A Jeeves/Wooster drabble
This was too short to be submitted in Yuletide Treasure for New Year's Resolutions, so I'm posting it here. It's a little something I was inspired to write while reading through the unfilled requests. It's for Leaper182, if'n she wants it. ~v_v~
Title: Fantasy
Fandom: P.G. Wodehouse
Pairing: Jeeves and Wooster
Written for: Leaper182
Archive? If you want a random drabble, sure, but please message me
Reginald Jeeves has a fantasy. It is not one of those he plays in his mind when the call to onanism, so hard to resist even by the strongest of men, gets the better of him. Those are many and varied, although a common feature is a certain Mr. Wooster calling his name while inadequately attired.
But those are banished most of the time, available when desperation finally gets the better of him and ignored otherwise.
This one does not obey him. It rises, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind, far more often than he would like. It appears when he is cooking, when he is cleaning,
(when he is almost asleep)
when he is serving. More than once it has caused a hitch, an almost noticeable pause in his speech, an ellipses before the obligatory “sir”.
And the “sir” is obligatory, although Mr. Wooster has more than once made suggestions, hints, implying that a lessening of the term might be preferable. It is obligatory because it reminds him that the fantasy is just that: a fantasy. Were he to abandon it, his vocabularian crutch, the wall between what is and what cannot be would grow too thin. It would be unbearable. The fantasy would taunt him even more than it already does.
The fantasy. In the beginning it is almost identical to many evenings in reality. Mr. Wooster is sitting in one chair, he in another, both reading (himself, Spinoza, Bertie, some Potboiler). At length, Jeeves closes his volume, replaces it on the shelf, and indicates his readiness for bed. He hesitates, not quite wanting to leave the pleasant company, the bubble of domestic bliss, and asks,
“Is there anything you need before I go?”
“No, not really. I've just got to finish this chapter- find out who this Richanelli bloke is, you know, with a suspicious name like that he's bound to be the Silver Stabber, but you never know,” Wooster raises his eyebrows, “That's what's so tricky about it.”
He crosses to the younger man's chair, lays a hand on the back, and says, “Indeed. Goodnight, then, Bertie,” and the other hand moves to gently clasp his chin, and he kisses him. Gently, tenderly. Bertie closes the book (marking his place with one finger) and uses his spare hand to clutch the back of Reginald's head, pulling him in, prolonging the kiss.
After a brief moment, they both pull away. The kiss was not a desperate, hungry one, just a casual goodnight. Too tender, certainly, to be believed as merely a kiss between friends, but not full of a barely restrained lust.
Bertie smiles, says, “G'night, Reginald. I'll join you in a bit.”
Occasionally, when he is weak from denying himself release for so long, that last comment is heavy with its implications. Usually, though, all it promises is a warm, pajama-clad body, and perhaps a head of golden hair laid comfortably on his chest.
It is a sweet fantasy. Perhaps that is why it is so hard to turn it away. But unless (until, his mind, ever hopeful, amends) it can be granted, he will cling to his “sir”, that little word that separates a valet from a lover.
Title: Fantasy
Fandom: P.G. Wodehouse
Pairing: Jeeves and Wooster
Written for: Leaper182
Archive? If you want a random drabble, sure, but please message me
Reginald Jeeves has a fantasy. It is not one of those he plays in his mind when the call to onanism, so hard to resist even by the strongest of men, gets the better of him. Those are many and varied, although a common feature is a certain Mr. Wooster calling his name while inadequately attired.
But those are banished most of the time, available when desperation finally gets the better of him and ignored otherwise.
This one does not obey him. It rises, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind, far more often than he would like. It appears when he is cooking, when he is cleaning,
(when he is almost asleep)
when he is serving. More than once it has caused a hitch, an almost noticeable pause in his speech, an ellipses before the obligatory “sir”.
And the “sir” is obligatory, although Mr. Wooster has more than once made suggestions, hints, implying that a lessening of the term might be preferable. It is obligatory because it reminds him that the fantasy is just that: a fantasy. Were he to abandon it, his vocabularian crutch, the wall between what is and what cannot be would grow too thin. It would be unbearable. The fantasy would taunt him even more than it already does.
The fantasy. In the beginning it is almost identical to many evenings in reality. Mr. Wooster is sitting in one chair, he in another, both reading (himself, Spinoza, Bertie, some Potboiler). At length, Jeeves closes his volume, replaces it on the shelf, and indicates his readiness for bed. He hesitates, not quite wanting to leave the pleasant company, the bubble of domestic bliss, and asks,
“Is there anything you need before I go?”
“No, not really. I've just got to finish this chapter- find out who this Richanelli bloke is, you know, with a suspicious name like that he's bound to be the Silver Stabber, but you never know,” Wooster raises his eyebrows, “That's what's so tricky about it.”
He crosses to the younger man's chair, lays a hand on the back, and says, “Indeed. Goodnight, then, Bertie,” and the other hand moves to gently clasp his chin, and he kisses him. Gently, tenderly. Bertie closes the book (marking his place with one finger) and uses his spare hand to clutch the back of Reginald's head, pulling him in, prolonging the kiss.
After a brief moment, they both pull away. The kiss was not a desperate, hungry one, just a casual goodnight. Too tender, certainly, to be believed as merely a kiss between friends, but not full of a barely restrained lust.
Bertie smiles, says, “G'night, Reginald. I'll join you in a bit.”
Occasionally, when he is weak from denying himself release for so long, that last comment is heavy with its implications. Usually, though, all it promises is a warm, pajama-clad body, and perhaps a head of golden hair laid comfortably on his chest.
It is a sweet fantasy. Perhaps that is why it is so hard to turn it away. But unless (until, his mind, ever hopeful, amends) it can be granted, he will cling to his “sir”, that little word that separates a valet from a lover.