#next chapter is the first heist ayeee

[sv3t1ana]

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SYNOPSIS ᯓ A Bonnie and Clyde-esque, high-stakes, multi-chapter smut romance that follows a deadly criminal duo whose intense, chaotic love becomes as dangerous as the heists they pull off. Trust forged in blood, bonds built on risk.

PAIRING ᯓ Criminal! Sukuna x Criminal! Fem. Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ usage of weapons, lowkey soft Sukuna <3, themes of depression, Sukuna kills someone

WORD COUNT ᯓ 2.4k

Chapter 4.

You woke up half-asleep, the remnants of a nightmare still pressing down on your chest, suffocating you in its weight. The memory of shadows and whispers clinging to you like an unshakable stain. But it didn’t matter, not when Sukuna’s calloused, unforgiving hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you from the depths of sleep.

The ground beneath your bare feet was uneven, and your body dragged along, each step more laborious than the last. The air was thick in humidity, feeling a sense of impending doom hardening every second. The world around you was barren, lifeless. This place felt abandoned, the tall grass whispering against your ankles sticking out of your too-short pants. He just pulled you through, grip never loosening but steps confident and unhurried.

You stumbled over rocks and roots, struggling to match his pace and body unwilling to cooperate. He didn’t care. The quiet menace in his gaze you couldn’t see urging you forward.

Rusting targets were scattered like forgotten remnants of a war long over, their bright red centers staring back at you. The air smelled faintly of rust, the unrelenting heat of an early morning surrounding you. Above, the skies were dark with storm clouds, the kind of clouds that threatened more than rain.

Without a word, Sukuna reached down, movements smooth and practiced, and began to prepare a rifle. The sound of metal sliding against metal filled the silence, a sound that’s foreign in this godforsaken place. He handed it to you without hesitation, the weight of the gun a stark reminder of the task ahead. The cold metal settled against your palms, the smooth surface slick. It felt heavy, too heavy. You wondered how many people blinked at the end of the barrel and didn’t live to see the next day.

You took it, steadying the barrel with one hand, the other adjusting the weight. It felt alive in your grip, as if it were pulsing with power, like it was more than just an instrument of death.

The tip of your finger wrapped around the trigger, pressing it lightly. And with a calculated breath, you locked your gaze on the further target, feeling Sukuna’s eyes on you like a smoldering ember at your back. Steadying your hands, your breath, the rifle kicked back in your arms as you squeezed the trigger- click. A shot.

It flew with a piercing hiss, true trajectory missing the mark mere inches away from the large red dot at its center.

“Bet that was a mistake,” he scoffed, voice thick with derision.

You glared in response, teeth gritting and shooting back a biting remark. “Maybe if you didn’t drag me out here at the ass crack of dawn, I wouldn’t be half asleep.”

The words hung, and you could see the subtle change in the way his eyes narrowed. It wasn’t like any other time, where the women around him cowered, begged, feared. No one stood up to him the way you did, not someone who knew their fate.

He motioned for you to shoot again.

You did, the rifle an extension of you as your movements got smoother. Each shot rang out, the sharp clink of the bullet hitting the target and resounding through the air like the sound of destiny being sealed. One by one, you hit each target, the steady rhythm of your shots a quiet defiance against the world that had pushed you into this life.

Clink, clink, clink.

Sukuna’s eyes didn’t leave your back, watching with a strange, cold intensity.

You weren’t just doing this for him. You were doing it for the life you both hated and loved. The weight of the gun pressing in your palms nothing compared to the weight on your chest. The reality of it all, how easy it would be to end someone’s life with the pull of a trigger. A bullet that could pass through your ribs as easily as it would through theirs. It was that simple.

You tried not to think too much about it, about the fact that your own survival depended on the same thing. But it was impossible not to feel the truth of it settle deep. This was no longer some detached, distant thing. The line between who you were and what you had to become was getting harder to see.

Sukuna’s voice breaking your thoughts. “Better. Don’t get cocky on me, though. You still have a lot to prove.”

