This boy is so silly. He's autistic. He can do a shoryuken into a kick above his head. His favourite drink is milk. He probably has hearing damage. He has trauma from two days old. He said "nuh-uh" to his predestined death. He sleeps on a sofa in his garage fully clothed. He broke out of jail twice. He's completely broke. He can rollerskate. He's God's favourite chew toy.
Jack Atlas, sitting across the dinner table from his brother, in their childhood home, right next to the woman who raised them both: How dare you call us friends.
Synopsis: You’re a maid in a noble’s estate. Overworked, underpaid, and constantly blamed for problems you didn’t cause.
Luckily, the head butler always steps in. Cold, efficient, and unreadable.
He never gets involved unless absolutely necessary. Except when it comes to you.
You don't know why he keeps showing up right when you need him. You don't know why he stands a little too close when other staff get near you. You don't know why he's always watching.
And you definitely don’t know he’s only pretending to be a butler.
He's an assassin. And you're the only reason he hasn't completed his mission yet.
My Little Maid
You're having a terrible day.
The head housekeeper blamed you for a broken vase you didn't break. The cook yelled at you for burning the toast you weren't even in charge of. And the other maids have been whispering about you all morning—something about your hemline being too short, your hair being too neat, your face being too present.
It was like your whole existence irritated them for no reason at all. Just to torment you for fun.
You hate this house.
But you need this job. And you cannot be picky when the pay is good.
So, you keep your head down and your mouth shut and your hands busy.
"You look like you're about to cry."
You flinch.
The head butler is standing behind you. Silent as always. You didn't even hear him approach.
"I'm not going to cry," you say, scrubbing the same spot on the table for the fifth time.
"Your eyes are red."
"It's allergies."
"It's February."
"Winter allergies."
He doesn't respond. Just stands there, watching you fumble with the rag.
You've gotten used to this—the watching—He does it a lot.
At first you thought he was judging you. Then you thought he was suspicious of you. Now you're not sure what to think.
He’s never unkind to you.
He’s never anything to you. Not anything you can properly define, at least.
Except being there.
Always there, for some reason.
"If anyone is giving you trouble," he says finally, "you can tell me."
You frowned, recalling earlier events. "The housekeeper already yelled at me today."
"I know. I was there."
His words made you frown more, what the hell was he asking for then?
"You just stood there." Bitterness seeped into your tone.
"I was observing."
"Observing what?"
He pondered your question for a moment. "The best time to intervene."
You stared up from your rag to look at him. His face still had that blank and professional expression on it. But his eyes are… softer than usual. Was he pitying you?
"You're weird," you concluded, frowning at him.
"That’s irrelevant. Again, if anyone bothers you don’t hesitate to tell me." Then he walked away.
You watched him go for a good minute, observing how quiet his footsteps were against the expensive wood. What an oddball, you turn your attention back to the cleaning rag with a soft huff.
___________
If anyone asked you or any of the other staff about the head butler, you’d all answer in the same way:
He’s professional, quiet, distance from others, and very poised.
And while that’s all true, no one ever knew the real story behind this ‘head butler.’ Who is actually an assassin waiting for the right moment to eliminate his target—the noble who owns this estate.
He's been in this house for six months. Six, when he usually only took two if not three months to get the job finished.
And all of that waiting stems because of one clumsy girl he couldn’t get out his sight, you.
You were one ordinary maid, who for some reason was shunned out by the other staff members in this house. Overworked, soft and very clumsy.
Emphasis on clumsy because that’s he almost took your life one day, four months ago.
You almost walked into his blade back then. Just wandered into the wrong corridor at the wrong time. He had to physically move you out of the way himself, which was out of the ordinary because he’d usually just get rid of any witnesses.
Unbeknownst to the dark thoughts running in his mind— how he was actually debating just getting rid of you for good or letting you be—You'd only smiled at him, and apologized with a soft voice. "sorry, I'm always getting lost".
He'd stared at you for a full three seconds before remembering to speak.
And just like that, his kill for the night was delayed with him guiding you to the correct hallway. And even when you were out of sight, he still couldn’t move himself from his spot to eliminate his target.
It’s fine, there’s still plenty of time to get rid of him, he tried to reason with himself. Putting the blade away completely.
And what was supposed to be just one day of delay became two, then three, and now four months.
Yet he’s still here.
Because every time he prepares to finish the job, something interrupts him.
The other maids cornering you in the halls.
The housekeeper blaming you for mistakes that weren’t yours.
The gardener smiling too long at your face.
Something always comes up.
And then he finds himself delaying things again.
Just a few more days, he tells himself.
Just until things settle down.
But they never do.
You’re too soft for a house like this. Too easy to take advantage of. Trouble clings to you like thread to fabric, and he’s grown used to cutting it away before it reaches you.
So he stays.
Watching, waiting. Removing problems before you even realize they exist. Making sure no one hurts what's his.
All while telling himself it’s temporary.
Even though, deep down, he already knows he has no intention of leaving you behind.
__________
You don't notice the gardener at first. (Unlike someone else who quickly did.)
