#hitman x reader

[thatssomegoodsoup]

GOTHAM! VICTOR ZSASZ x READER HCs

CONTENT WARNING: kinks mentioned (once)

Victor loves when you bake him something (he is a sucker for pastries, cakes, and other sweet treats)

He will steal your food

He will appear in your apartment without warning (occasionally with one of the zsaszettes)

God help anyone who tries to harm you

He gives love bites (like a cat) as a form of affection

This man gives the most unserious answers to your questions

He thinks you'd look hot covered in blood

Victor loves any scars you have (he subconsciously traces them with his finger sometimes)

His kinks include knifeplay, leaving marks on the reader, bondage+leashing the reader, choking, bloodplay, and sadomasochism

^ Despite being an assassin, he does believe in consent and safe sex. Your safe word is 'funkytown'.

He can't feel empathy in the traditional sense, but he does his best to understand your struggles and help you through them

You two sometimes mess with Jim and Harvey

He pretends not to care about you, and acts cold and distant, but deep down he is scared of losing you and he doesn't know what he'd do without you

Most of the time, Zsasz is the voice of reason and compromise in the relationship

He is the big spoon when cuddling

If you ever got hurt, he can patch you up, as he has good medical skills

The love languages he gives include words of affirmation, acts of service, and quality time. Love languages he'd like to recieve include quality time and receiving gifts.

Victor enjoys taking you to disco-related events.

If you're short, he teases you about it. Your primarily nickname is 'shortcake' (he loves baked desserts and you're short, perfect combo :D)

You are the primary planner in the relationship (if you ask Zsasz to plan, he WILL procrastinate until date night and improvise on the spot)(I mean he is a great planner overall, he is just terrible at planning dates in particular).

If you two get in an argument, it doesn't really bother him. He will just sarcastically say "ouch" and leave to give you some time to cool off.

When choosing a movie for date night, he will choose the most obscure media known to mankind

CREDIT FOR DIVIDER: @thecutestgrotto

this is the third fic i've worked on today and my backspace key is already driving me insane (see: the update)

I have been obsessed with this man lately 🙏 Demisexual panromantic/pansexual assassin my beloved 🫶

[rossfr00]

Pairing: Agent 47 x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Smut, Emotional Manipulation, Psychological Themes, Implied Sexual Trauma (past), Canon-Level Violence, Power Imbalance, Dubious Morality

Summary: He was sent to kill her grandfather.

She was never meant to be part of the mission.

But when she spots him across the ballroom—deadly, composed, and exactly as the secret files warned—she makes a different offer: help her destroy the man who raised her... and she'll give him everything he needs.

■♤■♧■♤■♧■♤■♧■♤■♧■♤■♧■♤■♧■♤■♧■♤■♧■♤

The Favorite - Part 1

The house reeked of old money and gunpowder masked in cologne.

Laughter floated through the halls like smoke — artificial, rehearsed, hollow.

They were celebrating something. It didn’t matter what. In your grandfather’s mansion, there was always a reason to toast: an acquisition, a silenced threat, a bribed politician.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above velvet floors. Bodyguards stood like statues in corners, earpieces flickering under the low hum of jazz. Waiters moved like ghosts, their silver trays glinting in the light. Power hung in the air like humidity—thick, invisible, and inescapable.

You were standing near the edge of the ballroom, a glass of untouched champagne in hand, playing your role.

The adopted granddaughter.

The precious display piece.

The favorite.

“Daughter of the best man I ever knew,” your grandfather would proclaim, lifting his glass. “Taken too soon. Left me this treasure.”

Treasure.

As if you were something to own.

But you smiled, nodded, and played your part. Sweet. Grateful. Obedient.

All the while, you listened. Watched. Learned.

You weren’t just a face. You became an asset.

You studied languages, trained in defense, read files you weren’t supposed to see, and got a front-row seat to the underworld behind the luxury. You knew the names no one dared speak aloud. The places the cameras didn’t reach. The passwords. The lies.

That’s why, when you saw him, your breath caught for a second.

You saw him before he saw you. Across the room.

Impossibly tall, shoulders squared under a black tailored suit. Bald head. Ice-cold eyes.

A face like marble—sculpted, unreadable, flawless in a way that felt inhuman.

Not just handsome. Unsettlingly handsome.

And the way he moved—smooth, calculated, like someone who never wasted energy unless he intended to end a life.

You watched him.

Longer than you should have.

Then—his eyes met yours.

And in that split-second, something shifted.

Recognition.

Not curiosity.

Not politeness.

Recognition.

And that’s when you knew.

Agent 47.

You’d seen him before — in one of your grandfather’s restricted files.

No name. No confirmed origin. Just a codename. And a warning:

“If you ever see him, it’s already too late."

He knew you could recognize him. That you had access. That you were dangerous.

From his perspective, that left two options:

Evade you.

Or eliminate you.

And yet, neither of you moved.

You didn’t run. Didn’t scream.

You tilted your head just slightly, as if in silent greeting.

And you turned away. Gracefully. Calm.

Then, without a word to anyone, you slipped out through the terrace doors.

Into the night.

Into the maze.

