloves, which piques Sukuna's interest.

"Damn. They have many of those?"

"Not particularly," you reply, cleaning his wound with antiseptic. He grimaces, stomach flexing involuntarily. When taking a dip in a river the day before, he'd been careful not to plunge the wound into water, but wiping the clotting tugs at the tender torn edges. You sure knew what to do with that knife to make it hurt. "But I'm their golden child, whether they like it or not. I get what I want, and if I don't, I do anyway."

He chuckles, resting a hand over his eyes to block out the lightbulb above him. The loss of sight makes him all the more aware of your hands on his body – not gentle, but not cruel. Just firm. "Ah, a fellow thief."

"I'm not a thief."

"Hey, the five-finger discount always works. If we met earlier, you and I coulda been buddies – you on the inside, me on the outside, you know?"

You press harder than necessary into his stitches, making him grunt in pain. His head snaps up with a glare as you pointedly ignore him, slapping a white patch to his stomach and taping it down. "Ow, bastard! You tryin' to kill me? What happened to my fair trial?"

You grab his jaw and push his head back down against the mattress, hand firm against his throat. You return the glare as you lean closer, your tactical gear rustling on your hips and thighs. "Fucking sit still."

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, then averts it to the wall beside him. He huffs as you pick apart the dressing on his shoulder, washing the wound as best you can and replacing the bandage. With a little luck, he'll survive long enough to meet justice.

You sit back on your heels, running your hand down his chest and stomach briefly to check for damage you might've missed in the dingy light back in the city. He doesn't jerk away from your touch and his bruises seem shallow, but he notices it when your palm hovers over his narrow hips. You can understand why he was drooling over your rations.

You suck in a breath, pulling away and peeling off your gloves. "Alright, killer. Clothes back on before you freeze your cock off."

"You could warm it up for me, sarge."

"Sukuna," you sigh, rubbing your temple.

"Aw, don't be like that," he drawls, sitting up and testing his new bandages. He seems pleased, slanting a smirk at you. He knocks his knuckles against your thigh, walking his fingers up to your chest, and rests his hand on your shoulder. He leans closer, tilting his head. "Think of it as my last meal. You wouldn't refuse a dead man his dying wish, right?"

You stare at his hand on your shoulder with an unreadable expression. You grab it and press your knuckles against his palm, then glide them higher and touch his forehead.

His mouth twitches and he chuckles, a little confused. "You finally realise what a catch I am?"

"You're burning up," you mutter, your frown deepening. "Do you feel different? Cold?"

"Uh, no." He pauses. "Pretty warm, actually. Good heater."

"Any dizziness? Muscle pain?"

"Beyond the extra pockets you gave me? Nope." He flutters his eyelashes at you teasingly. Jerk. "But if I said yes, would you kiss it better?"

"It seems like you have a fever." You cup his cheek, and maybe Sukuna really is sick, because his heart skips way harder than it should. He is supposed to hold all the cards – he's supposed to play with your feelings, not the other way around! "I hope it's not the organ failure kicking in."

He blinks. Your lips are inches from his as you stare into his eyes, steely and unblinking.

"Your pupils are dilated," you declare, turning his face up towards the light. He swallows against your palm. "You're also sweating in the middle of autumn."

"Because you're hot."

"Because you're sick," you correct, squeezing the sides of his jaw to keep him from squirming away. You sigh – of course you'd have to play nurse to a murderer. "Put on your clothes, lie down, and don't move. I need to piss."

Sukuna grunts softly as you push his face away from you, using it as leverage to drive yourself to your feet. He rubs his jaw, wincing slightly, and watches you from the corner of his eye as you unlatch the door and slip outside.

He glances aside. You left your bag.

You left your bag?

There it is – his rifle, deep red wood the colour of cherries. It's just sitting there, strapped to the side of your backpack, the metal sights glinting in the low light.

