Oceans, part 21
Pairing: Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not profit from the lovely works of Wodehouse.
Status: complete! It's always a bit lonesome when long fics grow up and leave the nest...
part 20: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/830316.html#cutid1
part 19: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/829666.html#cutid1
part 18: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/826139.html#cutid1
part 17: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/813370.html#cutid1
part 16 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/804475.html#cutid1
part 15 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/750867.html#cutid1
part 14 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/743385.html#cutid1
part 13 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/741218.html#cutid1
part 12 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/727612.html#cutid1
part 11 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/723716.html#cutid1
part 10 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/722065.html#cutid1
part 9 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/715646.html#cutid1
part 8 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/709635.html#cutid1
part 7 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/707880.html#cutid1
part 6 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/704354.html#cutid1
part 5 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/701596.html#cutid1
part 4 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/695505.html#cutid1
part 3 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/693063.html#cutid1
part 2 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/689461.html#cutid1
part 1 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/687730.html#cutid1
Mr. Wooster’s kiss was as demanding as he’d promised in his letter. No sooner than I had closed the door behind me than I found myself accosted by my master and being pressed to the doorframe with unbridled passion. I pulled him to me and returned the gesture eagerly, until the kisses became less urgent, softer and more of a comfort than a demand. He worried my lower lip with his teeth as I stroked back his hair, forgetting for several moments my hat and the suitcase at my feet. At last, he pulled back, and allowed me to enter the flat properly.
“I could not be home soon enough, sir.” I found my voice as I stood back to gaze at him. His smile spread with my words, lighting up his tired eyes and bringing a flush of happiness to his cheeks. Details began to come to me. Some attempt had been made to tidy the flat, unlike the usual squalor I usually returned to. Withered flowers had been replaced with fresh, stuck haphazardly into the vases. Equal attention was paid to his person; every detail of his dress was impeccable. He had donned the soft gray summer suit I had selected upon his return, down to the tie and waistcoat. No gaudy variation was attempted, no silver and violet checked tie, no ridiculous pencil thin moustache, no tomato red and mustard gold knit vest in sight. All was polished, from his hair to the toe tips of his shoes. I must confess that his efforts pleased me, even as they worried me. I could not ignore the fatigue in his otherwise bright expression.
“Jeeves, at last.” He sighed. He offered me a nervous smile.
“Have you had nightmares, sir?” I asked, quietly. I felt responsible, even as I assured myself that the short leave was a necessity. I had left him.
“I don’t sleep as well without you, you know that, dear old thing.” He laid his hand over mine, and gazed up at me, earnestly. “It’s all right. Really. I’m just chuffed to have you back, more than I can say. Much more.” He lowered his eyes then. “I say, I wanted to thank you. For the letter, I mean. I burned it, like you asked, but not before committing the bally glorious thing to memory.” His fingers rested on my shoulders, and I lowered my head to sigh into his hair. I wanted him, the close proximity afforded me the scents I associated with him, the heat radiating from his body, and such things made it difficult to think of much else after a week’s separation.
“I have memorized yours as well, sir. It pained me to burn it.”
He chuckled at that, and squeezed my hand. “It’s just as well, really. Bally rotten attempt it was, I think.”
“Not at all, sir.” I poured him a brandy from the sideboard, and pressed it into his hand.
“Oh, and one for yourself, as well, what?” he moved to the edge of the chesterfield, gesturing for me to sit. I barely raised an eyebrow as I did as he asked, settling myself beside him with my drink.
He drank deeply from his glass, and set it aside. “I say, Jeeves, old thing. Have you ever thought about love?”
“It is a topic which is very much on my mind while in your company, sir.” I replied, amused at how my words had made his ears turn red.
“Of course.” He stammered. “I don’t doubt that at all, love. Of course you do. You’ve proven it. I mean to say, you never gave up on this Wooster, even when the rest of the world had given me up for dead. Everything you do for me...” Again, he drank from his glass, draining the contents. I rose to refill it, but he took my hands in his own and tugged gently, leading me across the flat. “I have a surprise for you, Jeeves. Come and see, what?”
