Fandoms: my hero academia, helluva boss, hazbin hotel.
Characters: izuku midoriya, Stella goetia, Charlie Morningstar
Izuku midoriya has been a servant of the goetia family since he has memory, the strictness of his job says he can't fraternize romantically with his peers. That never stopped his mistress, Stella Goetia, from flirting with him, no matter how much he's pushing her away.
Everything got more complicated with the visit his masters had to do to the royal family, and how unfortunately his innocent attempt to cheer up the princess made her fall for him.
The morning bell echoed through the Goetia estate. Izuku Midoriya bowed his head and tightened his gloves. Another day of silent service.
He didn’t notice Stella Goetia watching him from her chaise. “You work too hard,” she said, tone teasing. “If you keep shining the floor like that, I’ll see my reflection—and maybe blush.”
“My lady,” Izuku said quietly, “please don’t—”
“Please don’t what?” she purred, stepping closer. “Notice you? You’re quite impossible to ignore, you know.” Her perfume filled the air, sweet and suffocating. He froze as her gloved hand traced his shoulder. “Such good manners. Such restraint.”
He stepped back. “It isn’t proper.”
She smiled, sharp and cold. “That’s what makes it fun.”
X-xx-X
Later, in the royal gardens, a very different voice spoke his name—soft, uncertain. “Izuku?”
He turned to find Princess Charlie kneeling among the roses, dirt on her hands, smile bright as morning. “You helped the flowers bloom again,” she said. “You make everything come alive.”
He flushed, scratching the back of his neck. “I just gave them care, that’s all.”
But her eyes lingered too long. “Then I’ll need you here more often.”
That night, two letters left the palace—one sealed in silver wax, one in gold.
Every visit to Rosings was a trial. As a small child, it had perhaps been most bearable, Darcy whisked away to the nursery where his cousin Dickon was often already settled, making the most of the hobbyhorse which Anne was too young to mount and which would be of little use to her as she would expected to ride side-saddle as soon as she was put upon a pony. Anne’s nurse was apt to ply them with shortbread to get them to behave properly, unlike Darcy’s nurse at Pemberley who would not have hesitated to box their ears. They were brought down to the drawing room for a quarter of an hour, standing as still as they could, Dickon having invented the game he called living statues to help pass the time. It would stand Darcy in good stead over the years, especially when he was most in company. At Rosings, they would be inspected, praised by Darcy’s mother, criticized by Aunt Catherine, and offered cakes by Dickon’s mother, who was quite plump and fussed least about crumbs and sticky fingers.
Returning every year was an obligation, one which only grew more binding after his mother’s death, though her absence was keenly felt, unblunted by time as Georgianna grew to resemble her. Her daughter was more like her in manner than in coloring, though she had her fair and unblemished complexion. Darcy could no sooner have stayed away from Rosings than gallop to the Moon upon a road of starlight, a fanciful image he’d conjured for Georgianna one night when she was recovering from a childhood illness, still fretful from her fever. If their mother had lived, perhaps he might have visited friends, stayed in London and made a wider acquaintance than that of the Bingleys, however fond he was of Charles. As it was, it was Darcy’s fondness which kept Charles from suffering more than one visit to Rosings, a boon even the sunny-natured Bingley was deeply thankful for. Darcy went, Georgianna accompanying him if her health allowed, the only argument Aunt Catherine would ever countenance, and he sat through dull afternoons and duller dinners, dull vintages and even duller volumes in the Rosings library. He listened to his cousin Anne play endless sonatas competently but without any particular feeling and he did his best to keep from striking the sycophant vicar Mr. Collins his aunt had given the Rosings living to; unlike her, Darcy was not remotely pleased by the man’s obviously intricately planned adulatory remarks, the slavering expression in his rather small eyes every time he uttered the most-esteemed Lady Catherine de Bourgh, an appellation Darcy felt did not need to be mentioned in every third sentence.