His fingers twitch. It's only a few metres away. He'd absolutely be able to grab it and be out the door before you return. His fingers twitch.

Shit.

"Think fast."

A small cloth ball smacks you in the shoulder. You flinch but recover just in time to catch the thing.

Blue and red, filled with dry grains. You squeeze it and your lips thin as you lift an eyebrow at Sukuna. "Going through my private drawers, are we?"

He cocks his head. "Didn't see your name on 'em. Also, I found this funny little thing..."

He leans against the wall, legs crossed in front of him, and dangles a skin magazine between his fingers with a smug grin. You click your tongue, holding a hand out expectantly, and beckon with two curled fingers.

"Give it."

"But I just got it," he argues, settling into the mattress and opening it up to the first page, prim and proper like some damp old teacher. "Oh, whoa." He lifts it closer to his face. "This guy's got a huge ass."

"Give it back, Sukuna."

"Oi, oi!" He yanks it out of your reach. "I'm still looking! Sheesh. Sharing is caring. There aren't a whole lot of these left with the pictures still intact." He turns the page and his grin widens. "You know, when you kept shutting me down, I wondered if you just weren't into guys. Shame, I thought, but at least I could look. But now I know I have a chance."

"You still don't. You think you're half as handsome as the men in those pages? Their whole job revolved around being slick and good-looking. Your hair is incredibly choppy."

His smile falls into a scowl as he lifts a hand self-consciously to the back of his head. "Man, low blow... It's hard to cut your own hair without a mirror. Besides," he huffs, flipping the pages purposefully, "body-wise, I basically look like this dude. Judging by the dog-eared corner, you like this, too."

He flips the magazine around to show off a double-page spread of a lean, muscular hunk with tan skin and a sultry, almost lazy expression, eyes half-lidded and one hand resting on the back of his neck. He's pretty and youthful, with sharp cheekbones and plump lips, and Sukuna's fingers are perfectly positioned to cover up the model's cock.

You shrug. "You're bonier. Older. And not as hot."

"Excuse me?" He sputters. "I was the most eligible bachelor in the QZ, I'll have you fucking know! Whatever – take it," he sniffs, carelessly chucking the magazine at you, "I don't want it anyway. He looks like a doll. No hair, no scars. Boring."

You catch it casually and cross the room to tuck it away. "I'm sure you were."

"What, don't believe me?"

"Darlin', anything is sexier than a loud voice and face tattoos."

Sukuna chuckles, shuffling down the mattress and tossing his jacket over his chest. The position alleviates some of the pain. "Call me that again and I'll show you why I'm better than that blond print-out bitch. You won't be disappointed."

"Yeah, sure, killer. Face the wall when you sleep. Don't want you ogling me."

"I'm not sleeping, just resting my eyes," he retorts. "I'm not even tired."

—

Sukuna wakes up in the dark with a jerk, chest heaving. His mind runs with a hundred thoughts, all crashing into each other – where is he? Why's it so hot? When did he close his eyes? – but it's hard to separate them, like his head's a foggy, sticky mess.

He shifts slightly and grimaces at the sweat gathering between his shoulder blades. The cool air makes him shiver, and he swipes a hand over his damp forehead.

At first, he thinks he had a nightmare. It would explain the racing heart, the shortness of breath, the sweat. But he can't remember a thing. Can't remember feeling afraid or helpless.

He tugs at the front of his sticky shirt. He turns to push himself up, maybe take a walk, and freezes.

You lie on the other mattress with an arm thrown over your eyes. You're still wearing your shoes – clearly you didn't mean to fall asleep – and your other hand rests across your stomach, hand loosely wrapped around the knife in your belt.

Your breathing is slow and even, lips parted slightly. Sukuna's gaze drags downward.

Maybe he should have enlisted. Those tactical pants shape your thighs as if you're modelling them. And god – his breath catches – is that a third leg you're fucking packing? Sukuna thinks comparing you to an animal might be truer than he initially thought.