My curiosity piqued, I followed. He lead me to the guest room, and opened the door. The room I entered was not what I had left. Gone were the bed and dresser, and in its place was a handsome study. The walls had been lined with bookshelves, awaiting to be filled. In the center of the room was a long, hefty library table, polished to a golden hue, sitting atop a cream deco rug. It was flanked with two contemporary leather desk chairs, and upon it a gleaming new Underwood typewriter, a rather nicer version of what I kept in the kitchen. The chaise lounge from the bedroom remained, situated along the far wall. It was the most charming and useful room I could imagine. I stood, speechless, as he chattered behind me.
“It’s for you, love. Well, for us, I mean. I intend to write again, and you do help me edit and such, even though you could surely write much better yarns of your own that edit mine, what? The thing is, well, you see, there comes a time in a man’s life when he… I mean, dash it, Jeeves… I want to write our story from now on.”
When I turned to face him, I saw that he was lowered on one knee. I believe that is the moment I forgot how to breathe. My face was hot, my hands were ice. I was trapped by Mr. Wooster’s intense gaze, and could only think of how dearly I wanted this impossible promise, yet how unworthy I was to accept. I fear that I was mute a moment too long.
“Say ‘yes’, Jeeves.” He whispered. “if you don’t, my Reggie… “ his eyes had darkened with an uncharacteristic seriousness, tinged with fear.
He rarely used that name , and only in the heat of passion. It was enough to startle me to my senses. “Yes, sir. Please, sir!” I gasped.
His laughter was a welcome reprieve. He was on his feet in an instant, and kissing me, feverishly. His hardness pressed against my leg, and I groaned. “Shall we have the wedding night before the vows, or after?” he purred.
“I fear I cannot resist you for so long, sir.”
“Well, then!” He grinned madly. Having regained his boldness, he lightly traced the outline of my erection through my flies. I could not wait to be teased, so I began to strip him, with a hurried efficiency. My own clothing was pulled from me, and carelessly tossed aside.
“To bed, sir?” I whispered, for I was eager; frantic, even.
“Not yet, my good man. “ He fished around the discarded garments, retrieving a small jar from his waistcoat, which he placed in my hands. His eyes sparkled with teasing mischief. “First, I expect you to give me a jolly good buggering.” He spread his legs slightly, and braced the edge of the table. I do believe he takes perverse pleasure in seeing me undone, without the ability to speak, or act rationally. There was, however, an equal desperation in his eyes. I wrapped an arm around him as I prepared myself, using my spare hand to lightly stroke his pert, pink nipples. His breathing became rougher as I nibbled at the tender skin of his throat, and his knuckles went white as they grasped the table in anticipation. I slipped a slick finger inside of him, and was rewarded with a sharp, encouraging cry. It seemed only moments before he was thrusting back, riding my hand, and groaning a plea for more.
The dull ache in my groin, coupled with the urgent noises emitting from Mr. Wooster’s throat were enough to tell me that neither of us would last long this time. With a groan, I entered him, and soon we had established a frenzied rhythm. He was gasping for me with each thrust, and as I felt myself close to losing control, I took his cock in hand and pumped vigorously. Soon, his back arched, and stilled. I abandoned myself to my own needs then, thrusting deeply as I felt his seed spill over my fingers. His knees were weak as I found my own release. I pulled him to the floor and clutched him possessively as I caught my breath.
“Take me to bed.” He sighed. I was only too pleased to do so.
We exchanged countless vows that night, in sleepy contentment. I would honor him, serve him, adore him, stay by his side for all time. He would be loyal, loving, faithful, devout. Promises upon promises were made, with no fear of deceit.
----
“I say, Jeeves, do you remember the name of what’s his name? The stout chap in the snappy trousers I wrote about that once. I do believe he’s the same blighter we met last week at Brinkley. I read about it, then put the manuscript away in the walnut whatnot, and now I can’t remember which one it is.”
“You refer to Major Barbazon-Plank, sir, a most disagreeable individual, I agree.” I retrieved the manuscript in question and set it before him, returning to the story I was typing. Mr. Wooster had kept his passion for the sordid detective stories alive, penning them occasionally along with his memoirs. The chapter I was revising was an embarrassingly eulogistic piece starring a clever, tall detective with a bent nose, his preferred hero.
