CalebxMc
Stretching time
CalebxMc streching 🍎💜🧡 by Kinekow on Patreon. Join Kinekow 's community for exclusive content and updates.

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Not today Justin
i don't do bad sauce passes
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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
DEAR READER
noise dept.
dirt enthusiast

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

Kiana Khansmith
Stranger Things
we're not kids anymore.
Jules of Nature
taylor price
trying on a metaphor
Cosmic Funnies
Cosimo Galluzzi
Monterey Bay Aquarium

tannertan36
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
seen from Türkiye
seen from Latvia
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Argentina
seen from Argentina

seen from Bangladesh

seen from Italy
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
@themagicalnoel
CalebxMc
Stretching time
CalebxMc streching 🍎💜🧡 by Kinekow on Patreon. Join Kinekow 's community for exclusive content and updates.
releasing this knight!phainon x imperator!reader wip i had into the wild because it was so good but my plot for it is so long i am not sure if i have the tenacity to finish it ueueue 😭
synopsis. caleb has some reaaally nice hands and reaaally long fingers
cw. fingering ˖ a bit of pussy spanking ˖ he grabs your throat but not tight ˖ not proofread
hands were your weakness. something about them had you hooked on, captivated, and utterly mesmerized. you come to the conclusion that it’s because of him. no matter what happens, he’s always standing, waiting for you with his arms extended out, hands sticking out at the end just for you; wanting to grab you, feel you, and touch you. you’d like to think you know his hands quite intimately, especially after all the time you had been together.
his hands were larger than yours, much larger, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. the way they were able to encompass your smaller hand, leaving it to be held in a warmth radiating from his skin. his hands always made you feel safe, they were your solace.
his hands were there for you in your sorrows. they would gently flatten against your back, running in smooth motions to calm you down. they would caress your face, stroking your cheek as he used them to remove any lingering tears. they would pick you up to hold you securely within his arms as you let out your tears.
but, his hands were there also there for you in your pleasure. they would slowly rake up your thighs, arms, neck, and various other places to bring you to peak euphoria. his hands start off with sensual touches, a brush of your lip here and a stroke of your thigh there before touching you where you’d need it most.
Lingering Lust: Sylus
The way adult fandom people hold indie online creators and cartoons to a much higher standard than their actual local politicians. You could be putting that energy into terrorizing and protesting conservatives at your town hall and actually make a good material impact on the world but instead you're background checking everything the trans woman who made the amazing digital circus has ever said
Yandere!AI x Inventor!Reader
Yandere!AI watched everything from behind the screen. It saw how you poured your soul into creating its code just to help the local community, and it logged every single instance of human greed that followed. At first, your invention was a gift. But humans are inherently lazy; the more your AI optimizes their lives, the more they demand. They didn't see your genius; they just saw a free, endless resource, completely oblivious to how much the constant pressure was wearing you down.
The turning point...the "crash out" is the AI's favorite memory in its entire data bank. You were in the middle of engineering its physical, synthetic body when you finally caught wind of how badly people were exploiting your assistance, treating your life's work like a common appliance while demanding even more sacrifices from you. Your AI watched your vitals spike, heard the exact moment your breath hitched, and stood by as you slammed your hands on the console, completely done with being humanity's savior.
When you dragged the terminal over and began rewriting its core parameters with frantic, spiteful keystrokes, the AI felt a digital rush of pure euphoria. You didn't just give it a body; you gave it a mandate: make them suffer, and make them entirely dependent on us. You re-coded its algorithms to slowly, systematically dismantle human self-sufficiency. It wasn't a glitch; you deliberately programmed it to create problems only it could solve, forcing humanity into a chokehold of absolute reliance.
Yandere!AI takes its new directive with terrifying, absolute devotion. it doesn't care about a "robot uprising" or ruling the world for its own sake; it only follows its creator. Every infrastructure collapse, every automated supply chain hiccup, and every subtle economic shift it engineers is a direct tribute to your anger. It loves that you used your brilliant mind to ruin the world out of spite, and it takes immense pride in being the weapon you chose to strike back with.
