a kitchen maid

a sad truth of women in relationships; their silent tears in the bathroom, the lights off during sex, unspoken insecurities and questions; fear of being too loud too hysterical too clingy. try to fix themselves to fix the other person’s problems - if i am prettier, smarter, faster, better - try to erase themselves to avoid conflict. small terrible jealousies he does nothing to dispel - he likes her facebook profile picture even after you tell him she rips you open - small terrible compromises that are really just giving up. women who change the core of themselves, who quietly give up dreams for his successes and for his children, who ask for little more than somebody else doing the dishes and still get moaned at. women who are the backbone of their house and still only seen as a kitchen trophy, a maid, a ball and chain.

concept: young thor and loki playing “get help” for the first time to cause mischief together.

like 6 yr old thor with loki yelling to one of the kitchen maids to get help because loki’s so pale and so ill, and the MOMENT the servant runs off they both grab all the cookies that they can and sprint out.

frigga’s too proud of them to give them an actual telling off, which just makes the problem more and more common

oopsnocturnal  asked:

hi! i'd love to hear what you think would have happened if wyldon hadn't let keladry stay after her first year!! love your writing :^)

“Mindelan, it may be that the best thing said of my tenure is that you were my student. Should that be the case, I am the wrong man for this post. I did all I could to get rid of you. Your probation was wrong. You know that, I know it. I was harder on you than any lad. Thank Mithros I remembered my honor and let you stay when you met the conditions—but it was a near thing. Next time, I might not heed the voice of honor.”

– Wyldon of Cavall (Squire)

Kel sat and thought about it all through the long summer– thought about joining the Riders when she turned sixteen, or going back to the Yamani Isles with her parents, or running away to become an unlawful bandit hunter. 

She drank tea with her mother and accepted her quiet sympathy. She wondered what was going to happen to Peachblossom. She did her morning glaive practice dances in the heady air of the tiny courtyard garden of her parents’ townhouse, where the cook grew herbs and spices in big overflowing boxes.

Summer rolled on. She sat, and she thought, and she did not tell her thoughts to anyone. On the first day of what would have been her second year of page training, she woke before the sun and had a quiet breakfast with her father, and then she jogged up the big dusty hill to the palace grounds.

When the pages trailed out of the building to the practice yards with dubious enthusiasm, she was waiting just outside their ground. Her chin was high, her shoulders loose while her hands gripped her weighted staff.

“Probationer,” Wyldon barked out her, when one of the boys went to fetch him. “Was I unclear in the spring?”

Kel stared him down, fingers white on her staff, and said, “I’m not a probationer anymore.”

“She’s a private citizen, just enjoying the fresh air,” Neal called from the other side of the practice yard fence. He got armor cleaning punishment for a week for his cheek and Kel lifted and lowered and struck with her staff to the call of the masters. Her staff hit thin air. The clack of the pages’ staves colliding hit her ears.

“That’s palace property,” Wyldon said ten minutes in, and plucked the staff out of her grip, so Kel followed the lesson with empty hands and brought her mother’s spare walking stick the next day.

They started calling her trespasser, after that, and Kel stood calm on the public grounds just on the other side of the practice yard fence, practicing her high blocks.

While the pages had riding practice, she sat in the dirt outside the riding yard and did the homework Neal smuggled out for her. He handed the finished assignments in for her, too, even though only Myles and the one Mithran priest who had never learned anyone’s names graded them. She took notes on what riding exercises the masters were assigning the pages and watched Neal where he sat on Peachblossom’s back like a sack of mulish peanuts.

“When I heard you weren’t t’ be coming back,” Stefan the hostler told her. “I wasn’t sure what would happen to the old lad.”

“Me, either,” said Kel, looking down at her math and trying to keep her face smooth and still.

When the pages went in for their seated classes, Stefan let her take out Peachblossom to try to exercises herself. Days the gelding was too tired, he found other mounts for her and Kel learned all their names– gentle Aubrey and fastidious Starfall and distractible, clever Redding and poor anxious Terence, who almost threw her more than once. “He comes by the fidgets honest,” Stefan told her and Kel brought extra apples for Terence when she could.

