sniper mask x masked male reader
tw: gore, mentions of child abuse, mentions of suicide
//This is my first fic and it sucks really bad you guys//
After waking up in an unfamiliar world, (y/n) has been tasked with killing humans and defective angels...
a/n: heyyy uneventful chapter but still read? pls? also a rougher chapter, so please point out mistakes 🙇♂️
tw: gore, mentions of child abuse, degrading language, blood.
bold: writing
'single quotation': thoughts
"underlined quotation": telepathy
slanted/italics: memories.
underlined: underlined sentences are basically commands and thoughts of those who's thoughts are still completely controlled by the mask.
single quotation dialogue is basically belongs to a person who isn't a mask or has gained a bit of freedom from the command and can retain their own thoughts..
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~" 𝘴𝘺𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘺 "~
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previously
"what the hell was that..." He mumbled under his breath, now taking note of the small folded paper in his hand and the knowing giggle of Kuon as she peeked around the corner.
'Sorry for almost decapitating you. See you around.'
'What the hell was that?!' He placed a hand over his mask and tried to wrap his head around the bitter vanishing of butterflies in his stomach.
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Butcher mask struck the woman hard with his cleaver. It was easier than before, now that he reflected, to kill another being as long as they wore the same mask as he did. It didn't scare him anymore like it did when he first accessed the chip, so he brushed it off quickly. When he turned around, he watched the human he had just recused scurry away like he was the plague. His confident stance tottered, something that wasn't noticeable on the (h/c) hair colored man's permanently defensive stance, another change he noticed in himself the more he spent in this twisted reality. Butcher mask sighed sadly at the disappearance of the human.
'Scared him off. Seems I overdid it.' He examined his bloodied clothes. He tried to wipe his cleavers on his apron, but it didn't make much of a difference, smearing the blood even more. He clicked his tongue, then inhaled sharply when he heard a familiar voice snicker.
'You think? The doc's not gonna be happy about the sweater.' He looked down at the red, used-to-be white sweater he had borrowed from the Doctor that morning, accidentally smudging the crimson deeper into the fabric when he tried to swipe it off.