A visit to Rosings was a trial and an obligation, a chore and a burden, until he arrived and found a stranger at the pianoforte, a vibrant, chestnut-haired young woman in a very simple muslin gown, his cousin Anne sitting beside her. Anne had never looked more sallow and sickly, her costly gown and jewels emphasizing her frailty in contrast to the bloom of the woman beside her, whose hair was held back by a plain ribbon fillet, her only adornment a modest little cross of some dark stones. She was playing the piano with more zest than accuracy and Darcy was dismayed to be unsure which aspect was pleasing Anne enough to make her pallid lips curve in a small but entirely genuine smile.
Anne stood when she saw him while the woman stopped playing but remained seated. He walked over to greet his cousin, bowing smartly while she made a gesture akin to a curtsy, the formality due their stations far outweighing any mild familial affection they might have for each other.
“Cousin Fitzwilliam, welcome. If you are here, you must have already seen Mama who have advised you to come. I hope your journey was not too taxing and that you will stay here a while and enjoy some music. My new companion, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, came just last fortnight. She is the cousin of the vicar and Mr. Collins was only too glad to discover he might have been able to in any minute way be of service to me, and by extension, my most-esteemed mother, Lady Catherine,” Anne said. She’d spoken more words than Darcy had ever heard her utter at one time, and though she was still quite pale and her curls rather lank and drooping, there was an unusual animation in her tone. She turned slightly to face Miss Bennet. “That is how he said it, wasn’t it, dear Elizabeth?”
“I believe he was only too glad and most assuredly blessed beyond measure,” Miss Bennet replied. She had the finest dark eyes Darcy had ever seen and her voice was confident and gay, far different from every other companion he’d ever encountered, women most often faded misses of indeterminate age who spoke little and softly, nearly always offering only an affirmation.
“That’s him exactly. He’d pressed his hands together as if he were about to give a homily in the pulpit and Mama gave him her falcon-sighting-prey glare and he only nodded his head several times,” Anne said.
“He was honest though. I’ve never met someone as delighted as Mr. Collins is to render even the most insignificant service to Lady Catherine and I myself am certainly fortunate to have been offered the position as your companion,” Miss Bennet said. Darcy had never heard a companion speak so frankly to her betters about her role and felt he ought to be disgusted. Instead he was diverted, a condition he experienced rarely.
“I am the fortunate one, as you are far more lively and engaging than I could ever be. I’ve never known the days to pass so quickly,” Anne said.
“They shall pass quicker still when your strength improves and our walks about the countryside are more extensive,” Miss Bennet said, a remark which could have been cutting, as if might have been if Miss Caroline Bingley, Charles’s rather odious sister, had spoken it, but which was only imbued with a gentle, genuine warmth and kindness. “Though you risk a muddy hem three inches deep when you join me and your mother may be as disappointed in your deportment as she was in mine. I must admit, Mr. Darcy, I did not bow my head and offer an apology. Indeed, my courage rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”
“You are singular, Miss Bennet,” he said.
“And you have not even heard me attempt ‘Les deux petits savoyards,’” she countered, moving her hands back to the pianoforte’s keys.
“Oh do play, dear Elizabeth,” Anne said and Darcy inclined his head in agreement, at a loss for words. The melody began, quite spirited, much like the musician herself and Darcy realized this visit to Rosings was itself singular.
For he had fallen in love. With his Cousin Anne’s paid companion. A servant.
Somehow, he’d have to find a way to marry her.
Written for Janeuary 2025 @janeuary-month day 7, prompt: servant.
Fandom: Super Sons (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Relationships: Jonathan Samuel Kent/Damian Wayne
Summary:
“So,” Jon says. “You're my servant then.”
Damian nods, mouth tensed in a serious line. “Yes, my Lord.”
“You'll do anything I say.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“So even if I, let’s say, tell you to eat your own cape, you would do it?
Damian grimaces imperceptibly, biting his bottom lip to stop himself from saying something antagonistic. He speaks after a moment's hesitation.