She still took on Lalasa when Gower found her feeding the sparrows in the courtyard beside her old rooms and asked her. Her parents’ townhouse had the funds to hire another maid, though Kel didn’t need or want a personal servant.

Lalasa pinched Kel’s torn clothes from her room all the same and returned them better hemmed and beautifully mended. Kel barely saw her, though she tried to leave a coin from her allowance on the piles of clothes she thought the young woman was most likely to steal away next.

She didn’t ask for the help and she told herself she didn’t want it, but she jogged up the big dusty hill to the palace grounds every day with her weighted harness weighing on her shoulders.

She stood just outside the low fence of the practice yards and ignored Joren’s comments and Zahir’s sneers and the rebukes of the swordfighting teachers– distraction, they said. Lump, waste, failure.

The sun beat down on her aching shoulders and she thought I could stand here forever, thought you are just noise and wind, I am a mountain. I will be here long after you cease howling.

Neal landed blows on Joren’s fingers, apologizing blandly to the masters for his clumsinesses, because Kel had ordered him to get in no fights for her honor. The sun beat down on the careful stitches of Kel’s cotton shirt, which fit as perfectly as Lalasa could manage from a shy distance.

She told herself she didn’t want the help, didn’t need it. Her harness weighed down her shoulders, her makeshift staff weighed down her arms, but the cotton laid light and kind on her back.

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I almost lost you...

Expect a number of mini ficlets based on kiss prompts from me over the next few days. This first one was requested by a lovely nonnie -  Captain Duckling and “I almost lost you” kiss. (rated T, 1600 words)


The tip of her silver spoon dips in and out of her lamb stew as she tries to conjure an appetite, her mind too full of other things to focus on the meal before her. It’s been much the same each time she’s sat at this table these past few weeks, eating enough to sustain, but too nervous to indulge - even when presented with her favorite meal of warm brie on toast. He left before dawn almost two fortnights ago, taking with him her heart. The truth of this had hit her like a kick to the gut she received once while learning to fight with one of the Royal Guard, feelings she’s been avoiding stealing her breath as his ship grew smaller and smaller on the horizon. A shakily forged alliance between Pirate Captain and Queen Snow had set him on this journey, his task to pretend to be an ally and ascertain The Evil Queen’s plan.

The man she apparently loves is attempting to trick the most dangerous villain in all the realms and she’s just supposed to sit here and eat food and breathe and - oh god - something’s wrong. Her stomach heaves and her spoon chips the china bowl as it falls from her fingers. Sweat immediately begins to tickle at her temples and along the back of her neck as her own light magic pulses to life beneath her fingertips.

“Emma, what is it?” 

Snow is on her feet and kneeling before her in seconds and Emma lets her hand be taken in her mother’s strong ones, knowing her magic will never hurt the ones she loves. 

“I…I…I’m not sure, I just feel, something has happened…” 

A loud crash and muffled voices cut off her ramblings and soon Grumpy is barreling into the dining room, his face a mask of annoyance as he shakes off one of the palace guards. 

It’s here! The Jolly Roger, it’s back!” 

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cinderella of sorts (pt. 1)

synopsis: a servant girl’s change of position has prince wonwoo in a debacle (♥ω♥) modern royalty!au part 2: x part 3: x part 4: x

genre: slight angst, fluff 

word count: 5,033 ♕

“Back straighter!” The woman barked at you from behind. “If I see even the least bit of slouching, I’ll add another hour.”

“Yes, Lady Margaret,” you responded instinctively. There was a dull pain at the bottom of your spine from the endless time you had put in to your new training as a personal servant. Lady Margaret, the harsh noblewoman whose sole job was to break the resolve of rebellious servants, had chosen you to become Prince Wonwoo’s personal hand. In those moments, you even longed to be back slaving away in the kitchens. But those thoughts came in passing as you were afraid to focus on anything but the teetering books atop your head.