He licks his lips, leaning closer. Sleep still muddles his thoughts, but the broadness of your chest and shoulders looks particularly inviting, and he wonders how those rough, scarred hands would feel on his thighs, his hips, his cock...

Before he knows it, he finds his palm planted on the front of your pants, squeezing, and then he's flat on his back with the serrated edge of a knife pressed against his throat and you on top of him, eyes narrowed.

"Fuck you think you're doin'?" Your voice is low, raspy with sleep, and Sukuna's cock fills with blood. He shifts, trying to lessen the discomfort, but all he manages to do is grind up against you. A soft, gasped sound escapes him.

You glance at his flushed face, then down to where his hands grip your wrists with a flexing force, halfway to stroking, and your eyes widen. You nearly jump off of him, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"What the fuck?" you whisper. "What's up with you?"

"I – ugh, I, uh..." Why isn't his mouth connected to his brain? "Did you – did you fucking poison me?"

"No." Your brow furrows. "I ate exactly what you ate. Except for the..."

You trail off. You stare at each other.

"Oh my god," you say.

"What?" he says sharply, still panting. "'Oh my god' what?"

You laugh in disbelief, placing a hand on your hip and running your hand through your hair. "I've just drugged you."

"You what?" His voice gets embarrassingly high. He struggles to his feet, but his dick is throbbing painfully, and is very visible from where you stand. "What the fuck did you do to me?"

"The – The fuckin' bag. I got it as a gift from another soldier," you explain through chuckles. "Forgot about it entirely. He said it's an aphrodisiac. Some kind of herbal shit."

"Stop laughing," he growls, adjusting his pants, which only makes you laugh harder. It's a low, sharp, mean sound, and Sukuna's glare sharpens. "Stop fucking laughing! This is your fault."

"My fault?" you say incredulously. "You're the one going around putting unknown shit in your mouth! You're like a baby."

"I am not," he scowls, crossing his muscled arms in an effort to look more intimidating, but it loses some of the impact when he's red in the face and sporting a hard-on. "Let me go outside. I'll deal with it."

"Yeah, no way. I left you before because you'd bled out half your bodyweight on the floor and were in no condition to fight me. You're not leaving my sight again."

He snarls. "Fine! Then since it's your fault, you gotta take care of it."

"Oh, fuck off. What do you mean, take care of it? You want a blowie?" you ask sarcastically, mirroring his stance. "It'll wear off in a bit. Just close your eyes and ignore it."

"Ignore it? How? It looks like this," he hisses, gesturing vaguely downwards with a sharp flick of his hands. "Maybe I could 'ignore it' if I had a smaller fucking cock. If I leave it, it's on you if it suffocates and falls off. Besides, you stabbed my left shoulder, and I jerk off with that arm. So again. Your fault."

"I'm sorry, are you hearing yourself?" You step closer, lips curled into a sneer. You jab his chest with a finger. "You go around eating my food, using my supplies, and now you demand that I service you like some fucking whore? I tried to be civil, but it's like you get off on making me angry. So, one more time," you growl, nose-to-nose with him. "Shut the fuck up."

He bares his teeth.

"Make me," he says lowly.

You crush your lips against his. He doesn't even startle – pervert, he was waiting for this – and he grabs your face, keeping your lips against his even when you attempt to pull away. He kisses you like he'll die otherwise, angry and desperate and starved.

You manage to draw in a breath in the gaps between his onslaught. "You've got issues."

"Says the guy who kissed me first," he retorts, and dives in for more. Your arms twist around his waist, pulling him in, and he moans, chuckling throatily as he grinds against your thigh, rubbing short and rough strokes like a dog in heat. He pushes you against the wall with one hand braced near your head. He pants against your cheek, brow knitted and lips parted with pleasure. "Fuck, 'm drippin'. Put your cock in me."