“If that's what your lordship wishes.”
Or, in an alternate universe where the Supers have taken over Earth and take on humans as pets, Damian is assigned as prince Jon-El's charge. And Jon, having been raised as a superior being all his life, is not the nicest, or kindest, or most considerate of masters.
If Jooster met without the social and financial implication, i.e. they're both servants, or gentlemen, do you believe they would still fall in love or is their relationship at leas partially due to their circumstances?
anon im obsessed with you. im obsessed with this.
TLDR they'd fall in love in every universe with every set of circumstances.
girlfail 4 girlboss is true no matter what social status they hold
heres what im thinking... (in mini, first meeting fic form)
Both servants AU:
Bertie and the Knight
I like to think of myself as a man of many capabilities, an iron will, a strength of character, an indomitable whatsit, a certain affability, a certain wit, irrespective of my Aunt's remarks on that matter. I may not be the most organized chap, nor the most tidy or capable of ironing, but I hardly see folding socks as being the measure of a man, what?
My employers seemed to hold a different opinion on the subject, though they often relied upon me for my quick-thinkedness, not that I had proven myself to be entirely reliable when fishing one out of the soup... I'll admit I often found myself in the reverse position, my employer pulling me out of some scheme or another gone pear-shaped...
One occasion left my employer, a Mr. Halloway, relying on his manservant, that is to say myself, to preform a scheme of his own invention, and he made it clear as... well something that is really quite clear, that it is imperative that this remain top secret. And a dashed difficult secret to keep. You see the lieu of this scheme happened to be Lady Halloway's Manor, a family reunion was to take place on the premises at the same time as this plot and well... I rather quickly found myself in somewhat soupy waters...
I had found the teapot, an ironing board, a frying pan, a box of matches and a bed-sheet, but I must have been struck by the same affliction that makes my good friend Barmy the man that he is, well you see I forgot what to do with the blasted things!
Then, in my moment of hapless peril did a Knight in black and pinstripe offer rescue, seemingly materializing out of the air itself!
"Excuse me, Mr. Wooster, I couldn't help but observe that you seem to be having some trouble tying these sheets around this teapot. Should you be requiring assistance?" he inquired, voice low and smooth and eloquent as my ears have ever heard, and I have spent my years among the noblesse, I have heard eloquence!
"Ah! Er, I mean that is to say no! That is to say no thank you Mr..." I sputtered hopelessly. You see the man was quite tall, standing a few inches above my own head, which is, you'll note, some 6-and-something feet from the ground. I'll admit I felt rather dwarfed in that moment, not that I particularly disliked the hastened pumping feeling in my chest.
"Jeeves." said Jeeves.
"Jeeves, right, yes. You need not worry yourself, Mr. Jeeves, rest assured that the Wooster brain will be able to... wrap itself around this conundrum in some way or another, what?" I assured him, not so steely in my conviction as I would have hoped...
"Indeed, Mr. Wooster... Though may I inquire as to the purpose of this... endeavour?" he asked once more, taking a hesitant glance at the ensemble of disjunctive materials I had amassed for what purpose?
I must say, feeling this man, Jeeves, broad chested and fit as he was looming over myself... I'd be hard-pressed to remember my own name at a time like this.
"Ah... ha, right... er, no, thank you, I believe I'll just... oh, well you know how these things work themselves out, hey...?" I replied, more useless and brainless as I'd ever been, which, my Aunts would say, is quite impressive.
"Indeed, Mr. Wooster." he spoke, and I couldn't help but notice the slight upward twitch of his lips and the cool, all-knowing shimmer in his dark eyes.
----
Both gentleman AU:
Where words fail, music speaks
I perused the hall upon entering it, greeting those I knew with idle pleasantries, introducing myself to those I did not. I mingled, engaged in topics of conversation far below my cognitive abilities though entertaining enough to stave off the urge to fabricate an explanation to excuse my early departure.