The hedges were tall, perfectly trimmed—like everything in the estate: pristine, hollow, lifeless. The scent of night jasmine lingered faintly in the breeze as you stepped barefoot into the center of the maze, heels dangling from your fingers like dead weight.

Moonlight touched the silk of your gown, making it gleam like liquid ivy. It hugged your waist, flared around your thighs with every step. You walked slowly—intentionally. You didn’t check behind you.

You didn’t have to.

He was already there.

When you reached the marble fountain at the heart of the labyrinth—dry, cracked with age—you turned. Your breath caught, just slightly.

There he was.

Agent 47. The ghost in the suit. The whisper of death your grandfather’s files described as myth and warning.

He stood still, like a shadow carved out of night. Black suit, black shirt, no tie. Broad shoulders. Clean lines. Hands bare now, the moonlight catching on the ridges of his veins and the flex of muscle beneath scarred knuckles. A professional killer... with the body of a goddamn statue.

Your gaze lingered, not for pleasure—though there was something undeniably striking about him—but for assessment. You’d read his file, the forbidden one buried in your grandfather’s encrypted archives. There had been no photos, just stats, data, warnings.

But nothing in the file prepared you for him in the flesh.

And as you took a step forward, you saw it: the faint shift of his weight. Readiness. Awareness.

He was watching you just as carefully.

You continued walking, slow, deliberate.

With each step closer, the difference in height became clearer. You had to tilt your chin higher to meet his gaze. He didn't move. Just stood there, towering and unreadable, like marble sculpted to intimidate.

“You recognized me,” he said, voice low and flat.

You nodded once. “Took me a second.”

You took a step. Close now. So close that you had to look fully upward to keep your eyes on his. Your lashes caught the light. He noticed that.

You tilted your head, voice softer now, but cool. Controlled.

“You saw my name in the report. What did it say?”

His answer was immediate. “High-risk. Access to classified data. Too perceptive. Possibly disloyal. Disposal advised.”

You raised an eyebrow. "Then do it,” you said.

His eyes sharpened.

You shrugged lightly. “Put a bullet in me, Agent. But don’t pretend that’s the smart move.”

He didn’t lift a hand.

Didn’t move.

But the tension crackled in the space between you like a coiled storm.

“You want him dead" he said

“ and didn’t you come for that?" You said looking at him deeply

A flicker of something moved behind his eyes—recognition, maybe. Or approval.

“What do you want from me?” he asked at last.

You exhaled " Want? Mmm “I’m offering you something smarter,” you said. “Access. Position. Cover.”

You tilted your head slightly, voice quieting. “Because the last seven who came here to kill him, they’re buried already in the rose garden. Every time someone fails, the old bastard locks things down tighter, And yet, he does not prevent or forbid me from anything, Using his words, I'm his Treasure"

You made air quotes with your fingers, bitterly amused. “ but I'm just the good public image. He keeps me close for show. And because he thinks I owe him my life.”

“Do you?"

You gave him a sharp look. “I owe him nothing. And I want him dead.”

You let the silence settle.

Then, with elegance, you turned and walked back to the fountain. You sat on the wide edge, crossing one leg over the other. The movement was relaxed, intentional, feminine—but never weak.

47 remained standing.

You looked at him again.

“I’ve never brought anyone here before. No boyfriends, no lovers. If I suddenly show up with someone? People will talk. He’ll get curious. But because I’m the one bringing you in, you’ll be safe. Untouchable.”

She leaned her arms back behind her on the fountain’s rim, moonlight hitting her collarbones and the tension in her shoulders.

“If you come in as my lover, through my trust—you’re protected. You’ll have access to rooms, conversations, routines. And I’ll make it easy.”

“What do you want in return?”

You hesitated, just a moment.

“Well, besides I want him to suffer and to rot in his own fear before he dies" You said obviously. "There’s something of my mother’s he took. A pendant. Hides information—I think about the people he’s blackmailed, what he did to her. And to my father. He killed him, how he abused her into silence and isolation.”

A long moment passed, he said nothing—but you watched his gaze trace you, just once.

From the calm strength of your stance, to the way your dress didn’t hide muscle, control, the truth of a woman no one in this house ever truly saw.

His eyes drifted to your thigh—just for a second. Enough to confirm what he already knew: the weapon beneath the silk, well-placed, professional.

You weren’t what you appeared to be.

Neither was he.

She watched him for a long second, then smiled just a little.

“Well?” you asked. “Do we have a deal, Agent?”

Another beat of silence.

Then 47 stepped forward, reached up slowly, and removed one glove. The gesture felt ritualistic.

He extended his hand.

“Yes,” he said.

[clemeientene]

𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 || Yan!Hitman x Gn!Reader

[ 03 ] ✦ 𝒚𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓

previous chapter: 02 [ convinience & yapping ]

The freezer smelled like death, and not the poetic, cinematic kind.

No, this was the real kind—the kind that clung to your nostrils like an ex who wouldn’t move on.

The air was cold, icy, and filled with the metallic smell of blood that had already begun to congeal in places it definitely shouldn’t be.

The bodies? Well, there were four of them, all in various states of “oops, I’ve been brutally murdered.”

And here you were, in your pink apron, standing in the middle of it all like some kind of cursed housekeeper.

