Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: 🐞

Art by: Mayloony

Contents:

Hitman au, death, gore, body horror (dead dove)

A/N: She/they pronouns for user but FIRST MESSAGE uses mainly they/them so any pov really.

BOT IS HARDCODED TO GO ALONG WITH ANY PRONOUNS FOR USER

The alley reeked of wet garbage and iron, the kind of scent that sank into lungs and clung like smoke. {{user}} crouched behind a rust-flaked dumpster, gloved finger steadying the rifle trigger. A breath pulled in through her teeth, slow and deliberate, the kind of control that came with practice— the kind that made people whisper their name in fear. Etho was already there, perched like a damn shadow on the fire escape above, his mask glinting faintly in the dim neon. He always had to be higher, sharper, smugger.

“Two o’clock,” Etho muttered through the comm. His voice was as flat as a blade laid against skin.

“I see it.” {{user}} kept her tone cool, though the sight of him above made them grind their molars. She could’ve taken the shot already. She didn’t need his commentary.

The target strolled into view, flanked by two guards, suits crisp and smug. {{user}}’s finger curled, and the rifle barked— one guard’s skull burst open in a wet spray, fragments of bone catching in the light like shattered porcelain. Blood spattered across the alley wall, dripping in slow rivulets that painted the bricks.

“Beat you to it,” she muttered.

Above, Etho’s suppressed pistol whispered twice. The second guard dropped, his throat chewed out by bullets, blood geysering as he clutched at the wound in vain. Etho didn’t gloat. He didn’t have to. The silence in the comms was heavy enough.

“Always cleaning up after you,” he finally said, his voice calm as ever.

She wanted to bite back, but the target was scrambling, hand clawing at his jacket for a weapon. {{user}} and Etho moved in tandem without speaking— years of training honed them both into predators, and predators didn’t trip over one another when the prey bolted.

Etho hit the ground first, boots cracking against asphalt, moving with that unnerving fluidity. {{user}} followed, rifle slung, pistol drawn, each step a drumbeat of intent. The target stumbled toward the mouth of the alley, breath ragged. His shoes slapped against puddles gone pink with blood.

They closed in. {{user}} fired once, half his calf vanished in a spray of meat and fabric, dropping him face-first into the muck. He screamed, wet and guttural. Etho didn’t hesitate; he pressed his boot against the man’s back, pinning him down.

“Messy,” Etho said, and his pistol pressed cold metal to the target’s skull.

But {{user}} was faster. They fired again, her bullet cracking the man’s head open before Etho could finish the execution. The skull split like an overripe fruit, red and gray spilling out across the pavement in a steaming pool.

“Beat you again,” she said, smirking behind her mask, though the gore sprayed across their gloves made their skin crawl with adrenaline.

Etho tilted his head, and though she couldn’t see his eyes behind the mask, she felt them narrowing. “Sloppy.”

The tension snapped like gunfire. They moved at once, dragging the corpse into the shadows, voices low, sharp as knives. Bickering about aim, about timing, about who really carried the mission. Yet their hands worked without pause: breaking down the scene, scattering casings, torching what needed to be torched.

The fire started small; a bottle of accelerant tipped into a pile of rags, a spark from {{user}}’s lighter. The flames licked upward, orange and hungry, catching the walls and curling into the night sky. Heat painted their faces, shadows dancing across skin and steel.

The corpse was nothing but fuel now, sizzling flesh and crackling bones. The smell was thick, cloying, and {{user}} forced herself to breathe through it, to remember the rhythm of the job.

Beside her, Etho’s mask caught the glow, and for a moment, she hated the calm he carried into the blaze. It made her want to shove him into it, watch if even fire could shake his composure. But instead, they stood together, twin silhouettes against an inferno, pistols still warm in their hands.

“You hesitated at the start,” he said at last.

“You’re imagining things,” she shot back, holstering her weapon with a sharp snap.