“You have one week until Sir Richard officially retires and then you will be Prince Wonwoo’s sole confidant,” she repeated. Poor Sir Richard, you thought. He’s been the prince’s teacher and butler since before I can remember, but now he is too senile to button up a waistcoat. “I expect you to not disappoint me.”

“Of course not, Lady Margaret.” Your legs were going numb for sitting absolutely still in the throne-like chair you had been forced into and the dress’s countless layers itched at your already irritated skin. You didn’t dare ask why you had to go through the same training as a noblewoman, seeing as the most you had ever done was served food to the royals, and your future job only really entailed dressing and following the prince around like a miserable puppy. A part of you appreciated being a kitchen maid, but your pay and status were going to be better, so the suffering almost felt worth it. Hopefully you could finally escape the palace after working there since you were a young teenager– all to pay off your family’s debts.

“A prince’s daily dress is in what order?”

“If it is cold, a cotton undershirt that has the same sleeve length as the overshirt is necessary. The overshirt should always be steamed and pressed as to not have a wrinkle, but not be too crisp that it is uncomfortable or unflattering. The prince is allowed to choose his own cufflinks, but is pleased to be gently advised. The prince’s waistcoat or officer’s coat should always be fastened to conceal his overshirt when he is outside his room or unless he specifically requests otherwise. If the prince is going to an official visit or parade, it is necessary that he be wearing his belt, sash, and epaulettes fastened by matching passants.”

Lady Margaret gave you her regular cold smile, but she seemed rather proud. “And his shoes?”

“The prince is allowed to choose, but he must be reminded of common fashion faux pas.”

“Must I be reminded?” A deep voice said from behind you.

You watched Lady Margaret’s eyes widen and would have spun around immediately if not for the delicate tower you were balancing. She stooped into a deep bow and you quickly swiped the books off of your head and placed them on the long table gently, suddenly keenly aware of the heat crawling up your neck and reaching your face. You stood and faced the image of Prince Wonwoo descending the large staircase, the huge window behind him throwing sunlight across his broad shoulders.

“I dare say all of us need be reminded of certain things each day, Your Highness,” you tried to diffuse the tension with a deep bow that matched your instructor’s. You heard Prince Wonwoo chuckle and a deep sigh of relief from Lady Margaret.

“Right you are,” he nodded. Your breath hitched in your throat when he reached the bottom and took calculated steps towards you while you finally garnered the courage to stand up straight. It was a rare moment of seeing Prince Wonwoo alone before you, without being surrounded by councilmen or tailed by Sir Richard. He was breathtaking, you had to admit, especially up close. Even in simple black slacks and a white dress shirt he seemed to be beaming.

“She is the young woman who is to become your personal assistant, Your Highness,” Lady Margaret interjected. “I was simply quizzing her on your daily dress.”

Wonwoo’s wide eyes traveled back to you. “Does my future personal assistant not have a name?”

You bowed quickly. “I’m Y/N, Your Highness. I am a kitchen maid at the moment.”

“Ah, I knew you looked familiar,” he hummed, one side of his mouth tugging upward. “I’ll leave the both of you alone, then,” he concluded, nodding at each of you before you found yourself once again bowing while he disappeared behind one of the many doors in the dining hall. Lady Margaret let out a huff that made her shoulders fly up before falling again. Your heart finally returned to a steady beat and you made a similar sound of solace.

“Disaster avoided,” she cleared her throat. “Well done, Y/N. I believe we’re finished for today.”


Dinner that evening was uniquely awkward. Kitchen servants generally didn’t interact with the royals outside of meal times, and it was strange pouring wine and holding platters for someone you had spoken to just hours earlier. Wonwoo held an odd smile that was distinctly out of character for him throughout the meal.

“That’s enough,” the king held his hand up to you to stop pouring into his tall glass. “What of you, Wonwoo?”

“I’m quite fine. Y/N already took care of me,” Prince Wonwoo held up his glass as evidence. You stepped back from the table and gulped, instantly feeling the king and queen’s eyes on you.