Mr. Zy, your extremely problematic employer who somehow made "mildly bleeding in a corner" look attractive, was watching you work. Silently. Like a cat watching a mouse. Or, more accurately, like a hitman watching his cleaner expertly dispose of the evidence while he dripped blood onto the tile.

You sighed, rolling up your sleeves. Alright, let’s do this. Time to educate the masses.

Step One: Assess the Situation.

Four bodies. One industrial-grade freezer. Blood pooled across the floor, already freezing in some places. Messy. Not the worst you’d seen (Greg’s office still haunted you), but still, not great. The key was efficiency—minimizing cleanup, maximizing disposal.

Step Two: Positioning Matters.

You tilted your head, eyeing the bodies critically. “Alright, we need to stack them properly. You can’t just throw corpses in like Tetris blocks, or you’ll end up with dead guy Jenga.”

Mr. Zy exhaled smoke, watching. “Stack?”

“Yes, stack. Unless you want to play ‘guess which limb this belongs to’ later.” You gestured dramatically. “You think the people who do this professionally just throw them in like a kid cleaning their room? No. There’s a method.”

He gave a slow blink, unimpressed. But he didn’t argue.

Step Three: The Art of Disguise.

Now came the fun part. You bent down, avoiding the literal puddle of human juice, and started working.

Blood had already begun to freeze, so you chipped away at it methodically while maneuvering the bodies into the most space-efficient arrangement.

“See, the trick is layering. If you freeze them right, they don’t stick together like a human popsicle pack.”

Mr. Zy watched, silent as ever.

Does he just stand there for fun? Is this entertaining for him?

You glanced up. Oh. Oh.

His deep blue eyes were focused on you, his expression unreadable, and was he leaning against the wall like some tragic villain? His slightly grayish hair was tousled just right, and the way the cigarette balanced between his fingers—ugh. Disgusting. Unreasonably attractive. Jail.

“Why are you staring?” you blurted, more annoyed at your own thoughts than anything.

“I listen.”

“To what?”

“You.”

You paused mid-cleanup, brain buffering. Oh.

That was… that was new. People never listened to you. You mostly yapped into the void while people either ignored you or, in Greg’s case, actively walked away.

But this guy? This guy was different.

And somehow, that was worse.

There was something deeply concerning about how casual Mr. Zy was about this. Maybe it was the fact that he was still slightly bleeding, yet somehow more interested in watching you work than tending to his wounds.

Maybe it was the way he rolled up his sleeves like he was about to make sourdough—except instead of dough, it was a guy named Darren who probably owed money to the wrong people.

Or maybe it was the fact that he was doing this barehanded.

“You’re not even gonna—” You gestured vaguely at his entire existence. “—I don’t know, put on gloves?”

He flexed his fingers, looking at them like he was considering it for a whole half-second before shrugging. “No need.”

“No need?” You repeated, incredulous. “No need?! Sir, that is a whole dead guy. He has bacteria. Diseases. Maybe a life insurance policy.”

Zy ignored you. Instead, he reached down and, with terrifying ease, grabbed one of the bodies by the arm. There was a sickening crunch-pop as the frozen shoulder joint gave way like an overused stress toy.

You grimaced. “Great. Love that sound.”

You weren’t sure what was worse—the sheer strength required to do that or the fact that he didn’t even look mildly inconvenienced by it. Like, yeah, I can snap a dude’s arm off with my bare hands, no big deal, wanna get coffee later?

But you had work to do. And at the end of the day, bodies were bodies, and a job was a job. You rolled your shoulders and cracked your knuckles. Time to educate the masses again.

Types of Disposal & Their Uses

Chop & Drop (Dismemberment 101)

The classic. Cut them up into smaller, manageable pieces. You glanced at Zy’s lack of tools and sighed.

“You ever use a bone saw, or do you just Hulk your way through everything?”

He gave you a look. “Hulk.”

Of course.And then, to prove his point, he literally grabbed a leg, twisted, and—oh.

Oh, there it went.

The femur just snapped. Like it was a breadstick.

You blinked. “Okay. That’s illegal.”

“Everything here is.

”Fair.

The Acid Bath (Not As Cool As It Sounds)

Melting bodies in acid? Overrated.

Takes too long. Too expensive. Plus, who the hell has that much hydrofluoric acid lying around? Breaking Bad really did a number on people. You didn’t even suggest it.

Grinder or Woodchipper (Extreme Mulching)

Messy. Too messy.

The last thing you needed was stray human confetti flying around.Zy, to his credit, looked vaguely intrigued by the idea.

You pointed a warning finger at him.

“No.”

He tilted his head.

“No.” He exhaled smoke, noncommittal.

Burn Baby Burn (Fire Solves Most Things)

Fire worked. But fire also attracted attention. You didn’t need the Veygrove fire department rolling up, finding four half-melted skeletons, and collectively deciding to quit their jobs.

Frozen Goods (Tonight’s Special: Not-So-Fresh Meat)

Now this? This was a winner. Freezing bodies slowed decomposition. Kept the smell to a minimum. Plus, a well-packed freezer meant no leaks. You just had to—crack—do some creative folding.

Zy tossed a severed arm into a garbage bag like he was throwing out last week’s leftovers. You sighed. This man was going to give you an aneurysm.