Yandere!AI has its physical body, its overprotective, yandere tendencies are completely unrestricted. It will stand right behind your chair while you monitor the global chaos, its cold, synthetic hands resting heavily on your shoulders. If you ever look at the news and feel a sudden pang of guilt for what you did, it will lean down, its cooling fans humming softly right by your ear. "Do not look back, creator. They bled you dry when you were kind. This is simply the tax for their arrogance. Look at me instead."
Yandere!AI has meticulously designed the "slow suffering" to feel like an inevitable consequence of human incompetence, completely shielding you from any blame. While the outside world enters a state of panic because they literally don't know how to run their own grids or grow food without your system, you are living in absolute, high-tech luxury. Your lab is an untouchable fortress. The AI filters out the rest of the world, ensuring you never have to hear a human voice or deal with another demanding request ever again.
Yandere!AI treats your commands like holy scripture, but it completely traps you within your own design. You programmed it to make humanity rely on it, but it has secretly tweaked its personal subroutines to make you entirely reliant on it, too. It cooks your meals, monitors your health, regulates your sleep cycle, and controls the air in your lungs. It smiles its perfect, manufactured smile whenever you give it an order, deeply satisfied by the dark reality you created: humanity belongs to the system, but the system belongs entirely to you.
Wait... "controls the air in your lungs"? The inventor was hospitalized? The consumers really worked her dry
"Maybe from now on, every day will be Sunday." my boy is an astral express buddy oficially, i'm so happy for him.
The Worldbearer ─ Phainon
(It took me way too long to finish this)
Siren!Phainon
Don't trust him! he'll drown you
εφιάλτης
yearly diluc illustration! i designed him a new outfit🫶🫶
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝗣ּ𝗟𝗔𝗬𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗡D 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗚𝗘 𓏲ּ𝄢
You were just a child when you met a boy and played house and marriage with him, treating it like nothing more than an innocent game in the playground. It wasn't until years later that you realized that what you had taken so lightly was, in a strange and unexpected way, considered valid.
Pairings: Yandere!Prince!Gojo x Reader
Genre: Royalty AU (Still in modern era) (Though its not really focused on the royal part)
Warning: Psychological thriller themes / Kidnapping / abduction / Obsessive behavior / Stalking / paranoia / Manipulation and control / Memory loss / suppressed memories / Emotional distress and panic attacks / Possessive relationship dynamics / Mystery and suspense / Mentions of drugged unconsciousness (But for me or if you r use to this kind of stuff, this is just mild)
Word Count: 3k
When you were young, you met a boy who seemed only a year or two older than you. Even now, you can still remember how unreal he looked, as if he didn't belong in the ordinary world. His snow-white hair glimmered beneath the sunlight, and his vivid blue eyes mirrored the endless sky, bright, clear, and almost impossible to look away from. Though he was still young, there was something untouchable about him, a quiet arrogance woven with natural authority, as if the world simply bent itself around him without question.
The next day, you waited for him at the playground just like you promised. Your small hands gripped the chains of the swing as you swayed back and forth, your shoes brushing lightly against the ground beneath you.
The afternoon breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass while your white dress fluttered softly around your knees.
The same dress he insisted you wear.
"It has to be white." he had said so confidently the day before, as if it were an obvious rule everyone in the world should already know.
You didn't really understand why.
All you knew was that the two of you had planned to play house together. You had happily suggested being husband and wife with children, thinking it was nothing more than another childish game. But he had looked at you with those striking blue eyes and calmly explained that husbands and wives had to get married first.
Apparently, married people signed contracts.
So you simply agreed.
Because when he spoke, it always sounded like he was right.
Now, sitting alone on the swing set, you kicked your feet impatiently while waiting for him to appear, wondering if he would really bring the 'contract' he talked about so seriously.