He's new at the mansion. Friendly, always offering to help you carry things.
"Here, let me get that for you."
"I can carry my own laundry."
"It's heavy."
"I've been carrying it for three years. I think I can handle it."
He laughs. And takes the basket from you anyway.
You roll your eyes but let him. It was like a breath of fresh air to have someone greet your face without disdain for once, although it was still somewhat suspicious how friendly he’s been to you so far.
Across the garden, the head butler stops walking. Noticing you along with another figure… The gardener, who was walking too close to you for comfort. Smiling too wide and toothy, he fears your naive self would fall for if he doesn’t intervene quickly.
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
That's new, he thinks.
That's a problem.
_________
The gardener starts showing up everywhere.
In the kitchen when you're cleaning up. In the hallway when you're mopping. In the garden when you're hanging laundry.
Always offering to help, and finding excuses to be near you.
"Hey, I was wondering…" He scratches the back of his neck. "After work sometime. Do you want to maybe… get a drink? With me?"
You blink in surprise. "A drink?"
"Yeah. Nothing fancy. Just… together. You and me." He looks to the side with a blush creeping up to his ears.
You open your mouth to answer.
“The evening curfew still applies to the staff.”
Both of you turn at the voice.
The head butler stands at the end of the garden path, hands folded neatly behind his back. Expression calm as ever.
But his eyes are fixed solely on the gardener.
The gardener straightens immediately. “C-curfew?”
You furrow your brows. “Since when do we have a curfew?”
“Since recently.” The butler replies smoothly, already walking closer. His shoes click softly against the stone path.
“That’s ridiculous,” you scoff. “Nobody told us that.”
“They’re being informed now.”
The gardener laughs nervously. “I mean… it’s just one drink, sir.”
The butler stops beside you, standing by very closely.
“You seem unusually distracted lately,” he says mildly.
The gardener’s smile falters. “Excuse me?”
“Your work quality has declined.” His tone stays perfectly polite. “You’ve abandoned your station three times this week. Damaged two rose bushes, and misplaced equipment yesterday afternoon.”
The gardener goes pale.
You glance between them in confusion. How the hell does he know all that?
“And now,” the butler continues, gaze lowering slightly, “you appear more interested in following one of the maids around the estate than performing your assigned duties.”
“It’s not like that—”
“The estate does not pay you to loiter.”
The gardener stiffens under the calm reprimand.
You finally step in. “Okay, that’s enough. He was only asking me for a drink, not committing treason.”
The butler turns toward you immediately. Finally meeting your eyes with a slight frown painting his features, something dark flickering in his eyes for a moment.
“A drink,” he repeats quietly.
“Yes?” you deadpan.
His gaze lingers on your face. Then lowers, down to the gardener still holding your laundry basket.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“You seem very comfortable with her,” he says softly.
The gardener visibly wilts beneath the attention.
“I-I was only trying to be friendly.”
“Friendly, huh.” His voice takes on a mocking tone.
You suddenly understand why the younger staff members are terrified of him.
Because he never raises his voice.
That somehow makes it worse, like the calm before the storm.
The gardener hurriedly shoves the basket back into your arms. “Sorry. Sorry, sir.” Then he practically flees the garden.
Silence settles afterward.
You stare at the butler with wide eyes. “That was unnecessarily intense.”
“He was neglecting his work.”
“He asked me out, he didn’t start a rebellion.”
The butler’s eyes move back to you again.
“And were you going to accept?” He inquires, trying to sound casual. But it still reveals much more than that.
Your grip tightens slightly on the basket. “That’s none of your business.”
There was a long silent pause, before he calmly says:
“It is when someone starts taking liberties with what belongs to this household.” The last word was said very clearly, yet his eyes somehow hinted at something different completely.
Your brows knit together immediately. “You make me sound like furniture.”
“No.” His response comes too fast.
His eyes flick toward the direction the gardener disappeared in, expression hardening faintly before returning to you.
“You’re considerably more troublesome than furniture.”
Only now do you notice the jealousy brewing behind that sharp gaze. And how quickly dark it could get.
___________
The gardener disappears three days later.
No one knows where he went. One morning he just… wasn't there. His quarters were empty with his belongings gone.
Everyone said something different about him:
The head housekeeper said he'd resigned.
The cook said he'd been transferred.
The stable boy said he'd heard screaming in the night but thought it was a fox.
You don't know what to think.
You just know that when you mentioned it to the head butler, he looked at you with those unreadable eyes and said “He was unsuitable for this house."
You furrow your brows in confusion. "What does that mean?"
"It means he's gone."
"But where?"
Somewhere behind him, the fireplace crackles.
"Does it matter? Somewhere he can't bother you anymore."
That there… That look has your blood go cold.
"I don't— I wasn't bothered,"
"You were uncomfortable." He cuts you off.
"I wasn't." You repeat sternly.
"I saw your face when he asked you out. You didn't want to go."
"That doesn't mean I wanted him to disappear."
The butler tilts his head. "What did you want, then?"
You open your mouth. But eventually close it.
You don't have an answer.
He takes a step closer. Just one step, but it's enough to make your heart stutter.