"I don't have—"

"Don't care. You think I mind a little pain?" He offers a smirk, lips kiss-bitten and shining. "Let me see that cock, soldier. Hope it's standing at attention for me."

You roll your eyes and he grins sharply as you unbutton each other's belts and pants. He takes the time to kick off his shoes and jeans while you unstrap the holsters and utility belts wrapped around your thighs and hips. You dump them in a pile next to the mattress, and Sukuna jerks his head towards it.

"Shirt off, too. Wanna see if you look like the models in your skin mag."

You roll your eyes but do it anyway. "I don't."

His eyes light up as you toss the tight-fitted thermal into the pile. He licks his lips. His smile widens. "No. You look better."

He practically throws himself at you as he smashes his lips against yours. He tugs your half-hard cock out of your fly and pulls away from your lips to stare at it, wrapping his thumb and forefinger around it to check the size. He gives it an experimental pump, root to tip, and watches as it hardens under his gaze.

"Must be my lucky day." He lifts his eyes, his black pupils blown unnaturally wide as he nibbles on his wide grin. "Pretty big, stud."

You grunt. "Don't call me that."

"Hey, you're winning between the two of us. This is my consolation prize, stud."

"You're insufferable," you mutter against his lips. He just chuckles, twisting his wrist expertly and making you groan. He shivers as your hands trail up his shirt, tugging the hem up to the bottom of his ribs. The sight of his wound dressing makes you pause.

"I don't think we should do this," you say doubtfully, eyes flickering over his body. "If you rip your stitches, I don't have enough supplies to redo them all."

"Technically, you'd be the one doing the ripping," he interrupts with a stupid, smug smirk.

You sigh and don't mention it again. You notch yourself against his body, laying your cock on his and pressing them against his stomach with your palm. He moans, his tip dripping with a filthy amount of precome. As he grinds against you, there's eventually enough to slather your cock with it, making it wet and slick.

Distracting you with a kiss, he lowers himself to his knees, perfectly level with your hips. He reaches up for your cock and grins sharply, curling the point of his tongue around your shaft. You let out a shaky breath and he sucks gently on your balls, moans low and husky as he drags a line up the vein and swirls his tongue over your tip. You twist your fingers in his hair and he grunts softly as you tug.

"Got experience with this, have you?" you ask, your voice rough.

"What, jealous you're not my first?" He glances down at the size of your cock in his hand and smirks, licking his lips. "You might as well be, though."

He wraps his lips around you, hollowing his cheeks, and sucks hard. You hiss, hips jerking forward, and he moans as your cock jabs the back of his throat. A few more bobs of his head and then he's taking you down his throat like a champ, slick lips white around your cock as his throat convulses around you. He holds it for a moment before popping off with a sharp gasp, panting harshly with suspiciously shiny eyes.

You scoff a little, stroking his cheek with your thumb, and he bristles, immediately wary. "You cryin'?" you ask, the corner of your lips twitching up. "Am I too big for you, killer?"

"Shut it, I'm working on it," he rasps, grabbing your cock again and swallowing it whole.

With one hand running through his scruffy hair, you let out a low hum, listening to his wet gags as he chokes down your cock determinedly. Saliva drips down your shaft and balls – of course he'd be a messy one – and you twitch in his mouth as his tongue swirls along the underside with each bob of his head.

Sukuna should be disgusted. The tangy and slightly sweet taste of your musk and sweat, the saltiness of your pre – it all feels devastatingly real, a constant reminder that he's sucking off a soldier. Humiliating, really, to be into a cop.

But, hey – at least you're a little messed up in the head, and you have a fat cock. Not like you had much choice in your career, either, with the whole child-soldier thing. His morals are safe.

You grab his hair and pull him all the way down on your cock, making him gag and drool. His fist falters around his length. You keep him there, lazily grinding your cock into his mouth as he jolts and twitches, instinct telling him to pull away despite his nails digging into your thighs to keep you buried in his throat. The wet sounds his throat makes when you pump your hips have you throbbing thick and hard, and his lips stretch white around your shaft, pressed against your base.