In a few moments, a sharp “a-ha!” came from Mr. Wooster, and he smiled as he scratched out a sheet of notes. That particular smile indicated that he had remembered something from his past, triggered by a point in the manuscript. Every day revealed a bit more, and if he never remembered everything, he would at least have his manuscripts. Besides, as he frequently reassured me, we had the rest of our lives to look forward to remembering.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not profit from the lovely works of Wodehouse.
Status: complete! It's always a bit lonesome when long fics grow up and leave the nest...
part 20: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/830316.html#cutid1
part 19: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/829666.html#cutid1
part 18: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/826139.html#cutid1
part 17: http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/813370.html#cutid1
part 16 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/804475.html#cutid1
part 15 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/750867.html#cutid1
part 14 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/743385.html#cutid1
part 13 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/741218.html#cutid1
part 12 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/727612.html#cutid1
part 11 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/723716.html#cutid1
part 10 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/722065.html#cutid1
part 9 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/715646.html#cutid1
part 8 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/709635.html#cutid1
part 7 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/707880.html#cutid1
part 6 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/704354.html#cutid1
part 5 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/701596.html#cutid1
part 4 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/695505.html#cutid1
part 3 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/693063.html#cutid1
part 2 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/689461.html#cutid1
part 1 http://community.livejournal.com/indeedsir/687730.html#cutid1
Mr. Wooster’s kiss was as demanding as he’d promised in his letter. No sooner than I had closed the door behind me than I found myself accosted by my master and being pressed to the doorframe with unbridled passion. I pulled him to me and returned the gesture eagerly, until the kisses became less urgent, softer and more of a comfort than a demand. He worried my lower lip with his teeth as I stroked back his hair, forgetting for several moments my hat and the suitcase at my feet. At last, he pulled back, and allowed me to enter the flat properly.
“I could not be home soon enough, sir.” I found my voice as I stood back to gaze at him. His smile spread with my words, lighting up his tired eyes and bringing a flush of happiness to his cheeks. Details began to come to me. Some attempt had been made to tidy the flat, unlike the usual squalor I usually returned to. Withered flowers had been replaced with fresh, stuck haphazardly into the vases. Equal attention was paid to his person; every detail of his dress was impeccable. He had donned the soft gray summer suit I had selected upon his return, down to the tie and waistcoat. No gaudy variation was attempted, no silver and violet checked tie, no ridiculous pencil thin moustache, no tomato red and mustard gold knit vest in sight. All was polished, from his hair to the toe tips of his shoes. I must confess that his efforts pleased me, even as they worried me. I could not ignore the fatigue in his otherwise bright expression.
“Jeeves, at last.” He sighed. He offered me a nervous smile.
“Have you had nightmares, sir?” I asked, quietly. I felt responsible, even as I assured myself that the short leave was a necessity. I had left him.
“I don’t sleep as well without you, you know that, dear old thing.” He laid his hand over mine, and gazed up at me, earnestly. “It’s all right. Really. I’m just chuffed to have you back, more than I can say. Much more.” He lowered his eyes then. “I say, I wanted to thank you. For the letter, I mean. I burned it, like you asked, but not before committing the bally glorious thing to memory.” His fingers rested on my shoulders, and I lowered my head to sigh into his hair. I wanted him, the close proximity afforded me the scents I associated with him, the heat radiating from his body, and such things made it difficult to think of much else after a week’s separation.
“I have memorized yours as well, sir. It pained me to burn it.”
He chuckled at that, and squeezed my hand. “It’s just as well, really. Bally rotten attempt it was, I think.”
“Not at all, sir.” I poured him a brandy from the sideboard, and pressed it into his hand.
“Oh, and one for yourself, as well, what?” he moved to the edge of the chesterfield, gesturing for me to sit. I barely raised an eyebrow as I did as he asked, settling myself beside him with my drink.
He drank deeply from his glass, and set it aside. “I say, Jeeves, old thing. Have you ever thought about love?”