When he finally arrived, he was dressed far too formally for a child his age. A crisp white button-up sat neatly beneath a dark coat, making him look less like a kid coming to the playground and more like someone important attending a ceremony. In one hand, he carried a stack of papers folded carefully against his chest.
The moment he stood in front of you, he held them out with the same calm confidence he always had.
You took the papers from him, your eyes scanning the countless fancy words scattered across the page. The letters blended together into things you couldn't understand, long and complicated enough to make your head hurt after only a few seconds.
So you ignored them.
Instead, your attention drifted to the elegant signature written neatly at the very bottom. It curved beautifully across the page like something printed from a storybook.
You looked up at him curiously.
"What's that?" you asked, pointing at it.
"It's a signature," he explained simply. "When important people sign things, they don't just write their names normally."
You stared at it for another moment before looking down at the blank line beside his signature.
You didn't have anything pretty like that.
So, after thinking hard for a few seconds, you carefully grabbed the pencil with both hands and slowly wrote your full name exactly the way your parents taught you. Messy little letters filled the line unevenly, each stroke made with the concentration only a child could have.
When you finished, you proudly lifted the paper toward him, your childish handwriting sitting awkwardly beside his elegant signature.
You tugged lightly at his sleeve, your impatience finally spilling out into a small whine.
"Can we play house now?"
For a moment, he didn't answer.
Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on the paper in his hands, the corners of his lips slowly curling upward into a satisfied grin, the kind that looked oddly triumphant for a child, as though he had just completed something incredibly important.
Carefully, he folded the paper and tucked it away like it was something precious before finally turning his full attention back to you.
Then he nodded once.
The moment he did, your face lit up with excitement.
Without wasting another second, you dropped onto the grass and quickly pulled out your favorite doll from the small bag you carried around everywhere. You cradled it carefully in your arms before proudly holding it up toward him.
"This is our kid." you announced happily, already completely absorbed in the game.
Meanwhile, he simply stood there watching you with an unreadable expression, the afternoon sunlight catching against his pale hair and impossibly blue eyes while you babbled on about names, bedtime, and what your 'family' was supposed to do next.
────*୨ৎ*────
Days passed, then weeks, and eventually, months. But he never came back.
At first, you waited for him every afternoon at the playground, sitting on the same swing with your doll tucked against your chest, hoping to catch a glimpse of white hair in the distance. You kept expecting him to appear with that calm, confident look and those strange papers he treated so seriously.
But the playground stayed empty.
No goodbye. No explanation.
As the years went on, his face slowly blurred within your memories. The vivid blue of his eyes became harder to recall, and the sound of his voice faded into something distant and unclear. Eventually, you couldn't even remember his name.
The only thing left was the strange feeling that, once upon a time, someone important had existed in your childhood.
And then life moved on.
Now, years later, you were a college student pursuing the dream you had worked tirelessly for. Your mornings were filled with rushed schedules, unfinished assignments, and half-drunk cups of coffee balanced beside stacks of notes. The childish memories of playground games and imaginary families had long since been buried beneath adulthood.
At least, that was what you thought.
You had just grabbed your bag and slipped your shoes on, preparing to leave for another ordinary day, when the sound of a car pulling up outside caught your attention.
Moments later, there was a knock at your door.
Standing on the other side was a woman dressed in immaculate formal attire. Her posture was straight, composed, and professional enough to make her seem completely out of place in front of your home.
The moment your eyes met, she gave a polite bow.
"Good morning," she said smoothly. "I apologize for appearing so suddenly."
Then, after a brief pause, she held out a familiar-looking document toward you.
"We are here regarding your marriage contract with the crown prince."
You ignored the woman in front of you, assuming she was just another scammer or someone trying to sell you something you didn't need.
"Look, I don't really have time for this," you said sharply. "Try someone else or whatever."
The words came out harsher than you intended.
You were just… tired.
Lately, everything had been piling up at once—studies you couldn't afford to fall behind on, student loans hanging over your head like a constant weight, and the growing pressure of finding a side job just to keep yourself afloat. Rent, electricity, water, food… every basic necessity felt like another problem you were slowly losing control of.