"Fuck," you hiss. "Gonna come."

He moans huskily as you pull out and slap your cock against his forehead, his tongue peeking out to lap at your balls.

"Give it to me," he demands, wrapping a fist around his length. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, eyes half-lidded as he licks the shaft teasingly, grinning as you jerk yourself off, pre dripping down your tip. "Fuck yes, baby, come on me—"

He moans sharply as you yank on his hair, keeping him still as ropes of come splatter across his cheeks and forehead. He squeezes his dick as you grunt above him, your thick cock filling his vision as you paint his face with white. He closes his eyes, lips parted, and twists his wrist in time with each pulse of come that warms his skin. Your grip loosens as you stroke yourself through your high.

His body is so warm – he can feel his heartbeat pounding against the inside of his skull and through his dick. He licks his lips, savouring the taste, and runs a hand down his face. He smears his come-slick palm against your shaft, batting your hand away so he can do it himself. You roll your eyes with a huff and he just grins up at you, working your cock greedily and licking the slit.

"Didn't know someone like you would ever get on your knees for someone," you grunt, stomach flexing with muscle in front of him. You press your palm against the wall for balance.

"A man's gotta have hobbies," he says slyly. "I'm just very particular about who I do it for. Lucky for you, you've got a pretty face and a fat fucking cock. Hard combo to find these days."

You click your tongue. "I can't stand you."

"Don't care. This dick was made for me."

Your tip leaks and he roughly drags his tongue up the veins, lips wrapping around the tip and tongue dipping into the slit. Before he pulls away, he presses a long, almost romantic kiss to your glans, his thumb smoothing over the curve.

"Ever fucked a criminal before?" he murmurs, voice low and gloating. He turns around, reaching back for your cock, and you find yourself already half-hard when he teases it against his puckered hole. He doesn't seem too bothered by his wounds – either you're a better medic than you thought, or the aphrodisiac is also a natural painkiller.

"Shut up," you mutter with finality. He gazes back at you with a smug grin and half-lidded eyes as he spreads his legs and arches his spine, taunting you with his tight, firm ass as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Your lips meet over his shoulder, hot and heavy, and he rasps out a moan as your nails scrape over his scalp.

You tap the head of your cock against his hole with a wet smack and he spreads his ass with one hand. He pants as his cock twitches against his scarred stomach; a large horizontal one stretches from one side of his ribs to the other, shiny and feathered. It almost looks like a big, grinning mouth.

"Are you sure you don't need to be—"

He grabs your hip and slams down onto you. You hiss as his eyes roll back, most of your length sliding inside him with relative ease. Your creamy cock makes the job easy.

"Aw, fuck," he drawls breathlessly, a dirty grin spreading across his lips. "Holy fuck. You're huge."

"Still hoping to sweet-talk your way out of a trial?"

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Fuckin' hell, just take the damn compliment."

Dragging you closer, he captures your lips with his, his too-sharp canines nicking your lower lip. You grunt, hips jolting forward, and Sukuna groans as a few more inches sink into him.

"Bit of a masochist, are ya?" he chuckles, running his thumb over the blood beading along your lip. You watch as he brings his bloodied finger to his mouth and licks it off, eyes trained on you all the while.

Your expression twists. "That's disgusting."

"Your prick's betrayin' you," he lilts, awfully smug for someone pinned against the wall. "I can feel it twitching."

He lets out a pained grunt as you slam into him, your hips meeting his ass with a sharp slap. He balls his hands into fists, resting his forehead on his arm against the wall, and gasps, hot walls fluttering around you as he accommodates your size.

"Oh, fuck, I knew you had it in you," he groans, chuckling through panted breaths. His eyes roll back as you thrust slow and deep into him, letting him feel every single inch. "Mm, just like that, stud. Harder."