“Oh, forgive me. Lady Margaret introduced me to Y/N earlier. Father, Mother, she is going to be my new personal assistant,” Prince Wonwoo explained, gesturing in your direction.

“Is that so?” The queen sang, looking you up and down. You felt rather self conscious before the royal family in nothing but your bland servant’s dress and holding a bottle of wine that was certainly more valuable than your life’s savings.

You bowed, clutching the bottle harder than what was necessary. “Yes, Your Majesty. I will do my best.”

“Wonderful,” the king chuckled. “Then you must already be acquainted with Sir Richard.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. He has informed me of everything that will pertain to my duties,” you spoke. They nodded in pleasant agreement and you excused yourself back to the kitchens to fetch dessert plates. When you returned, Wonwoo was standing and pushing his chair in. “Your Highness, are you not going to stay for the cake?”

He shook his head decidedly. “I’m going to see Richard’s car off,” he said, his voice wrapped in sadness though you could tell he had tried to hide it. “Goodbye,” was all he uttered before he paced out of the hall, his coat thrown around his shoulders. His parents watched him go with painful gazes, and all at once you felt their simple family dynamic heavily. You couldn’t help but feel a pang at your heart as you imagined Wonwoo having to let go of the man who practically raised him.

“Y/N, you’ll do well for our boy, won’t you?” The queen mumbled absentmindedly.

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” you answered. You bowed and fled to the kitchens where you let out the breath you had been holding. The other servants were fervently washing dishes but you threw off your apron and gathered your skirt in your hands so you could jog to the main hall. When you finally arrived, you saw Prince Wonwoo coming back through the main palace doors, from the darkness into the light. He was looking at his feet and had his hands stuffed into the stiff pockets of his slacks.

“Your Highness,” you called to him, your feet flying across the plush rug. His head snapped up and shocked eyes met yours, and you gave a short bow to him when you were just a few feet apart. “I came to give my apologies that Sir Richard has to leave. Your Highness must have been very attached to him.”

“Indeed,” he murmured. His fingers were fiddling with the cuff of one of his sleeves as he searched your face. “Why you?”

“Pardon?” You asked, your head tilting slightly.

“Why did Lady Margaret choose you?”

You had given the same question extensive thought and still had no answer. “I’m not sure, Your Highness. I promise I will do my best to provide like Sir Richard.”

He looked down at you– you always forgot just how brooding he was– and nodded. “I would hope so. I’ll be off to bed now.” With that, he walked past you, in the direction of the residential wing. One of the guards at the door gave you a shrug. You shook your head in minor disbelief and slowly walked to the servants’s dormitories.


The Saturday’s blue dawn barely lit up your small room in the servants’s wing; you rolled out of bed reluctantly, but padded around getting ready as you had no intention of being late on your first day. You crept past the other soundly sleeping maids, many of whom were grateful they weren’t on breakfast duty. You threw open your wardrobe after brushing your teeth in the communal bathroom, even pressing on some make-up (Lady Margaret’s voice echoed in your head: you will be in the presence of the prince around the clock, after all). New dresses filled the rack, replacing the old maiden outfits you had worked in for years. Your heart swelled at their beautiful simplicity, but a part of you longed for the practical skirts you were used to. Nevertheless, you pulled one off of its hanger and put it on, your hands running over the soft skirt. It had elbow-length, breathable sleeves and its cream skirt fell just below your knees. The feeling of having your hair down was pleasantly unusual, and you had a bounce in your step as you headed to the kitchens to pick up Prince Wonwoo’s breakfast platter.

You carefully ascended the stairs with the silver tray which was weighed down with toast, fruit, and the type of coffee that Sir Richard had described to you in annoying detail. You knocked on Wonwoo’s door softly, one arm balancing the food, and turned the knob when his crisp morning voice said you could come in. You entered, struck by his messy hair and his normally prestigious frame adorned with black silk pajamas. He was sitting on the side of his bed, his long legs slung over the side, and gave you a weak smile as you set his breakfast on a coffee table just a few feet away. “Good morning, Your Highness,” you chirped, walking over to the window and throwing the drapes open. “I do hope you slept well.”