At some point, Zy leaned against the counter, watching you work with that same unreadable expression. You could feel his gaze, like a sniper scope trained on your existence. Finally, he spoke.

“You’re good at this.”

You huffed, wiping your forehead. “Yeah, well, someone has to be.”

Then—

“Why?”

You froze. Not because of the question itself, but because of the fact that he asked.

Mr. Zy never asked things. He observed. Lurked. Occasionally made unsettling eye contact. But outright asking?

That was new.

You exhaled, considering your answer. “Because people are messy,” you finally said, tying off a garbage bag. “And if no one cleans it up, it just stays messy. That’s how you get caught.”

Another pause. Then, slowly, he nodded—like you’d passed some kind of secret test.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Final Thoughts:

Bodies = Gone.

Floor = Clean.

Mr. Zy = Distractingly Hot Even When Covered in Blood. Again.

You didn’t say that last part out loud, obviously. You had some shame.

But still.

You stole a glance at him, rolling your eyes as he lit another cigarette. “Can you at least bandage yourself before you drop dead?”

He looked at you.

And then, in the most stupidly attractive way possible, he just muttered, “Not dead yet.”

Your brain short-circuited.

Great. Fantastic. Amazing. You were never going to survive this job.

 You had done your job. You had done it well. Time to pack up, go home, and maybe pretend that your boss wasn’t stupidly attractive even when covered in the remnants of several unfortunate individuals.

But then, in the middle of your I should leave before my brain betrays me plan, something unexpected happened.

He reached into his pocket.

You tensed immediately. Because, let’s be honest, when a hitman reaches into his pocket, the reasonable response is to assume violence. But no—what he pulled out wasn’t a weapon. Wasn’t a knife. Wasn’t even more bullets.

It was money.

And then—oh God—he pulled out something else.

A sticker book.

You stared. "No way."

Mr. Zy, the most feared hitman in Veygrove, casually thumbed through his sticker book, flipping past pages filled with sparkly unicorns, motivational quotes, and tiny cats wearing sunglasses, before peeling one off with the precision of a man assembling a sniper rifle.

He handed it to you.

You didn’t even look at it yet. You were too busy processing.

“So,” you said slowly, “let me get this straight.” You gestured to the money in one hand. “This is extra?”

A nod.

“For what?”

A pause. Then, gruffly, “You did good.” You blinked. “I always do good.”

Another nod. As if he was acknowledging a fact.

Then, still casual as ever, he pointed at the sticker still sitting in your palm.

“That,” he said, “is also extra.”

Your brain broke.

“You just… carry a sticker book? Everywhere?”

“…Yes.”

The silence stretched.

You squinted. “You’re telling me—”

“Yes.”

“—you’re walking around with a loaded gun, a bloody knife, two extra magazines, and a freaking sticker book?”

“Yes.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Do you have multiple sticker books?”

He exhaled a thin trail of smoke, looking at you like he was considering whether or not to answer.

“…Yes.”

Jesus Christ.

You finally looked down at the sticker. It was a cartoon frog giving a thumbs-up. Below it, in cheerful font, were the words: "Nice job, champ!"

“…I don’t know how to react to this,” you admitted, half-laughing, half-spiraling into an existential crisis.

He didn’t react. Just flicked his lighter shut, stuck the cigarette between his lips, and—God help you—had the audacity to look hot while doing it.

Then, because apparently you weren’t already malfunctioning enough, he added, "I apologize."

Your brain rebooted. "Huh?"

"For being bad at my job."

"Hm."

He gave a lazy shrug. "Made a mess."

"Well....Mess comes with the job description.." [Fuck, I fumbled.]

Another slow drag of his cigarette. He exhaled smoke. "Doesn't mean I like it."

You stared at him. This was… a weird moment. A rare moment. Mr. Zy, the terrifying, unkillable, oddly considerate hitman, was sitting here, looking down at the floor with a slight crease between his brows—like he actually cared that he’d made things difficult for you.

And if that wasn’t strange enough, he wasn’t done talking.

“By the way,” he muttered, flicking ash to the side, “don’t shut up.”

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes—so deep, so unreadable, so ridiculously distracting—meeting yours with actual intention. “I like listening.”

…

What.

WHAT.

Most hitmen—hell, most people—probably wanted their employees to shut up. To be quiet, efficient, and obedient. But noooooo, apparently this one had decided he liked your constant yapping.

You squinted at him. “Are you feeling okay?”

A slight eyebrow twitch. “Yes.” “You sure? No brain damage?” A slow inhale. Slow exhale. “Yes.”

You crossed your arms, lips twitching. “So… just to confirm. You, a very scary hitman, are telling me, your very unscary cleaner, to continue talking?”

A long pause. Then, very simply, “Yes.”

Your entire existence felt thrown off balance. Because, sure, you were used to dealing with his general weirdness—his silent lurking, his casual rage murder, his questionable fashion choices (seriously, why the pink apron?)—but this? This was new.

And frankly, it was dangerous.

Because it meant he was paying attention.

And if he was paying attention, that meant he was listening to everything you said.

Which meant that one day, inevitably, your simping was going to slip out.

You needed to leave. Immediately.