"Fuck's sake, shut the hell up already. You'll make me soft."

"You could put your gun in my mouth," he offers with a grin too casual for his words. "But I might nut early if you do that. Jus' saying."

He's a fucking menace.

Obviously, you have no choice but to bend him over and fuck him so hard his face turns red with exertion. The hand around his throat probably helps with that, too.

He's tight. The ache of the stretch burns deliciously, and he has to consciously relax every muscle in his body just to take you in to the hilt. Maybe bigger isn't better.

No. Wait. What is he thinking? Of course he likes it big. He would ask himself what drugs he's on that turn him into a wimp, but it's clearly whatever shit you fed him that's making him this way.

Sweat drips down his brow. His body burns from the inside out, and the heat of your cock sliding against his walls has him hissing in pleasure. He reaches back, fumbling slightly before he finds your hip and grips it. His fingers dimple your skin as he pulls you into him, groaning as you brace a hand against the wall by his head and lean over him, your chest pressed to his back.

You exhale a soft curse under your breath, a low, husky rasp. Arousal thickens your voice like honey. Everything you do, everywhere you touch, has his core aching for more. Even when you reach down and slap his firm ass – something he doesn't usually tolerate – he can only moan in response, eyes sliding shut as he thumps his head weakly against his forearm.

Drawled, breathy groans escape his lips with every harsh thrust. He jolts as your dick brushes that spot inside him that whites out his vision, and the way his cock throbs and leaks down his shaft because of it would be humiliating if he had any shred of dignity left.

"Was that it?" you murmur, groping his ass roughly and spreading his cheek to press in deeper. His hips stutter as you grind your hips against his ass, sweat slick between your bodies. "That the place?"

"Yes! Fuck, yes, keep poundin' my hole like that, shit—" He swallows thickly and nods, reaching down to grip his throbbing cock. It's so hot it almost burns his palm. He grasps it tightly, pumping shallowly in time with your thrusts, and he widens his legs. "Fuck, bitch me out, yeah, jus' like that—"

Your lips brush his ear. "Got a filthy mouth on you."

He laughs breathlessly through moans. "Mmh, yeah? 'M I makin' you blush?"

He groans sharply as you sink in just that little bit deeper and press firmly against his battered prostate, his muscles spasming as you yank his hips onto your cock and wrench his orgasm from him early.

He shouts out, lean muscles flexing, and his abruptly-tightened hole drags you over the edge as well. You grunt as your nails dig into his waist, leaving crescents in his scarred skin, and his hole feels like a cunt with the way it pulses and clenches around you, eager to milk you dry.

After a moment, a muscle in your jaw working as you swallow your groans, you lean away slightly, grip loosening on his hip – until his hand shoots out and seizes your wrist.

He yanks. "Fuck yeah – get back here. I'm not done."

You glare. He just smirks in response.

"What?" he drawls, chest heaving. "One and done, are you? Thought a guy like you would be harder to break."

"I gave you what you wanted. Now let go of me."

Sukuna clicks his tongue, deftly slipping off your cock and turning around in one smooth movement. Your eyes narrow – maybe you fixed him up a bit too well. He tugs your wrist, making you plant it against the wall by his head and close the distance. A filthy smear of thick white liquid drips down the wall, and looking down tells you he truly isn't done yet. He hooks his leg over your hip and his smirk widens when you automatically move to hold it up. He wraps a warm palm over your nape and pulls you in until you can count his lashes.

"What I wanted," he pants, "was to finish. As you can see, I'm far from tired. So – fuck me, soldier. That's an order."

Your lip curls in a snarl. "Don't tell me what to do, killer."

"I like telling you what to do. It makes me feel warm inside." He reaches between your bodies and grabs your cock, aiming it at his hole. He teases his entrance, your cock slick and velvety, heavy with blood. "Or is that just your come?"