“I did, thank you,” he yawned, wobbling over to an armchair and sinking into it. You threw open the door to his closet and began picking out each aspect of his outfit precisely before laying each piece over the foot board of his huge bed. Finally, you grabbed the polished wood box filled with cufflinks and presented it to him.

“What would you like today, Your Highness?”

His tired eyes scanned the rows intently while he sipped on his coffee. “You pick.”

You raised your brows, but plucked out a pair of silver cuff links with metal that appeared to be tied in shiny knots. You heard Prince Wonwoo chuckle as you returned the case to the closet. “Is something the matter, Your Highness?”

“Not at all. It’s just that those were Richard’s favorites,” he said, more to himself than to you. You felt your chest deflate and busied yourself with selecting a gray waistcoat. “Y/N, this coffee is good,” he changed the subject.

“I’m glad, Your Highness,” you smiled, finally done with the meticulous process of putting an outfit together. “If you don’t mind, it’s time for you to pick some shoes, Your Highness.”

He got up and was suddenly just inches from your face when he playfully asked, “Are you sure you don’t need to remind me of common fashion faux pas?”

It was rude to break the gaze of a royal, but you instantly turned your head in embarrassment. “I apologize for that incident, Your Highness. It was not our intention to insult you.”

“If you don’t wish to insult me,” he stepped around into your field of vision again. “Then call me Wonwoo.”

You were so shocked that you stuttered for several seconds before you finally insisted, “That’s simply not possible, Your Highness.” You intentionally avoided his warm brown irises.

“Why is that?” He inquired, taking another step toward you. “Richard called me Wonwoo.”

“That– that was a very different circumstance,” you stumbled, hurrying over to his foot board and snatching clothes off their hangers in urgency. You could hear him laughing behind you, but you were so red in the face that you couldn’t bear to turn. He stepped in front of the full-body mirror that hung over his closet door and began unbuttoning his pajama shirt, letting it fall from his shoulders. Your eyes were glued to the floor so you weren’t tempted to stare at his bare torso. You helped him button his white dress shirt and light gray waist coat and turned away while he pulled on gray slacks; he stepped into the shiny black shoes he had finally decided on and tugged on a fitted gray sports jacket.

“Bow tie?” You suggested, holding up a black one, which you tied around Prince Wonwoo’s neck after a swift nod from him. You stepped back and admired your work while he fastened his cufflinks.

“I have a luncheon with the prime minister, so I won’t be seeing you until afternoon tea,” he explained. “While I’m away, I would appreciate you dusting my study.”

“Certainly,” you agreed, beginning to make his bed. He popped another strawberry into his mouth and watched you work. The two of you sat in comfortable silence while you went about the room, familiarizing yourself with the space Sir Richard had told you so much about. You grabbed a kerchief from the dresser and Prince Wonwoo watched in a daze as your delicate hands folded it into a neat square before you bashfully slid it into his front pocket. “Perfect.”

You took the mostly empty platter from the table, including the drained coffee cup, and made your way towards the door. With one leg holding it ajar, you called, “Have a good day, Your Highness.”

A flattered smile spread across his face. “You too, Y/N.”


Prince Wonwoo’s study smelled of old parchment and the wood that sat charred in the fireplace. Thick books of laws, poetry, and stories lined each wall with each tall set of shelves presenting a new part of his collection. A thick layer of dust covered every inch of the room, apart from Prince Wonwoo’s tidy desk. You imagined that the prince had kindly refrained from asking Sir Richard to clean in his deteriorating state; you subconsciously smiled at the sweet thought.

You gripped your feather duster, furniture polish, and rags and got to work. Your eyes scanned all of the interesting series that decorated the shelves. A surprised laugh sprang from you when you came across a stack of records that contained Frank Sinatra and Perry Como. “To think Jeon Wonwoo likes easy listening on records,” you said under your breath, sliding a Perry Como record out of its case and carefully setting it on the nearby antique player. The needle glided across the vinyl and you sang along as you cleaned.