After some considerable time spent in placid conversation with distant acquaintances, I took notice of a man consorting among his companions by the grand piano. He appeared to be of the noblesse, although his attire denoted a certain unfamiliarity with appropriate dress for such an occasion, this demarked him from his associates who, to their credit, were composed marginally more suitably.
I parted ways with the gentleman with whom I'd been engaged in lacking conversation, on the premise of greeting an old friend who had newly arrived to the banquet. The man, chattering animatedly, took no notice of my approach as his hair, seemingly soft and almost buoyant, bounced atop his head as he spoke. His friends appeared off-put by my presence, one of them nudging him until he turned to face me.
"What ho!" the man greeted, his cheeriness alarming me somewhat as his wide eyes, the color of resplendent aventurine, seemed to beam brightly from within. "Bertram- Well, no, Bertie- yes Bertie Wooster." he added with a broad grin.
"Mr. Wooster..." I replied, temporarily at a loss for words as I met the man's extended hand with my own. His were cool, nimble, slender. I noted his fingertips on my hand, slightly calloused. I understood now why his party was huddled by the piano. "My name is Sir Reginald Jeeves."
"Oh, yes, well, good to meet you, Mr. Jeeves, rather... I say... You wouldn't happen to know who's bally shindig this would be, would you Jeeves?" he asked, leaning on the side of the pianoforte with a furrowed brow.
"I do believe the invitations were sent out on the part of a Sir Halloway, Mr. Wooster." I answered.
"And this Halloway fellow, I haven't had the pleasure as of yet, is he a... well is he a musical sort of chap?" Mr. Wooster inquired further, momentarily eyeing the instrument.
"It is my understanding that such is the case, Mr. Wooster."
"Oh, that is good news, eh, Jeeves? What is it that that Andersen johnny said about music. Something about words failing and so forth?" he asked, cheeks rosier with burgeoning excitement as his fingers seemed to play the notes on the piano's lid.
“Where words fail, music speaks.” I answered as he looked upon me with a kind of joyous gratitude I felt entirely undeserving to receive but grateful to witness.
Basteta’s big mouth earns her a new punishment from Kitsune, who decides it’s time to silence her insolence and put that defiant mouth to better use. He is eager to teach his rebellious servant a way to serve him that leaves her breathless. (4000+ words)
Emmet gets a call about Ingo, his brother has been found but it’s a bit more complicated than that. He’s been captured, beaten, and possibly forced into servitude by who ever had him.
When he sees Emmet, thank the everything his walls come down.
Ingo doesn’t really explain everything, but, well, now Emmet knows they’ve got a new problem called amnesia to contend with. As well as the “Ladies Sneasler and Akari“ who Emmet is not going to trust no matter how hard his brother is looking for them.
(He is not thinking that one of them is a pokémon, and the other is his brother’s adopted daughter who also only just escaped from the Galaxy Team. That will be an interesting revelation. Almost as interesting as the timetravel.)
(What are you supposed to do when the person who hurt your brother was the Leader of Team Galactic’s predecessor hundreds of years ago???)
Day (400/100) [I’ve lost count I’ll figure it out again in a bit] of my #∞daysofwriting @the-wip-project [yesterday’s post exists but it got trapped on my phone unposted when it broke, so it’ll be a while before you see it] [this one was actually written on a piece of paper in the dark and just transcribed when I got desktop access in the morning]
Person A is an amateur necromancer who has a great amount of skill but not a lot of experience in their craft, and accidentally revived a handful of unhelpful zombie servants: Person B, gambler with a drinking problem; Person C, a deserter from the military with a sex addiction; and Person D, a very egocentric noble who is use to the finer things in life and often gets in fights with people they believe are rude or beneath them. The three have skills that make them fairly useful, but they keep spending all of Person A’s money they make as a renown necromancer and continue the vices of their old lives and Person A is frequently bailing them out of trouble.
