Yandere! Hitman
Word Count: 1,023 words
The lock clicks behind you. You don’t turn around—you never do. Your movements remain a practiced study in apathy as you set the loaded pistol down on the polished mahogany desk, its weight echoing. Silent. Final. Somewhere in the shadows of the room, he’s watching. You know he is.
He always is.
Your presence has always been a storm that rolls through rooms like gunmetal thunder. The kind that makes people flinch. The kind that makes lesser men beg for mercy, for reprieve, for anything. But not him. Never him.
His breath is silent behind you, perfectly measured like the still air before a gunshot, and then his voice follows—low and hoarse, filled with gravel and restraint.
“You took longer than usual today.”
It scrapes through the dark like a blade pulled slowly across stone. You don’t acknowledge him with words. You never do. You’re already unfastening your leather gloves, peeling them from your fingers as though he isn’t even there. As though his presence doesn’t constrict the very oxygen in the room.
But then he moves.
The floorboards whisper beneath his boots, and before you can blink, he’s behind you. Close. Too close. You don’t feel him yet—his warmth, his shadow—but you can hear it: the flex of leather across his massive hands, the tick-tick of his watch—a mechanical beast counting down to something inescapable.
“You’ve been careless, любимая.”
The Russian falls soft from his lips. He always chooses that when he wants to corrode you from the inside out.
Finally, you still.
When you speak, it’s detached, absent of life, the cold authority of someone born for power. Born to reign over others. “You’re following me again.”
A quiet laugh. A cruel, knowing sound. He doesn’t deny it.
“And yet you let me.”
Your jaw tightens.
He takes that as permission to step closer—so close now that you can feel him. The heat of him radiating against your back like something alive, a feral thing in need of restraint. And restraint is all he’s built on, isn’t it? His posture is perfect, calculated; his mind a cold, mechanical hive of thoughts you’ll never unpick.
But his hands?
His hands tremble at his sides.
“I counted the bodies you left behind tonight. Twelve. Sloppy work.” His words hum with tension, but there’s something in them that cracks, like old glass under pressure. “You’re unraveling. They don’t deserve your mercy.”
Your gaze sharpens at the accusation, but you don’t turn. Instead, you let your silence sting the way it always does—worse than knives, worse than a gunshot to the gut.
But this man doesn’t bleed the way others do.
“You think I don’t know you?” he continues, softer this time. His voice dips low, as if he’s speaking to a secret he owns. “I know what you are. What you’re becoming.”
There’s a sound of leather shifting, and then the weight of his gloved hand falls to your shoulder. Heavy. Dominant. A shackle. You tense beneath it, but it doesn’t matter; your body’s betrayal is written into the static tension of your muscles, the sharp catch of your breath—barely there but noted.
He notes everything.
“You think you’re untouchable.” His thumb presses into the tendons at your neck, slow, searching for the pulse he knows exists. He feels it there—thready but steady, alive despite yourself. It’s almost reverent when he murmurs, “I could break you apart with one hand.”
You don’t flinch.
You turn your head just slightly, finally meeting his stare. His face is obscured in shadow, save for the cut of his jaw—rough, stubbled—and the glint of his eyes. So dark. Void-black and unrelenting, like the hollow barrel of a silenced gun. They study you like a surgeon does a cadaver, stripping you down layer by layer until nothing remains. Until he’s memorized the way your veins coil beneath your skin, where your weaknesses live, where you’d break first if he let himself—
No, when he makes himself.
“I could kill you right now.” Your words come out softly, a dull blade testing the waters.
The pressure on your neck tightens. You hear the sharp creak of leather straining against his grip.
“You could try.”
And there it is: the quiet promise. The pull of power that simmers between you—raw, electric, fatal. It’s his comfort, this closeness. His desire that rots him from within. He could end you here, now, with nothing but his hands and a little force, but he doesn’t. He wouldn’t.
Because the pain he wants is deeper.
He shifts, leaning down just enough that you feel his breath at your ear—hot and seething like the whisper of a wildfire.
“If you don’t stop running from me,” he growls, “I’ll put a bullet through every last man who looks at you. I’ll drag their corpses to your feet and make you watch what I do to them.”
There’s nothing false in his voice. Nothing hyperbolic. This is the kind of man who’s kept his promises before, isn’t he? Who’s cleaned his blades in the blood of others without losing a moment of sleep.
Your hands curl against the desk, nails scraping faint crescents into the wood. You’re not scared—not really. Fear is for those with something to lose. But there’s something else festering here. Something colder.
“Do you hear me?” he presses. His other hand moves now, finally snaking around your waist. Heavy. Unrelenting. “I will take you. Keep you. Chain you down until your spirit shatters and there’s nothing left but me.”
He pulls you back against him—hard enough to feel the solid wall of muscle beneath his suit. He’s as large as he is precise, the body of someone sculpted for death and nothing more. The scent of gunpowder and sweat seeps into your senses, staining you, suffocating you.
“You’ll be mine. All of you.”
There’s no question. Only inevitability.
When you finally speak, it’s quiet—barely above a whisper, your voice hollow with detachment: “You’ll regret it.”
He chuckles against your ear, low and dark.
“Maybe.”
And then he pulls you into the abyss.
любимая – darling
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 