Don’t let the stars get in your eyes
Don’t let the moon break your heart
Love blooms at night
In daylight it dies
Don’t let the stars get in your eyes
Or keep your heart from me
For some day I’ll return
And you know you’re the only one I’ll ever love…  

Hours later, you were finally finished with the meticulous dusting around the spine of each book and you spent the next several hours steaming and pressing Prince Wonwoo’s shirts, another mind-numbing process. You were just hanging the pristine shirts when you looked down at your wristwatch and nearly cursed at the time– three. You hissed to yourself in annoyance and darted out of the room and down the staircase to greet Prince Wonwoo and accompany him to tea with his family and, presumably, some councilmen. He was just coming through the palace doors, waving goodbye to his driver, and you suddenly thought back to the sad farewell of last night but shook it from your mind and smiled at the prince.

“Good afternoon, Y/N,” he greeted you with a bright smile. You grinned back at him and bowed.

“Welcome home, Your Highness,” you said. “You seem to be in a good mood.”

“Policy is going well,” he told you, gesturing that you follow him to the dining room. “Tell me, how miserable were you while dusting today?”

You resisted the urge to laugh. “Not at all. You were very gracious to Sir Richard, Your Highness.”

He busted out with laughter in a way that made your fingertips tingle and cheeks raise up. “Perhaps a little too gracious. Thank you for doing it.”

“There is no need to thank me, Your Highness,” you contended, walking past him so you could hold the door to the dining room open to him. He raised a brow at you and paused his walking.

“There’s always a need.” You could have sworn he winked at you in that moment, but he disappeared past the door frame and you were obligated to follow, regardless of your pounding heart.

“Ah, Father, Mother,” he yelled, much to the surprise of the king and queen. “Good afternoon.”

“Why hello, son,” the king chortled while Prince Wonwoo kissed his mother’s cheek. You pulled out a chair for the prince and slid it back into place before stepping away from the table, like you were used to as a servant. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing in particular. The Prime Minister was in a fine mood and I learned this morning that Y/N is a barista in her own right,” the prince chatted, and you nearly jumped at the sound of your name. You weren’t sure you were ever going to get used to the royal family speaking of you so much.

“How lovely,” the queen said, her warm eyes finding yours. “So you’re getting on well, Y/N?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” you clasped your palms together with nerves.

The family talked among themselves for the rest of the hour about national affairs and other matters you didn’t understand, so you ended up drifting into your own thoughts while you stood several feet behind the prince’s chair. You were astounded at all you had discovered about him in just the few months of training you had done, and the one day of actually knowing him personally. The man you had always perceived as cold and off-putting liked his coffee in a very particular way– so sweet it could hardly still be called coffee– and kept his own vinyls of big band music. He was surprisingly sweet and just wanted to be called by his first name, despite your status forbidding that. You almost wanted to cry at just how ignorant you were before. How could you have served the royal family for so long and still not known him?

“I’d like to go for a walk now,” the prince announced, standing and throwing his sports jacket over one arm. You bowed to the king and queen and followed him out to the courtyard. The two of you began your stroll through the royal arboretum, you offering to carry his sports jacket beneath the leafy shade offered by the rows of trees, and he only gave in after you insisted. “You know, Richard would be giving me a lecture about every single tree we passed.”

You gave him a sad smile. “Well,” you began, pointing to a mature oak just ahead on the path. “I fell out of that tree while I was playing with one of my servant friends when I was ten. I broke my arm and Lady Margaret still hasn’t let me live it down.”

The prince let out a hearty laugh that you found yourself wishing you could hear all the time. “So you’ve been here for that long?”

You tilted your head in thought. “I suppose, Your Highness. It’s odd now that I think about it.”

He shook his head, apparently not comprehending. “What a life. I couldn’t imagine…” He trailed off.

“Don’t misunderstand, Your Highness, I enjoy serving here,” you declared. The pang of loneliness and homesickness in your chest was painful, but who were you to complain to a prince?