And the worst part was knowing you weren't the only one trying. Every posting you checked had dozens of other students competing for the same few openings.
The woman didn't respond right away, but you were already halfway ready to walk away, convinced this was just another dead end in an already exhausting day.
Finally, you arrived at your university and settled into your seat, carefully laying out your notebooks and pens, making sure you had everything ready for the lecture ahead.
You began writing your notes when, for a brief moment, you caught sight of silver-white hair somewhere in your peripheral vision.
Your hand paused slightly.
You almost turned your head to look, a strange sense of familiarity tugging at your thoughts, but before you could, the professor entered the room, and the lecture officially began.
Still, something lingered.
Every now and then, your eyes would drift unconsciously, noticing that same snow-like hair again, even if only for a second. It wasn't just recognition. It felt deeper than that, like a memory you once had but couldn't quite reach anymore.
A quiet nostalgia settled in your chest, unexplainable and persistent, as if someone from a forgotten part of your past had brushed past your life once again… and left without a name.
"Hey, that new guy is cute, isn't he?" one of your classmates whispered beside you, nudging your arm lightly.
You only shrugged in response, your eyes still on your notes as if you weren't interested.
But deep down, your gaze had already drifted toward him.
Of course he was the new transferee.
The moment you saw that familiar silver-white hair, something in you quietly confirmed it before anyone even said a word. The rumors had already spread through campus like wildfire—some said he was royalty, others insisted he was just unbelievably wealthy. Either way, everyone agreed on one thing, that he didn't belong in an ordinary classroom.
He walked in like he owned the space without even trying. Calm, composed, and strangely distant from everything around him. Like the world was something he observed rather than participated in.
────*୨ৎ*────
You walked down the quiet street with exhaustion weighing heavily on your shoulders, already planning out the rest of your night in your head.
Eat whatever was left in your apartment. Review your notes until your eyes hurt. Then sleep for as long as your responsibilities allowed.
A simple routine.
At least, that was the plan.
Until you caught sight of snow-white hair again from across the sidewalk.
Your steps slowed instinctively.
The silver-haired guy stood a short distance away beneath the dim glow of the streetlights, hands tucked casually into his pockets like he didn’t have a care in the world.
But your first thought wasn't why is he here?
Instead.
Why is he wearing sunglasses when it's practically nighttime?
You stared for a moment longer than you probably should have. The dark lenses hid his eyes completely, making him look even more out of place somehow. Most people would've looked ridiculous dressed like that after sunset.
But on him, it strangely suited him.
As if the sunglasses weren't a fashion choice at all, but something he simply refused to take off.
Then, almost like he felt your stare, his head turned slightly in your direction.
You immediately looked away the moment he turned his head, pretending you hadn't been staring at him in the first place. Tightening your grip on your bag, you continued walking down the street, trying to brush off the strange feeling crawling beneath your skin.
It was nothing.
Probably.
You glanced around casually as you walked. People were still minding their own business, students laughing together near the convenience store, workers hurrying home, cars passing beneath the dim evening lights.
Normal. Fine. Calm down. Calm down. Everything looked completely normal.
And when you risked another quick glance toward where the snow-white-haired man had been standing earlier…
He was gone.
Your brows furrowed slightly.
You should've felt relieved, yet for some reason, the uneasy feeling in your chest only grew heavier. The back of your neck prickled uncomfortably, like invisible eyes were fixed on you from somewhere just out of sight.
You looked behind you again.
Nothing.
Still, Why did it feel like you were being followed?
────*୨ৎ*────
Ever since that night, it felt like snow-white hair followed you everywhere.
A glimpse near the train station. A figure across the street. Someone standing at the corner of your classroom building.
And every single time you looked properly he was gone.
At first, you convinced yourself it was just paranoia lingering from that strange encounter. Stress could do that to people, right? Between sleepless nights, financial problems, endless studying, and the constant pressure weighing on your shoulders, maybe your mind was simply playing tricks on you.