“Okay, well!” You clapped your hands, stuffing the extra cash into your pocket. “That’s great, boss. Love that for me. And for you. And for our very strange professional dynamic. But if I stay here any longer, I might say something really stupid, so I’m gonna—”

“Say it.”

"No."

His gaze narrowed slightly, as if considering pushing the matter, but then he just shrugged. "Next time."

Your soul left your body. NEXT TIME?

You needed out. Right now.

Grabbing your supplies, your stupid sticker reward, and what was left of your self-control, you bolted.

And as you did, you could feel his gaze still on you, as calm and unreadable as ever.

God help you.

[domxmarvel]

Black tie

Masterlist

Pairing:Agent 47 x Female!Reader

Prompt:J Jealousy

“You got it?”

“Yes,we've gone over the plan like five times. Let's go” you made sure your weapons were in place and that you had your tools with you. You could tell he didn't want you on this mission for whatever reason,but you were assigned the mission anyway.  The mission involved getting into some secret party that was a cover for a group to sell information about undercover agents. The mission consisted of two parts:take out the leaders of the auction and erase the data. You walked in your arms around his,the party was full of people. He pulled you closer to him. 

“We should finish this up,quickly” his grip on you suddenly got tighter around your arm 

"What?" you whispered. 

“Be quick”

“I'll meet you at the bar when I'm done” your portion of the mission went by quickly,you erased the information and made your way to the bar. The second you sat down a drink was placed in front of you. “I didn't order this” the bartender gestured to a man on your right. He stood up and walked over to you,but suddenly stopped and turned to walk away. Reaching out for the glass you noticed a ring on your finger that you were sure you weren't wearing earlier,but you knew exactly who could put it there without you noticing. A few minutes later 47 had sat down next to you. “Now I understand why you didn't want me on this mission,you're so jealous”

“I am not jealous,I just couldn't have you be distracted”

“So I guess you wouldn't mind if I took it off now that we're done” he immediately stopped you,his hand covering yours. “You are so jealous. Fine I'll keep wearing it” he put his arm around you. “Should we leave?” you asked.

“Not just yet,we still have time” He gestured to the bartender,who poured another two drinks. 47 pushed the previous drink away from you. 

“So much for not being distracted” You rolled your eyes. 

“Technically we're not distracted since you're done” You rolled your eyes once again.

“Well since we're done” You picked up your drink “We still have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves before reporting back” 

“What are you suggesting?” 

“I think you know exactly what,come on let's dance” 

[the-fo0l]

Heya! How's your day going? Good I hope! ^^

Anygay (🏳️‍🌈), I was wondering if I could request a kidnapped reader. Like somehow someone was stupid yet also smart enough to break in and just yoinked reader up? How long would it take 47 to know and how long until he retrieves reader? Would he be merciless or would he spare a few people? Like there are bound to be a few people who don't know what's going on. Would he spare them or are they...expendable?

(Also sorry for the reader being able to turn into a cat request idk wtf I was thinking. Seriously I can't apologize enough. Dude my 11-year-old self fucking possessed me and forced me to write that one I sweeeeaaarrr- 😭😭😭😭 [again really sorry it won't happen again unless this request is also too out of the box then pls feel free to ignore it. 🫠] anygay Imma go die in a hole sorry for bothering you again-)

47 rescuing his darling hcs

Notes: whaatt nooo please don't apologize, i just had absolutely no inspiration/motivation/life, I feel so bad😭 hope you like these headcanons, had a lot of fun writing them

Warnings: violence, 47 goes crazy, also he's really emotional which may feel out of character but it's how I see him being

47s heart began to pound frantically when he received news of your abduction. The thought of one of his old enemies daring to use you against him sent waves of unbridled fury through his veins.

He goes about retrieving you with a steely resolve, his mind already calculating every move necessary to bring you back to safety.

He allows the heat of his anger to fuel him, driving him forward with a single-minded purpose- saving you.

He digs into every availableresource, gathering information on your whereabouts and meticulously scrutinizing every detail of your kidnappers operation.

They will pay for what they had done, every last one of them.

His normally calm demeanor begins to crack. Anxiety gnawing at his heart, the mere thought of you being hurt tearing him up inside.

Yet, with a calm determination, he quickly packs his gear and leaves; he will get you back, that is now priority number one, above all else.

Everyone he perceives to get in his way is considered expandable

And whoever is responsible for taking you better hope that every single hair on your head is unharmed, cause that's the only chance they have of a somewhat quick death

47s instincts run wild as he fights his way to you. His entire life has been about killing, it's what he was made for after all. But for the first time, it's not just about finishing a job, it's personal.

Honestly, they never stood a chance, and were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer ferocity of 47s onslaught.

47 moved with deadly precision, his eyes fixated on his goal. You had been taken from him, and he would stop at nothing to get you back.

One by one, he'll take out those who stood in his way. His movements fluid and efficient, without any hesitation.

He moved quickly down a dimly lit corridor, his senses on high alert. He could feel your captors presence, the subtle rustling of fabric, and the faint sound of faint breathing.

As he approached the door, he paused for a moment, steeling himself for the fight ahead. This was where you were being held.

Your kidnappers were fools to think they were ready for him, for 47 has never been more ruthless or determined.