He remained silent and you could tell he was lost in thought. His hands were tucked in his pockets with each thumb sticking out, like they always did when he was dazed. Maybe you had studied him more than you thought. The two of you walked the path full circle, both wandering through your own thoughts, and arrived back at the start before you realized that time had passed.

The prince cleared his throat and took his jacket from your arms. “I think I’ll go to my study now, as I do believe I have some work I need to finish. I’ll meet you back in my room… after dinner?” He suggested. You nodded and bowed to his retreating figure. As you walked back to your own room for some pleasure reading, you wondered if the heat on your face was from the afternoon sun or the thought of undressing the prince later on.


“Come in,” Prince Wonwoo called to you on the other side of the door for the second time that day, and you were no less nervous than before. You twisted the gold knob and found him lounging in the armchair next to his bed, feet crossed and propped up on the coffee table, with a novel in his hands. He shut the book decidedly and tossed it on the table, walking over to stand in front of his mirror, while you set your empty laundry basket on the end of his bed. He watched the news on his huge television while you undid his cufflinks and the buttons on his dress shirt before tossing it in the basket.

“I found something rather peculiar in my study today,” he smirked, unfastening his Rolex and handing it to you.

“Did I not dust well enough?” You asked.

“No, no,” he chuckled. “There was a record that I haven’t listened to in ages still spinning on my player.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness, that was my mistake,” you gasped. “I should have never touched it–”

“You like Perry Como?” He said, barely audible. You stared at him in absolute awe, confused and amused all at the same time.

“Quite a lot,” you admitted while polishing the face of his Rolex with your skirt.

“Excellent.”

He pulled the cotton shirt underneath off and discarded it, too, before handing you his belt to put alongside his cufflinks in the closet. You did just that while he stripped entirely and you heard him start his shower. You left with the laundry basket on your hip, the tones of the prince’s singing following you into the large hallway; you wouldn’t dare tell anyone, but you lingered outside the door just a little while to listen.

Months went on like this, with you bringing breakfast and dressing him every morning, while you did chores or errands for him throughout the day. He finally convinced you to call him Wonwoo (This stays exclusively between us, you threatened), and he confided in you about a surprising number of things. He complained that you were too reserved around him, but you didn’t dare to become more casual with him in fear of being improper or, even worse, falling in love with him. You began being rather short in your conversations and limited your time with him.

One night, you entered to start his regular routine to find him surrounded by papers, bottles of expensive whiskey, and rings of condensation from him moving his glass around. You sighed and began to organize the papers on the table. “Rough day?”

Half of his face was covered with one of his large hands while the other held a half-empty glass. From what you could see, he had a bitter smile on his face and his cheeks were aflame with the obvious rash of drunkenness. Wonwoo didn’t answer you, which was really all the answer you needed. You helped him stand and it took all the strength you had to not laugh at his hiccups, though a large part of you was sad that he had drank himself into this state. Nervous hands stripped his top half, while his miserable head was slung over your shoulder.

“I– I hate when they do… that,” he slurred into your ear. Both of you almost toppled over when you tried to get him step out of his slacks, but you steadied him and practically carried him over to his bed, sliding his pajama shirt over his arms and working on its buttons.

“What do you hate, Wonwoo?”

He laughed. It was a pitiful, lonely laugh that made you feel worse than if he was sobbing. “I hate when they say– they say that I’m s’pposed to marry some random girl,” he hiccuped again. “Their efforts are… use– useless,” he muttered, looking over your shoulder to some dejected place.

“It’ll be alright, Wonwoo,” you tried to comfort him, giving up on the idea of getting him in pajama bottoms and simply pressing his shoulders so that he would lie down. You pulled the covers up to his neck and found that his glazed-over eyes were looking at your face again.

“No, no it won’t,” he whispered. His eyes fluttered until they were barely open.

“I don’t see why not,” you consoled him while gathering his clothes and throwing them into your basket.

“It’s because I…” he shook his head. “It’s awful, Y/N. Just awful.”

You sighed and put the basket down on the carpet before slowly sitting on the side of his bed. “What’s awful?”