His half-lidded eyes snap open as you force your entire length inside him in one unrelenting thrust. He grunts, gripping your shoulders, and his hole convulses around you, struggling to adapt to the sudden intrusion.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he groans, panting hard as his cock twitches against his stomach and forms a pool of pre on his sweat-slick skin. His grip tightens on your shoulders. "Hah, that's more like it! Shit—!"

Briefly, his head tips back as your cock knocks the thoughts out of his skull. His pupils are massive, eating up the honey-gold of his irises.

"Be quieter," you snap, your cock moulding his insides to fit you. "The walls aren't soundproof. If something overhears—"

He grabs your jaw and pulls your mouth into his, swallowing the string of curse words that fall easily from your tongue.

His lips are surprisingly soft and warm, though firm in the same way the rest of him is. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and you can feel him smirk as you stop struggling in his iron grip and give in to his desires. You grind into him punishingly and his dick aches with fire-fed arousal, dripping like a tap. Your nails cut into the meat of his thick thigh, every dip and curve of his muscles flexing against your palm, and he pushes his tongue between your teeth.

A big part of you instinctively wants to bite down on the intrusion. Your jaw locks, ready, but his tongue slides against yours, wet and hot, and it feels… good. Disgustingly good.

So you let him keep his tongue. For now. He presses harder, kissing you so hard you swear your lips will bruise in the morning, and he moans as you drop a hand to wrap around his cock.

"Don't sweat the small stuff. Stop thinking about what's outside and focus on what's inside. You into me, soldier?" he groans, smirking as he dives in for another harsh kiss. "That why you're touchin' me? Told ya I'd prove I'm better than your pin-up boys."

"No, I want this over with," you growl, shoving him roughly against the wall just for the pleasure of hearing him grunt. Your callused palm slides against the veins of his cock, the tip a dark, angry red and leaking profusely with every tug of your wrist. "Fuckin' traumatising experience, this is."

He hisses, more taunting than anything. His smile is sharp. "Big words, sarge. Still doesn't explain how your prick's still hard, though."

"I really will shoot you," you mutter, to which he just laughs and kisses you again.

It's a clash of teeth and tongue, more animal than man. Your hips slap against his ass, and your grip on his waist slips slightly from the sweat gathering along his hips. His face is flushed from his cheeks to his temples, his lips swollen and shining, and he lets loose a constant string of low moans as you fuck your come back into him. A white frothy ring forms around the base of your cock, and his brow furrows as he bucks his hips into the hole of your hand.

"Fuck," he grunts, Adam's apple bobbling. "Fuck, 'm close. Gonna come."

You let out a noncommittal hum, not changing your pace one bit – it pisses him off a little. He hikes his leg higher around your waist, his heel digging roughly into the back of your thigh, and clamp his hole punishingly around your shaft. You hiss his name like a curse as his cock explodes all over your hand and his flexing stomach, thick threads of white spurting across your knuckles and even up to the bottom of his chest. He gasps, his hole oh-so tight and hot, and it's as if he reached into your guts and pulled your high out himself.

Sukuna yanks you closer, head tilting to kiss you easier, and his body shudders with the remnant shockwaves of his peak. He rides it out with you, his hips moving shallowly as you press him into the wall as if you want to merge him with it. A bead of sweat glides down his temple.

Here you are, panting, balls-deep in the serial mass-murderer you're supposed to be bringing in to meet justice. Said mass-murderer grins up at you blissfully, eyes sliding shut as his head rolls back, and you find yourself being horrifyingly gentle when you pull out and set down his leg.

To make up for it, you punch him right on one of the white bandage squares taped to his stomach.

His whole body folds. His expression flashes from smug arrogance into white-hot pain, and he grips his side.

"Ugh, fuck!"

"Quit whining, it was barely a jab," you say indifferently, turning away and pulling your belt closed. As you tuck yourself away, those broad shoulders facing your least-favourite criminal, he grimaces and claws his way back up the wall into a wobbly mimicry of a man standing. He blinks away the stars floating in and out of his vision.