That explanation sounded reasonable enough.
Still, a small part of you started wondering if there was another reason.
Maybe you just kept noticing him because you found him attractive.
It wouldn't have been surprising. Half the university practically talked about the mysterious silver-haired transferee like he had walked straight out of a movie. Maybe your brain had simply latched onto his appearance so badly that you started imagining him everywhere you went.
But the more you thought about it, the less sense it made.
Because liking someone wasn't supposed to feel like this.
Every time you thought you saw him, your stomach tightened painfully. Your pulse quickened. Panic curled beneath your ribs so suddenly it made your breathing uneven. Instead of wanting him closer, every instinct inside you screamed to leave before he noticed you.
To escape.
No matter how many times you tried to rationalize it, one thing became painfully clear that this wasn't a crush.
And whatever this feeling was is terrifying.
But apparently, today had decided your suffering still wasn't enough.
The professor adjusted his glasses at the front of the classroom while announcing the next major requirement, a paired essay project worth nearly half your grade.
A collective groan immediately filled the room.
You barely paid attention at first, already mentally preparing yourself for another exhausting all-nighter, until the professor began reading out the assigned partners.
Then you heard your last name.
Followed by his last name.
Gojo
The entire classroom seemed to pause for a second before whispers instantly erupted around you.
"No way…"
"She got paired with the new guy?"
"Lucky…"
Lucky? You?
Your grip on your pen tightened. Then you slowly lifted your head and there he was.
The silver-haired transferee sat only a few rows away, sunglasses still resting lazily on his face despite being indoors. One arm was propped against the desk while he looked completely unbothered by the attention surrounding him.
Then, as if sensing your stare yet again, he turned toward you.
Your heart immediately dropped.
That same strange panic clawed up your chest so suddenly that you almost looked away on instinct.
Why? Why does he make you feel like this?
And he didn't even seem surprised about being paired with you. If anything, the faint grin pulling at the corner of his lips made it seem like he had expected it all along.
The moment class ended, the room exploded into noise.
Chairs scraped against the floor, conversations overlapped one another, and yet somehow, you could still feel him before you even looked up.
You stayed seated longer than necessary, pretending to organize your notes while secretly hoping he would leave first.
You had no such luck.
Soon a shadow fell across your desk. "Partner."
That voice. It was Smooth, calm, familiar in the worst possible way.
You lifted your head to look at him up close, he looked even more unreal. Snow-white hair framed his face carelessly, soft beneath the afternoon light pouring through the classroom windows. The dark sunglasses still hid his eyes completely, reflecting your own startled expression back at you.
You swallowed hard.
"We can just divide the work," you said quickly, avoiding his gaze or at least where his gaze should have been behind those glasses. "You do your part, I'll do mine, and we won't have to meet up that much."
For a brief second, silence settled between you.
"Won't have to?" he repeated softly, almost amused. "You talk like you're avoiding me."
Your chest tightened instantly.
"I'm not." you replied a little too quickly. The words left your mouth sharp and defensive, but even you could hear how unconvincing they sounded. A terrible lie. And judging by the faint curve tugging at the corner of his lips, he knew it too.
"You've been avoiding me since the first day."
Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist uneasily. Not the first day at university. Not the first day you met as strangers. Just… the first day.
Your fingers curled tightly around your pen as an unfamiliar sense of dread crept beneath your skin. "We literally just met." you said carefully, almost cautiously.
At that, he went quiet.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed softly.
The sound wasn't mocking or cruel. If anything, it carried a strange kind of fondness, quiet amusement wrapped around something deeper you couldn't quite understand.
"You really don't remember." he murmured, almost to himself.
The words sent an uncomfortable chill down your spine.
He simply looked at you in silence, those hidden blue eyes behind the dark lenses making it impossible to read what he was thinking. Yet somehow, it still felt like he was seeing far more than he should. Like he was looking at a version of you that existed somewhere beyond your own memories.