You didn’t answer. You were here because you had no choice, because survival didn’t care about who you were before, only who you were now.

And apparently you were someone who could pull the trigger of an AR-15 and not feel anything.

-----

You woke up the next day, fresh off a measly four hours of sleep, trudging through the hideout filled with furniture but lacking life. The residue in the air thick with violence, broken promises, and an eternal stiffness that grabbed each of your limbs. Your body was aching, hollow from hunger, hair matted, not brushed in days. The same oversized clothes clung to your body, torn and disheveled adorned with holes you could never patch. Your face a canvas of neglect, an expressionless mask painted with dark bags beneath your eyes, the kind that spoke of sleepless nights and haunted thoughts. You looked like someone in mourning, someone who had lost everything and had no idea how to carry on. But the truth was worse: you hadn’t lost anything, this was only the beginning of the spiral.

Sukuna noticed. Of course he did.

You entered the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cluttered counter and holding it beneath the faucet as water trickled out. It was cold, well water that tasted like dirt and metal. You didn’t care, only craving nothing more than to escape the weight of your thoughts and dull the ache.

He sat at the table, chewing slowly, eyes flicking up as you stood there, expression blank and sipping the glass like you were a ghost moving through a house that no longer remembered you. He didn’t speak at first, but you could feel the judgment in the weight of his stare, like a pressure heavy to ignore.

“You look like shit,” he finally muttered, voice low but sharp. It wasn’t the usual mockery that danced his lips. No, his brows were furrowed in something deeper, something rare for him, concern. It was the look of a mad father, a man who had seen too much and knew too well the dangerous fragility of the one he was watching.

He watched, not with disdain, but with a strange unsettling mixture of frustration. You were a walking contradiction, a fragile, broken thing, yet capable of destruction in a way that softened him. You were dangerous in a way that caught him off guard. You weren’t only a weak, helpless pawn, but someone who could hold the world in your hands and jump with it, nothing but focus and raw capability.

And yet, you had the audacity to look like this.

He didn’t say anything, but you knew he saw through the veneer defiance you wore like a second skin. The way you locked eyes with him, not a flinch in your gaze when you met his with exhaustion, lids heavy in malaise, your body as much of a casualty as your mind.

You didn’t flinch when his words stung.

But in a swift movement he was up, crossing the room to you. Without a word he gripped your shoulders, forcing you back toward the room you’d been sleeping in, his hands never relinquishing their grip, his fingers like iron on your skin.

“Fucking idiot,” he mumbled, almost to himself. Tone cold like he was disappointed, frustrated in a way that left you confused. “Take care of yourself. Can’t have you falling apart before a job.”

With that, he shoved you into the connected bathroom, not waiting for a response. The door slammed behind you with finality, leaving you alone with nothing but the weight of his foreign sense of care, though unspoken, it was unmistakable.

You stilled for a moment, heart beating in the hollow silence that followed, mind racing through thoughts. You looked down at the pile of clothes he’d thrown on the bathroom floor. Fresh linen, the scent of clean fabric so alien to your senses it felt like a betrayal.

Your hands hovered over them, cold from the touch of water still on your skin. Why should you give a damn about clothes, about survival, when it felt like there was nothing to survive for?

But something lingered, a subtle shift. You didn’t remember the last time anyone cared about your life more than you did.

This was the truth you didn’t want to accept.

Sukuna wanted you to survive. Truthfully, he had no reason to care. But the way he shoved you into that room, something in his irises telling you he wasn’t finished with you yet.

No matter how much you loathed it. No matter how much you resisted the idea of being more than what you had to become. You had to survive. And that meant looking at the girl in the mirror, the one that had been slowly dying, and making the choice to live.

With a deep breath you sorted through the clothes before stepping into the shower, the water cascading down your bare body a brief reprieve from the storm inside your head.

He wanted you to be something more because he saw it in you. And you hated him for it. But you also hated yourself for needing to be.