"God damn," he breathes, rolling his injured shoulder as much as pain will let him. "You're… You're such a piece of shit."

"Just because I fucked you doesn't mean I'm on your side. That was a reminder of where we stand."

Once he recovers, he pushes off the wall with a barely-noticeable limp. He knows from the tingling in his legs that he'll be feeling it for days after. His chest heaves, and you watch as a drop of sweat trickles down the split of his chest. He doesn't shy away from the cold of the room, so he's likely still under the effects of whatever herbal concoction you'd accidentally drugged him with – a situation you still take no responsibility over, as he was the one who'd emptied an unlabelled bag straight into his mouth without a single thought.

He must really think he's immortal, to care so little about what he's ingesting.

You stride over, grabbing him by the nape of the neck and turning his face up, your grip firm on his jaw. He licks his lips as you inspect him closely and shine a flashlight in one eye, then the other.

His pupils shrink. Better than before.

"You'll be fine," you mutter, pushing his face away and clicking off the flashlight. You slip it into your pocket. "Probably just need a couple of hours. Now go back to bed."

He has the audacity to latch onto your wrist. "Aw, c'mon," he drawls, his grip unyielding despite his lazy posture. His words are surprisingly steady despite his heaving chest. "You'll fuck me and dump me aside just like that?"

"Just like that," you affirm flatly.

"At least tell me I was a good fuck."

You look him up and down. "You were a good fuck," you admit, making a victorious smirk crawl across his face. "But I still don't enjoy your presence."

He shrugs his one good shoulder as he slowly bends down to pick his clothes up off the floor. Putting them on takes twice as long, and a twinge of annoyance pings the back of his mind. "I'll take it. Baby steps." His eyes follow you as you cross the room and pull something out of your backpack. He finally manages to thread his legs into his jeans. "What're you doing?"

In response, you shake a white box and pop open the top, revealing two rows of cigarettes.

Holy shit. There must be a dozen or more in that box. His instincts chase to tally them up, see how big of a score he could sell them for – but when he glances up, there's a hint of a smirk on your face, and it's clear you're not going to enable his smuggling habits.

You pluck one out of the box and stick it between your lips, reaching into another pocket in your pants and pulling out a lighter. The small flame flickers to life with a soft click, and you cup the flame while the embers begin to burn bright orange-white. You take a drag and pocket the lighter, eyeing Sukuna as he slowly, painfully slowly, pulls his shirt over his head.

"Want one, killer?"

"You think I smoke?"

Silently, you take another drag, puffing smoke rings into the air.

He holds out a hand and beckons.

You step forward and hand him a stick. Plain white, unbranded. Military standard, boring as ever, but functional. Some fat cat up top must have a bad nicotine addiction, because there's no way a factory out there is rolling cigarettes just for someone like you.

When he places it between his lips and reaches out expectantly for the lighter, he almost jerks back on instinct when you lean in. You halt with the lit stick between your lips, lifting a brow, and he eases up slightly.

You touch the end of your cigarette to his, reaching out to cup the back of his head and keep him steady. Your faces are inches apart, and the new heat between you feels easy and familiar. In complete silence, you light his cigarette, only pulling away once the end glows brighter than anything else in the room.

He tugs the white stick out from between his lips, a smirk curling at their corners. "Smooth. Didn't know you had it in you, soldier."

"It's an efficient use of lighter fluid," you reply diplomatically, smoke curling from your lips like a dragon.

"Was it efficient to waste a whole cigarette on me?"

You lean against the table that holds the half-played cards and you cross your arms. You look at him for a long while, heavy gaze raking his figure.

You can still feel his skin under your fingertips, the roughness of his calluses and the smoothness of scar tissue from knife wounds. You can still feel his breath against your cheek, the weight of him in your arms, and hear his moans in your ear.

You say nothing, and turn away.

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