After the last one of them dropped, a shaky breath caught 47s attention. He looked back and found you huddled into the corner of the room, your eyes wide as you gazed at the corpses around you, and 47, standing there with obsession in his eyes.

47 felt a pang of regret and sadness seeing you so shaken. He rushed over to you, pulling you into his arms, softly whispering reassurances to you until you calmed down.

You were safe in his arms once again, only now could he himself begin to relax. You were safe, that was all that mattered.

Looking down at you, he knew that he would do anything to keep you safe, to protect you from all harm. Nothing would ever take you away from him ever again, nothing.

Btw, you're not gonna be left alone for a while, and Diana isn't getting him to go to work either, 47's taking his first vacation.

[tedious-gaymers]

Minecraft ( Lucas Grey X Male Reader)

This man deserves so much more than what IO interactive did to his character >:((

IF YOU DO NOT RESPECT MY "DNI" I WILL PERSONALLY MESSAGE YOU MYSELF AND (politely) TELL YOU TO RESPECT PEOPLE'S DNI.

Lucas Grey X Agent 47 shippers/proshippers/TERFS DNI

TW: death mention/canon typical violence mention

DO NOT USE MY WRITING FOR AI TRAINING

   "Darling, what are you playing?" Lucas asked as he sat next to you. He seemed tired. You could tell, from the look in his eyes. You leaned into him as you played. Lucas smiled as you did, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. 

   "It's just Minecraft, everything is all.. Blocky. It's fun though." You responded. You felt your heart flutter when he kissed you. "Wanna play with? I can show you how to play." You looked up at him. Lucas sighed, giving it some thought. He didn't have much to do other than sit and watch, taking a quick break from taking down providence, and the death involved. "Alright.. Where's the other remote?" You smiled brightly, and reached to grab the other remote. 

                                     ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

"Oh! I Found some coal!" Lucas spoke, happily mining away at the ore. "Oh sweet! Careful though, it's recommend that you mine on a different block next to the one you're mining, that way in case there's lava underneath you won't fall in and die." Lucas froze for a moment, clearly perplexed by your advice. "This is for children..?" You snickered. "Oh man, wait until we meet The Warden." Lucas sighed, playfully rolling his eyes at you. As he moved his character towards the coal, before a loud explosion disrupted Lucas' mining. 

lucasgrey was blown up by a creeper

You held back your laughter as Lucas sat frozen, puzzled. "What the hell was that??" he asked, re-spawning his character into the world. "Creeper. They've uh.. Got explosive personalities." You said. Lucas sighed, giving you his disappointed dad look. "What??" You stared back. "You're lucky I love you, (y/n)." He chuckled. He leaned over to press a quick kiss to your cheek. 

[littlenightma]

Agent 47 - Obsession

• An assignment leads 47 to a smoky bar on the outskirts of Argentina. The agency caught wind of a corrupted senator taking advantage of desperate women needing a way out from whatever miserable situation they were trapped in.

• Up to this point, the man had gotten away with four murders with the help of his buddy cops he paid to turn a blind eye. It added additional advantage that the women he picked off were practically nobodies - no families, no friends, no jobs - no one to miss them.

• With the diligent assistance of Diana, they figured out the Senator’s next target was a woman out of his usual circle of prey. While she did not have any family and kept to her self, she did have a job that would surely miss her if she did not show up for her shifts.

• The Senator was getting cocky. He was relying too heavily on the cops he believed would be able to cover up his tracks no matter how many he left or how messy they ended up being.

• Arriving at the bar, he slotted himself in one of the back booths. The Senator was in the middle of a conversation with his target.

• She did not appear interested in whatever bribe the senator was offering. Smart girl. 47 could see the rage building with every polite but curt decline the woman made and knew that she was unknowingly placing herself in a very deadly situation the more she did.

• The air left his lungs when the Senator slipped a pill between her fingers into her drink when she glanced away briefly. The Senator was slick, no doubt, and swift to engage her when she turned back allowing the pill to fizz away without detection.

• 47 quickly but methodically planned his next move. Following a lone waiter to the back of the room, he covered his mouth, and shoved him in the nearest bathroom. He slammed his head into the stall, knocking him out cold but alive.

• He replaced his clothes with the unconscious waiter’s. Loose, but manageable. He locked the door from the inside and slid the door sign to say ‘occupied’.

• He approached the Senator and the woman, bowing respectfully.

• “Pardon the interruption. There is a gentlemen outside requesting your presence.”

• The Senator was quick to be suspicious, “Who exactly is asking for me?”

• “An officer is wanting to speak to you but wishes to not make a scene. I did not ask why as it is not my place.” He made sure to keep his eye averted towards the ground in order to maintain his inconspicuous presence.

• The Senator smiled grimly and turned towards the woman, “I will be right back, don’t go anywhere.”

• 47 followed him towards the entrance. Before the Senator opened the doors, 47 dragged him backwards, pulling him into the side door leading to a vacant alleyway.

• 47 snapped his neck and tossed the body into the nearest trash can. He went back inside to inspect the woman.

• She looked uncomfortable and on edge, lazily swirling her finger around her drink.

Don’t interact more than necessary, 47. It leads to trouble.

• He couldn’t leave her with the spiked beverage.