"I told you before," he says quietly. "If anyone is giving you trouble, you can tell me."
"I didn't ask you to do anything." You retreat backwards.
"I know."
"So why—"
"I saw a problem. I removed it."
"That's not—you can't just remove people.”
"I can." His voice drops into lower. "I can do a lot of things you don't know about."
You stare at him, pupils shaking slightly.
He stares back, eyes making you spiral with how empty they seemed for a moment.
Your eyes trail down, away from the abyss in his eyes, and that’s when you notice something you've never seen before.
He's not wearing his usual gloves. Which allows you to see a scar on his hand. A long, old scar covering most of his palm.
The kind of scar you get from a knife.
"What happened to your hand?" you whisper.
He looks down, flexing his fingers for a moment pondering something. Then looks back at you.
"A job," he says. "A long time ago."
"What kind of job?" You probe.
"The kind you don't ask about."
He pulls his gloves from his pocket. Slides them back on in front of you slowly. Deliberately.
He looks down onto the wooden floor for a long moment. There’s sudden determination burning in his eyes before he directed them back onto you.
"Stay away from the east wing tonight," he says.
"Why?"
"There will be… noise."
"What kind of noise?"
He doesn't answer.
Just turns and walks away, leaving you behind with a thousand questions left to sort out.
_________
You spend the night in your room.
Under the covers with your hands covering your ears.
Because from the east wing, somewhere deep in the noble's private chambers, there are sounds you can't explain.
A door opening.
A struggle.
A single, choked scream.
Then silence.
You don't sleep, even when the only sound left is from the hooting owl at your window.
In the morning, the noble is dead. Heart attack, they say. Talking about how it was very sudden and tragic.
And the staff is given the week off.
You pack your things, ready to head back to your hometown after a long time.
The head butler finds you in the hallway with a small luggage of belongings in hand.
"Leaving?"
"The house is in mourning. We're all leaving." You vaguely turn your head to the other staff members already heading out.
"Not all of us."
You look at him, standing in the shadows. Watching silently.
"What are you going to do now?" you ask.
He pauses to contemplate an answer. "I've been thinking about that."
"And?"
"I've been thinking…" He steps closer. "About taking something with me."
"Something?"
"Someone."
You stop breathing.
He's close now. So close you can smell something metallic on him. Something that isn't cologne.
"You knew," you whisper, connecting unhelpful dots in your mind. "You knew what was going to happen last night."
"I did."
"The noble—"
"He was my target from the beginning."
And that’s when everything starts to make sense to you. He was never a butler.
He was an assassin.
You should run, get away from him.
You should scream and alert the house.
You should do anything except stand here frozen while an assassin looks at you like you're the only thing in the world worth sparing.
"Why are you telling me this?"
He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His gloved fingers are warm.
"Because I'm not going to kill you."
"That's… that's good?" Your heart is still beating loudly in your chest, but it’s a little more bearable now.
"It would be easier if I did." He looked down to the ground, eyes somber.
"What?"
He sighs. Like he's explaining something simple to a child.
"I've been in this house for six months. My mission should have taken no more than a few weeks. But I kept finding reasons to stay.”
He looks up at you. “Reasons with your face. Your voice. Your stupid tendency to walk into dangerous corridors at the wrong time."
"You spared my life…" You realize.
"I saved your life fourteen times." He tilts his head. "I counted."
He didn’t just spare you, he went out of his way to protect you, is what you get from him. But the reason is still left unsaid: "Why?"
His gaze on you softens, too gentle for what he says next.
"Because you're mine," he answers simply. "Whether you know it yet or not."
The fireplace crackles, just like last night allowing goosebumps to take over skin.
Somewhere outside, a carriage door slams.
The head butler—the assassin, the man who just killed someone in the night—smiles.
It's the first time you've ever seen him smile.
It's terrifying.
"Pack your things," he gently orders. "We're leaving together."
"I never agreed to that." You hold your luggage closer to yourself like a shield.
"You will."
"And if I don't?"
He steps back first this time. Picks up his bag, and walks toward the door.
He pauses in front of the doorway, turning his head slightly to address you.
"Then I'll wait," he says. "I'm very patient." Especially after holding back for three months already, the last part is left unsaid.
And just like that, he leaves.
You stand in the empty hallway, heart pounding.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice whispers:
He's not going to stop.
He's never going to stop.
And you’re going to surrender yourself to him sooner or later.
Assassins, after all, were known for always finishing what they started.
no because nobody understands how hard it was to find x reader fics of anyone in the gaang or atla fandom in general before this movie came out. now there’s new fics coming out daily. I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS‼️
being a gokuraku stan is kinda funny like yeah this fictional man is my new blorbo his name is prince paradise mirror and he's vaguely chinese but like fantasy china and also he's a cyborg with bright blue and orange hair and he modified his body all by himself as a kid literally inserting nails and wires into his flesh and his nation worships a sleeping tapir but he wants to punch it in the face because it's putting copium in the people's water supply and his best friend is a bloodthirsty magical boy who grew up in the woods for the majority of his life and