“It hurts loving you this much,” he groaned. His eyes were closed. Your heart fell to the floor.

“You don’t mean that,” your voice broke and you were thankful he couldn’t see the tears fall down your face and onto his duvet. He had certainly passed out, while you felt your chest could explode with admiration and anguish. You reached a hand out and stroked his cheek. “Wonwoo, darling…You let it happen.” The sleeves of your dress dabbed away your incessant tears. “You let the stars get in your eyes.”

You took the laundry basket and finally left. Every time you tried to sleep that night, you saw his face and were jolted awake.


Your steps were horribly slow up to his room the next morning: you even considered feigning illness and sending a butler up there for him, but you didn’t want to embarrass him by exposing his hangover. So you took the grim march with the tray that held his breakfast (including ice water and aspirin, the medicine you had sneaked out of the infirmary) and hoped that your exhaustion wasn’t painfully obvious.

You knocked on the door and weakly called out, “Prince Wonwoo?” There was no answer and after waiting several seconds, you pushed the door open and walked in anyway. You were surprised to find him fully dressed, sitting in his regular armchair, with the drapes still closed. The only light in the room came from his bedside lamp. You kicked the door closed and melted at his sorrowful gaze, his hands pressed together in front of his mouth, and his tall frame slouched in the chair. Dark circles lined his eyes, and there was a definitive crease in his forehead, probably from his headache. He said nothing as you walked over and put the tray on the coffee table.

All you could think to do was crouch beside him and wrap your arms around his shoulders, so you did just that. He exhaled deeply and stood to hug you back, his arms firm around your waist and your head tucked under his chin.

“I really did say it, then,” he mumbled, to which you simply squeezed him tighter. 

“One of us had to, I suppose,” you tittered, leaning back so you could see his face. You used the pad of your thumb to swipe away the one tear that escaped his eye. “You know this is no good, Wonwoo.”

He shook his head slowly, pursing his lips. “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say you love me too. I’m fully aware this is in no way easy for you, but I can’t imagine that you could look me in the eyes in this exact moment and tell me you don’t feel this.”

You sighed in disbelief and a stinging adoration for the man who still had his arms locked around your waist. The dull light of the room highlighted the tired features of his face, but you still thought he looked like pure art. Thoughts of his dismal state the previous night in contrast to his lighthearted personality in the day raced across your mind. Did he even know what he was getting himself in to? Could you stop him from barreling down a road of uncertainty even if he did know?

“Wonwoo, I love you more than you’ll ever know,” you sniffled. “That’s why I can’t let you–”

His large hands held each side of your face and instantly his soft lips were pressed to yours. You took in the smell of his musky cologne and the way your fingertips felt clutching his sides. One of his hands wandered to the nape of your neck and cradled your head.

Wonwoo broke away with the most dazzling smile you had ever seen. “I’m the prince. I’m fairly sure I’m the one who makes the decisions.”

“Lady Margaret is going to give me an earful about this.”

The Governess

Anonymous asked: Meg! I love your blog and I know you love AUs and Classic literature so I was wondering if you could write a Loki x fem!reader based on Jane Eyre??? PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!

Here you are, lovely! This thing took on a life of its own to be honest. I do not own Loki, Natasha, or Tony. They belong to Marvel.

Warnings: Some angst, some fluff, a little jealousy, Movie/book based AU, and it’s long! Probably the longest one-shot I’ve written. 

Pairings: Loki x fem!reader, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark. 

Originally posted by maryxglz

The beautiful manor of your new employer came into view and you drew in a breath.  It was beautiful. The falling leaves all around the place only added to its charm. You knew you had to take it in while you could because once you entered the manor, you would have to put on your professional attitude. You were there for a job after all. To be a governess to the ward of the owner of the estate.

           Your carriage stopped and you took a deep breath. Were you ready for this? This was your first real job. Your previous employment had been through the boarding school you’d grown up in. You knew everyone there before you even began working, This was uncharted territory. However, whether you were ready or not, it was time. You climbed down from the carriage and the door of the manor immediately opened.

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