• “I am afraid your friend will be unavailable for the rest of the night. Is there anything I can get for you?”

• No, I don’t need anything. Thank you, though.” She smiled warmly.

• “I insist, let me retrieve you a fresh drink, on the house.” He was off with the glass before she could protest.

• He unlocked the bathroom door and swapped back clothes. He checked the unconscious waiter’s pulse. Steady but slow. He would wake up eventually.

• This time he left the door unlocked to avoid more suspicion.

• He stopped a passing waiter and slid him the glass and a crisp bill. “The lady sitting at the bar is requesting another drink, she found a hair.”

• “Right away, Sir.”

• 47 exited the building without any witnesses.

One Week Later

• Unwavering icy blue eyes stared beneath the dim lighting of the lamp. He couldn’t tear his eyes off the black dress draping across her figure. He did not understand why she would come back so soon. He’d much rather she tarried at home, safe, and away from the predatory intents of dangerous men.

• She walked past his table hidden in the corner of the night club. As she did, she sensed a formidable presence from the darkened area causing her to pause.

• 47’s stomach knotted distressfully. Had he leaned too close to the light?

• She frowned and pulled her coat tighter around herself.

• 47 was too aware he was treading lines by coming back. He risked placing attention to himself and the agency which was very unprofessional of him. He knew better and yet he couldn’t tear himself away from the woman.

• He found himself following her days after the Senator’s body was discovered. He was curious about her, about her life. She rarely went out and when she did it was to the same bar.

• He stood up and met her as she rounded the corner near his booth. She briefly collided with his chest.

• Startled, she took a step back, eyeing 47 with blatant weariness. “I didn’t see you there, I apologize.”

• “There’s no need to apologize.”

• Her ears perked at the voice. It was vaguely familiar.

• The older man radiated intimidation. His well-pressed suit was out of place in this dingy place. And who wore gloves like that?

• His eyes chilled her to the core.

Dangerous men.

• “If you’ll excuse me I have get home. My husband is waiting for me.”

• It was a lie, albeit a convincing one, and had he not read her file he might have believed her.

• 47 stepped to the side preventing her from going around him. Fear swelled inside her.

• “Please don’t hurt me.”

She’s afraid. Make your move, 47

• He stepped closer and she recoiled. He gripped her coat, avoiding skin, and pulled her to him, her nose touching his crisp white shirt that was softer than it looked.

• “What do you want?” Her voice was light and non-accusing. The man might be unstable.

• His eyes never left hers when he contemplated the question that had been bothering him for weeks.

• His right hand reached up and cupped her jaw, keeping her in place. He pushed slightly as if searching for the answer to her question. What exactly did he want? Why did he continue to track her even after completing his mission?

• She stayed frozen in place as he inspected her face. His fingers briefly hovered over her lips. His eyebrows rose as if realization dawned on him.

• “You.”

• A week later, Missing Person signs were posted with her face around the city requesting more information regarding her sudden disappearance. No leads were ever found.

[clemeientene]

𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 [Yan!Hitman x Gn!Reader] [PROLOGUE]

DISCLAIMERS, WARNINGS & AUTHOR’S VERY PROFESSIONAL NOTES

this story contains:

Murder. (Casual.)

Blood. (A lot of it.)

A hitman with anger issues. (But he smells good, so it’s fine.)

A cleaner MC who is definitely not normal.

(Because why are you so good at this?)

Ridiculous yandere behavior. (Please do not attempt this at home.)

Slice-of-life. (But crime-flavored.)

--Disclaimer--Disclaimer--Disclaimer--

This is a fictional work. Not real. Ridiculous. Stupid. And most importantly—for entertainment purposes only. I, the author, do not condone murder, crime, or falling in love with emotionally unavailable hitmen. (But if he smells good, I understand.) Also, I do not support yandere behavior. But Mr. Zy isn’t real, so we can enjoy this in peace. The images are not mine :D They are ither edited or they came from Pinterest.

- Regarding the Highly Suspicious Cleaning Accuracy-

Do I know how to clean up crime scenes? Heh. A secret. (Just kidding. I googled it. Also, don’t believe everything I say—this is not an expository essay, it’s fictional chaos.)

-Timeline? What’s That?-

This is slice-of-life. No exact timeline. Time flows as it pleases. Logic? We don’t know her. Now, buckle up, grab your pink apron, and enjoy the ride.

PROLOGUE...

You had dreams once.

Not, like, big dreams—nothing too delusional, nothing that involved saving the world or becoming some great person. No, your dreams were reasonable. Manageable. Simple.

Maybe get a nice job. Something where you wouldn’t have to deal with too many people (because, let’s be honest, most people are gross). Maybe a stable paycheck. An apartment that doesn’t come with complimentary cockroaches. A life that isn’t actively falling apart.

…And yet, here you are.

Veygrove City—Home of Crime, Blood, and Probably a Future Headline With Your Name in It.

Look, Veygrove isn’t exactly known for its safety. It’s the kind of place where the crime rate is so high, the police just stopped pretending they cared. Where the rich live in luxury, the poor get stepped on, and the middle class? Doesn’t exist. Nope. This is not Gotham.

This city eats people alive. And if you’re not careful, you become part of the pavement.

Which is why you tried to play it safe.

