He feels the eyes on him and he smirks, rolling his eyes a little as he taps another cigarette from his pack, tapping the butt on the pack itself to pack it a little tighter before he lights up. He lets his own eyes wander, brow raised, bored expression firmly in place. It’s times like these that he wishes he could read minds, just to get a little glimpse at what the other is thinking. If he’s thinking about killing or screwing— because, really, it’s always one or the other when it comes to Clint— he just can’t keep out of trouble and he can never keep his mouth shut from provoking people.
"Well, we’re not naked, and I just did talk to you like that, so.. get over it, pal,” he says, chuckling a little when that gun is cocked. He rolls his eyes and walks closer, leaning down a bit so they’re face to face. “Don’t walk around half-cocked, especially if you don’t know who you’re dealing with,” it’s sort of an empty threat, because the only thing Clint really has is an arrow full of acid and a creepy black sedan waiting for him. “Look, my ride is probably here, so either shoot me, or stop with the flirting because it isn’t working..”
He smirks a little. “Or you can ask me to get a drink with you like a man instead of cowering behind a gun. It’s your choice. I can always call my boss to send in an extraction team for this sucker,” he motions to their target. “While you and I get plastered. Are you better at flirting when you’re drunk? Because you seem really terrible at it while sober..”
Whit gapes for awhile and wipes his free hand down his face, muttering something about putting a bullet in someone named Sanchez’s leg next time he saw him just for the trouble of sending him out on this job before he finally resets the safety on his gun and puts in back behind him. “They don’t pay me to know who I’m dealing with. They pay me to kill people without asking questions.” He huffs. He knows he could be going about asking the other on a date a little nicer but he’s tired and he’s irritated and Sanchez is a pain in the ass and…
He sighs heavily and rubs the back of his neck which has colored with embarrassment. “I’m sorry" He breathes out and though it’s huffed, it’s clear he’s genuine. Killers don’t drop apologies so easily and if the man before him is a killer as well, he’d know that. "It’s been a rough day, I could be better at flirting but you took my milestone kill and that was just the icing on the shit cake that has been my day." He brings almost bashful eyes to the other man’s hypnotizing blue ones. "No gun now," He says waving his hands as if Clint didn’t already clearly see him sheath his gun. "Would you get a drink with me?"
xregicide started following you
The young assassin knew where he’d be, thanks to the files he’d been given on him. He’d killed his client out of mere respect for this other assassin. He dropped a file on his table, folding his sunglasses as he took them off. ”Something I’m sure you’re well used to - these people want you dead. Thought you’d want their information.”
Whit isn’t exactly unaccustomed to people wanting him dead. His choice in occupation has about everything to do with that. It’s either the relative or lover of someone he’s killed or another contract killer interested in knocking the competition out of the way. Whit is surprised that this man has brought him a file back. He narrows his eyes a bit in confusion. “Thank you.” He says. “Might I ask why you’ve helped me?”
Regicide: (n) The act of Killing a King
Independent, Fandomless OC blog for a Character from a book I am writing with the working title of “Relentless Regicide.”
"…Watch your fucking tone."
Whit constantly swears he’s never going to take requests from women again but this was Antonia Stark. If she had someone she wanted dead, she had to have a rather pretty penny in order to assure the job was done right. “I was just saying, I don’t understand why you can’t kill your own enemies like a big girl. I mean, don’t you have a whole floor in your mansions of just those fancy suits?”
Clint casts a bored look over the man he’d just dropped, slipping a neatly rolled cigarette from his pack, flicking his lighter to life as he stares. He’s supposed to be waiting— in an alleyway— for that ever-ominous black sedan that SHIELD likes to use to pull up so he can leave.
But he had a feeling..
The archer rolls his eyes towards the voice, eyes narrowing as he slips the knife from his boot, not hesitating to show that no, not a good idea to sneak up on the assassin. His lips twitch into an obnoxious smirk when he hears paycheckand oh— he’s only done that to one other person— Bucky— but it was all fun and games (mostly). His eyes narrow and his head tilts to the side, still crouched over his target, unmoving.
“No,” he says firmly, blinking slow. “It wasn’t.” It’s all he gives because this was a test run, all for a neat little trick the Russian’s had, which Natasha and Bucky spent hours teaching him to execute perfectly. He has to say he did a pretty good job.
This guy— some corrupt mayor of a shitty little Spanish town— had just been the unlucky guy to pop up next on their data base. Steal from SHIELD— whether they were officially running or not— and the result is— ninety-nine percent of the time— death.
"Self-employed," he answers after snuffing out his cigarette next to their targets head. He stands slowly and cracks his neck, followed by his knuckles, before he adjusts the bow case on his back. "Sorry that I’m faster than you." He offers in a mock-sympathetic tone before he slowly backs away, hands out in an open little shrug, expression a little less than bored.
Whit cocks his head to the side, letting his eyes wander unashamedly over the blonde’s body. He was tone, muscular, a bit taller and broader than himself. Whit’s sizing him up as he can’t decide with lip like that whether he wants to shoot the other or screw all that attitude out of him. When the other starts to back away though, Whit’s hand does go to his gun because, damn it, it’s been a long night and this was supposed to be his fucking milestone and some little blonde asshole, just thinks he can walk in here, kill his target and make jest at his abilities? No, not tonight. If he’s not getting his two hundredth kill, then he’s getting his two thousandth lay, or whatever he’s up to now, that’s a number he doesn’t actually have any interest in keeping track of.
“Hey! I don’t let anyone talk to me like that unless we’re naked.” He snaps, cocking the gun threateningly though he doesn’t really intend to use it but none of that would be written on his face. “Now I can either shoot you in the leg and leave you here with the body for authorities to eventually find or you can come get a drink with me and I might become a little more pliable to your insults. My treat, blondie, I don’t see how the second option is really you losing out at all so if you want my opinion, you should just take me up on the offer because your femoral artery is having a staring contest with my pistol right now and I’m in a bad mood.”
"You the one looking for Whit?" He asks the stranger, clearly annoyed because clients are never meant to come to the club where he masquerades as a half decent member of society. Must have been Sanchez who told him, Whit really needs to put a bullet in Sanchez.
Whit’s pissed because this was going to be his two hundredth kill. It’s not that he’s ever ran into this problem before. Occasionally the people he’s paid to kill have more than one enemy or the employer for some reason, though Whit’s killing record is spotless, they think Whit just took the first half of the money and wasn’t going to actually go through with the kill. Whit usually just brushes it off but damn it tonight was a milestone.
“Oye!" He huffs at the blonde asshole smoking a cigarette over what was meant to be his kill. “Who sent you because you’re sitting over my paycheck, buddy.” He considers pulling his gun if only because he’s that angry but Whit has rules about not killing people he’s not being paid to. “Was it Sanchez?” He’s hoping not. If not, they can just both go back to their employers, say the deed was done and get paid for it.