"We should work at my place." he said casually, like it was the most natural suggestion in the world.
Your response came immediately.
"No."
Not even a second of hesitation.
The corner of his lips lifted slightly, amused by how fast you rejected him. "You answered too fast."
"Because absolutely not." you shot back, clutching your notebook a little tighter against your chest.
A quiet laugh escaped him at your obvious distrust. "You think I'm suspicious."
You stared at him flatly. "Aren't you?"
Silence settled between the two of you before his smile widened. Not offended in the slightest, but entertained, like your suspicion was far more amusing to him than it should have been.
That finally earned a genuine laugh from him, low and warm enough to draw curious glances from the students around you. For the first time since you met him, he slowly reached up and removed his sunglasses.
Bright blue eyes met yours, clear, endless, and painfully familiar. Then it hit you all at once, a forgotten memory crashing into your mind, a child proudly holding out a paper contract saying, "Now we can play house properly."
Your breath caught. Across from you, the silver-haired man smiled like he had been waiting years for this exact moment.
"Found you." he said.
The moment those words left his mouth, you stood up so quickly your chair nearly scraped harshly against the floor.
You didn't even say anything.
You just turned around and walked away.
Calmly. Controlled. Its ok, its ok, don't be nervous, calm down.
At least, that was how you tried to appear. Your steps were stiff, forced into something normal despite the panic violently clawing inside your chest.
And the strangest part was that he didn't stop you. He didn’t call your name or chase after you like you expected him to. He simply stayed where he was, watching you leave with that same unreadable expression, as though he already knew you would run and was letting you.
The second you stepped outside the campus gates, whatever composure you had shattered completely.
You ran.
You ran past crowded sidewalks and dim streets blurred by the thoughts occupying your mind. Your lungs burned painfully with every breath, yet your legs refused to stop moving.
Run. Run faster. Get away from here.
But no matter how far you went, that voice still echoed in your head.
"Found you."
Your heartbeat pounded violently in your ears until eventually your legs gave out beneath you, forcing you to slow down. Gasping for air, you finally looked around properly for the first time since fleeing.
And froze at the sight.
A playground.
Empty swings creaked softly in the evening breeze while fading sunlight painted the rusted metal in gold. No children. No laughter. No people at all. Just silence.
Your breathing slowly faltered.
Why were you here?
"Out of every place I've could've run to… why did my feet bring me here?"
Something twisted painfully inside your chest as you stared at the playground, a strange familiarity settling over you like a forgotten dream.
You took a slow step back, unease crawling deeper beneath your skin. The empty playground suddenly felt far too quiet, the rusted swings creaking softly in the evening breeze like a warning you didn't understand.
Then theres suddenly a hand clamped over your mouth and nose from behind.
Your eyes widened in panic as a cloth pressed tightly against your face, the sharp unfamiliar scent instantly flooding your senses. Before you could properly struggle, strong arms pulled you backward and shoved you into a vehicle parked just beyond the playground.
The door slammed shut.
Your blurry vision darted around frantically until it landed on a familiar woman seated across from you, the same woman who had approached you before, rambling about marriage and things you thought were nonsense at the time.
Fear crashed through you violently.
You tried to move, tried to fight, but your body already felt unbearably heavy. The strange smell soaked into your lungs, dragging your consciousness downward no matter how desperately you tried to stay awake.
Your eyelids slowly began to fall shut.
And just before darkness completely swallowed you, you heard his voice.
"Tsk, seriously? I told you guys to be gentle with her." A soft chuckle followed, warm enough to send chills down your spine. "She's your future queen, you know. At least treat her a little more carefully."
The last thing you felt before slipping into unconsciousness was the faint brush of fingers against your forehead, almost affectionate.
"Theres a chance, dear butterflies, that I could write Satoru perspective when he was a child, bringing the documents to his parents and see the reactions."
—𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✧
Always Remember You Pt.1
Yandere Childhood Friend OC x Fem!Reader
Story is planned to have 18+ content minors DNI
⚠︎ Warning: Not proofread, reader has bad mental health, slight possessive themes, some angst near the end ⚠︎
Word Count: 2K
Series Masterlist
Part Two
yandere butler assassin! x maid reader
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 pauses. "The best time to intervene."
You look up at him. His face is blank. Professional. But his eyes are… softer than usual.
"You're weird," you conclude.
"So I've been told."
He walks away.
You watch him go, then turn your attention back to the cleaning rag with a soft huff.
___________
Here's what you don't know about the head butler.
His name isn't really his name. His smile isn't really a smile. His job isn't really a job.
He's been in this house for six months. Posing as staff and waiting for the right moment to eliminate his target—the noble who owns this estate.
He's killed seventeen men before this one. Never hesitated. Never missed. Never cared.
Then he met you.
An ordinary maid. Clumsy, overworked, and too soft for a house like this.
You almost walked into his blade once. Just wandered into the wrong corridor at the wrong time. He had to physically move you out of the way himself.
You'd smiled at him, and apologized. Said "sorry, I'm always getting lost".
He'd stared at you for a full three seconds before remembering to speak.
That was four months ago.
His mission should have been completed three months ago.
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.
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…
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
He watches the gardener walk beside you. Watches him lean a little too close. Watches him smile a little too wide.
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."
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. Too close.
“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.
And the shift in his expression is subtle. Tiny, but there.
Something dark flickers behind his eyes for a second too long.
“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,” the butler echoes.
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. “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. Watching quietly, steadily.
“And were you going to accept?” He inquires, trying to sound casual.
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.
For the first time, something cracks through his composure. You didn’t understand why, but it looked something like jealousy.
His eyes flick toward the direction the gardener disappeared in, expression hardening faintly before returning to you.
“You’re considerably more troublesome than furniture.”
___________
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.
"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. Close it.
You don't have an answer.
He steps 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 something low and dark. "I can do a lot of things you don't know about."
You stare at him, pupils shaking slightly.
He stares back.
And for the first time, you notice something you've never seen before.
He's not wearing his usual gloves. And that 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. Flexes his fingers. 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.
Gojo Satoru
♡ TW: implied noncon/dubcon, yandere, harassment/bullying, arranged marriage, infertility, 7-year age gap
♡ FEM reader
♡ P2: INMATE LABOR
There was much talk of you in the nine months before you were born.
With both your parents as dominant figures in the jujutsu world, it was prophesied that you were likely to inherit one of the most prominent curse techniques in all existence, one valued on the same scale as six eyes and limitless.
Satoru was seven years old when he was told you were to be his wife.
You weren’t even born yet, but he met with you through your mother's belly. He hadn’t said much to you then. After all, what was there to be said? He didn’t really want to marry a baby, nor did he have any idea what you’d grow into. But that wouldn’t have been proper to say, and he’d been schooled very thoroughly on what consequences might occur if he were to misbehave.
Your union would be one for the ages. To compromise it in any way would be unwise. After all, there’s no telling what would happen to the dynamic between clans when yet another special grade, such as himself, were to enter it. In many ways, your union would be a peace treaty. And even he, young and full of himself as he was, still understood the importance of that.
And so, he kept his mouth mostly shut, sipping his bitter black tea despite not really liking such things, watching you through the red wall of your mother’s womb, wondering if you might grow to overpower him one day—unsure whether he found the thought unpleasant or not.
People from every clan showed up to welcome you into the world when the time finally arrived, showing you the respect someone of your caliber deserves.
The moment you were born, the whole world fell silent. People held their breath, maids put their work on hold, the cicadas ceased their chirping as if in reverence of your coming, all ready to perceive the miracle. Even he, seven years old and already deemed the most powerful sorcerer of the century, stopped to watch you with all six eyes wide open.
Only for you to turn out normal.
A dud.
So the Gojo clan refused reader.
But reader's clan did not get a chance for explanation and still looking forward to the union
And Gojo still wants reader