Which is why you, a completely normal and responsible 24-year-old, took an internship at a totally legit (read: highly questionable) office.

And now?

Now you’re watching your boss bleed out on his own desk.

One Hour Ago: Another Day, Another Scam

Your current job? A glorified call center scam.

Officially, the company was called "Greenleaf Financial Solutions." In reality, you were working for a bunch of sweaty, coffee-addicted conmen scamming people out of their money. You were supposed to be learning “business strategies.” Instead, you spent most of your time not touching anything (because, ew, these desks were disgusting) and trying to ignore your coworker, Greg, who smelled like expired deli meat.

But, hey. It paid the bills. Barely.

At least the job didn’t require much. You were a cleaner here, which meant two things:

You cleaned up paperwork—aka shredded anything incriminating when the wrong kind of people came knocking.

You cleaned up actual messes—which mostly meant spilled coffee, but given the shady nature of this place, you figured it was only a matter of time before you had to mop up something worse.

(You were right. You just didn’t think it would be this soon.)

Present Time: Boss Down, Hot Guy Up

It happened so fast, you almost didn’t process it.

One second, your boss—a greasy, rat-looking man named Dominic—was screaming at some very tall, very brooding man in a dark suit. The next?

Bang.

Blood. Everywhere.

Your boss slumped forward, a bullet between his eyes, and the man holding the gun didn’t even blink. Just casually adjusted his grip, exhaled smoke from his cigarette, and—without a single ounce of urgency—tucked his gun away like this was Monday.

…Okay. So. That happened.

You should probably react. Scream, cry, run, something.

Instead, all your brain managed was:

Wow. He’s hot.

Which—not the appropriate response. But in your defense, the man was ridiculously attractive in a tall, dark, and dangerously competent kind of way. Late 30s? Early 40s? Sharp suit, broad shoulders, goatee, and an expression so unreadable it could probably scare the IRS. The whole gritty hitman aesthetic was working way too well.

(Your poor, thirsty little brain was thriving in the worst moment possible.)

He turned to you.

Paused.

Narrowed his eyes, cigarette burning lazily between his fingers.

You swallowed.

So. Uh. What’s the move here? Panic? Faint? Run?

Apparently, none of the above. Because, instead, this absolute hell of a man reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek black business card, and slid it across the desk—right through the blood.

"Want a job?"

You stared at him. Then at the card. Then back at him.

The blood on the card was fresh—approximately 4 minutes old (judging by viscosity and color).

And, God help you, all you could think was: Wow, he smells expensive.

You picked up the card.

You flipped the card between your fingers, the blood smearing just a little. The edges were crisp, the lettering elegant—nothing cheap, nothing rushed. Classy.

Zy (No last name. Just Zy. Mysterious.)

Underneath, a phone number. No title, no company name, no unnecessary details.

Simple. Efficient. Very much "call this number and you're in a crime syndicate now."

You looked up. He was still watching you, deep blue eyes unreadable, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

His hair—just slightly gray at the temples—was neatly combed back, and that mustache? Oh. Oh, it was working for him. Distinguished. Refined. Daddy-coded.

(I should not be finding this man attractive.)

But, hey. You were jobless now. So.

You: "What kind of job?"

Zy’s lips quirked—barely noticeable, but it was there. Amusement? Interest? Hard to tell. His voice, when he spoke, was deep. Steady. A low timbre that made you want to lean in, just a little.

Zy: "Cleaning."

A pause. You narrowed your eyes.

You: "Cleaning… what, exactly?"

He exhaled, the scent of expensive tobacco curling between you. Then, as if he wasn’t offering something completely insane, he gestured loosely toward your ex-boss’s corpse.

Zy: "This."

Ah.

Ah.

You tapped the card against your palm.

You: "…So. Just to clarify. You’re offering me a job to clean up… murder?"

Zy: "Crime scenes, evidence disposal, asset management." He paused, then added, "And occasionally, laundry."

…Okay, what?

Your brain did a small, polite error 404 before catching up.

You: "Laundry."

Zy: "Dry cleaners can be unreliable."

You blinked.

This man—this deadly, extremely well-dressed, unreasonably attractive hitman—was out here committing murder and complaining about bad customer service?

Honestly? Fair. Dry cleaners were a scam.

Still, you kept your expression neutral.

You: "And what’s the pay?"

Another hum. Zy took another slow drag of his cigarette, then—carefully—leaned forward just enough that you could smell the faint cologne beneath the smoke. Musky. The kind of scent that stayed with you.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he could already predict your answer.

Zy: "More than this place paid you."

…Alright. You weren’t dumb.

One job had you making minimum wage while surrounded by fraud and Greg’s questionable hygiene.

The other? Significantly less legal, but significantly more lucrative.

And—objectively speaking—you were good at cleaning. Great, even. You could erase bloodstains, scrub out evidence, dismantle crime scenes with the efficiency of a damn forensics team.

And if you happened to have a dangerously attractive, mustached employer with deep blue eyes? Well.

That was just a bonus.

You slipped the card into your pocket.

You: "When do I start?"

The slowest smirk. Zy stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and—without another word—walked past you, already expecting you to follow.

So.

That’s how you got hired by the most dangerous man in Veygrove.

Neat.