You wrapped up the shower, skin left prickled by the cool air. Your hair hung wet, dripping, soaking the back of your shirt and trailing down your spine in thin rivulets. You stood in the dark bedroom, the faint light seeping in from the small gap between drawn curtains. The sheets were a mess, pillows scattered like abandoned thoughts. You rolled your eyes, a quiet exhale slipping past your lips, reaching out to pull open the curtains and letting the light bleed in.

The bed was always your battlefield, so many nights spent staring at the ceiling at a poor attempt to drown your thoughts. You moved to fix it, smoothing over the sheets, the motion barely registering in your mind as you fought to ignore the noise of Sukuna’s voice in the other room. It was muffled, yet you could still catch the low hum of a conversation, something about transactions, something about a deal.

You could see the corner of his figure through the crack in the door, pacing with a certain kind of energy that you had become accustomed to, an agitated rhythm that could only belong to a man with too much blood on his hands. You were about to turn away when you caught him yelling into the phone, a sharp string of words before he hung up.

He turned, gaze locked on yours. His pupils were intense, focused on you like you interrupted something important.

A shiver ran through you, not of fear but curiosity. This time you approached, on purpose.

“I had a run-in with someone,” you began, voice steady. “A cop. A corrupt one. Threatening to turn me in if I didn’t go along with his demands. I didn’t say anything but I’m worried about you getting exposed.”

There was no fear in your voice, rather the cool pragmatism of someone too tired to be truly scared anymore.

His expression didn’t change immediately, instead his jaw clenched. Teeth grinding together before he looked at you, eyes darkening in a way that made the room feel smaller. His voice was unwavering. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about it.” He stepped closer. “You focus on the job.”

“Job?” you echoed, an eyebrow arched.

He huffed, grabbing a stack of papers and laptop from the coffee table and shoving them into your hands with little ceremony. “Two days,” he said, voice low and clipped. “You’ll be walkin’ into an office. Exposing a network. Some corporate assholes funneling money. Someone tryin’ to fuck with me.”

You stood, holding the weight of everything and letting it sink in. A job that would only pull you deeper into a world of corruption and violence.

He left soon after, the sound of his boots heavy on the floor as he moved toward the door. Multiple guns lining his waistband. A Glock, a Ruger, a few others you didn’t recognize but knew were lethal in the hands of someone like him. A man used to handling power in the most violent ways.

He was no longer a stranger to risk, his face and name becoming familiar on local news stations as the very streets he walked. He was a threat, one that everyone knew about but dared not approach.

He never hid. No one could hide from Sukuna.

He found the pig, of course. Because no one hides from Sukuna.

“You think you can threaten her, huh?” His voice was low, dangerous. He had the cop pressed against brick in a grungy alleyway, nearly shaking under Sukuna’s hold when he pressed the tip of the gun against his throat. “You’re either too fuckin’ dumb to know who you’re dealin’ with, or you’ve got a death wish. Let me help you out with that.”

Sukuna had given the cop a chance to run away, knowing his mere presence was enough to get him off your tail. But he refused, refused to the face of violence itself. And nothing pissed Sukuna off more than a pig saying no. So it was done, the cop gone and dirty corruption buried with him.

By the time Sukuna returned to the hideout it was dark, and there was nothing left to speak of. No mention of the cop or the death he’d dealt. But you could feel it, see it in the way he moved, how his posture had his head held high, shoulders back, the quiet pride of a job well done.

Though he never said a word to you about it, you knew. You knew exactly what had happened. He took care of it, tying up the loose end and eliminating the threat that hung over you like a shadow. He wasn’t just making sure you survived, he was making sure no one threatened you.

For the first time since you were a child, you weren’t as alone as you thought.

And as you stood, watching him move around the house with that same unwavering confidence, something changed. You hated to admit you were beginning to trust him, hated the realization that, in this world of deceit, he wasn’t just some force of nature, and you weren’t just some pawn to him.

You weren’t sure exactly when it happened, but you trusted him. And that thought, as unsettling as it was, felt a little less terrifying than it should have.

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