“It is a topic which is very much on my mind while in your company, sir.” I replied, amused at how my words had made his ears turn red.
“Of course.” He stammered. “I don’t doubt that at all, love. Of course you do. You’ve proven it. I mean to say, you never gave up on this Wooster, even when the rest of the world had given me up for dead. Everything you do for me...” Again, he drank from his glass, draining the contents. I rose to refill it, but he took my hands in his own and tugged gently, leading me across the flat. “I have a surprise for you, Jeeves. Come and see, what?”
My curiosity piqued, I followed. He lead me to the guest room, and opened the door. The room I entered was not what I had left. Gone were the bed and dresser, and in its place was a handsome study. The walls had been lined with bookshelves, awaiting to be filled. In the center of the room was a long, hefty library table, polished to a golden hue, sitting atop a cream deco rug. It was flanked with two contemporary leather desk chairs, and upon it a gleaming new Underwood typewriter, a rather nicer version of what I kept in the kitchen. The chaise lounge from the bedroom remained, situated along the far wall. It was the most charming and useful room I could imagine. I stood, speechless, as he chattered behind me.
“It’s for you, love. Well, for us, I mean. I intend to write again, and you do help me edit and such, even though you could surely write much better yarns of your own that edit mine, what? The thing is, well, you see, there comes a time in a man’s life when he… I mean, dash it, Jeeves… I want to write our story from now on.”
When I turned to face him, I saw that he was lowered on one knee. I believe that is the moment I forgot how to breathe. My face was hot, my hands were ice. I was trapped by Mr. Wooster’s intense gaze, and could only think of how dearly I wanted this impossible promise, yet how unworthy I was to accept. I fear that I was mute a moment too long.
“Say ‘yes’, Jeeves.” He whispered. “if you don’t, my Reggie… “ his eyes had darkened with an uncharacteristic seriousness, tinged with fear.
He rarely used that name , and only in the heat of passion. It was enough to startle me to my senses. “Yes, sir. Please, sir!” I gasped.
His laughter was a welcome reprieve. He was on his feet in an instant, and kissing me, feverishly. His hardness pressed against my leg, and I groaned. “Shall we have the wedding night before the vows, or after?” he purred.
“I fear I cannot resist you for so long, sir.”
“Well, then!” He grinned madly. Having regained his boldness, he lightly traced the outline of my erection through my flies. I could not wait to be teased, so I began to strip him, with a hurried efficiency. My own clothing was pulled from me, and carelessly tossed aside.
“To bed, sir?” I whispered, for I was eager; frantic, even.
“Not yet, my good man. “ He fished around the discarded garments, retrieving a small jar from his waistcoat, which he placed in my hands. His eyes sparkled with teasing mischief. “First, I expect you to give me a jolly good buggering.” He spread his legs slightly, and braced the edge of the table. I do believe he takes perverse pleasure in seeing me undone, without the ability to speak, or act rationally. There was, however, an equal desperation in his eyes. I wrapped an arm around him as I prepared myself, using my spare hand to lightly stroke his pert, pink nipples. His breathing became rougher as I nibbled at the tender skin of his throat, and his knuckles went white as they grasped the table in anticipation. I slipped a slick finger inside of him, and was rewarded with a sharp, encouraging cry. It seemed only moments before he was thrusting back, riding my hand, and groaning a plea for more.
The dull ache in my groin, coupled with the urgent noises emitting from Mr. Wooster’s throat were enough to tell me that neither of us would last long this time. With a groan, I entered him, and soon we had established a frenzied rhythm. He was gasping for me with each thrust, and as I felt myself close to losing control, I took his cock in hand and pumped vigorously. Soon, his back arched, and stilled. I abandoned myself to my own needs then, thrusting deeply as I felt his seed spill over my fingers. His knees were weak as I found my own release. I pulled him to the floor and clutched him possessively as I caught my breath.
“Take me to bed.” He sighed. I was only too pleased to do so.
We exchanged countless vows that night, in sleepy contentment. I would honor him, serve him, adore him, stay by his side for all time. He would be loyal, loving, faithful, devout. Promises upon promises were made, with no fear of deceit.
----
“I say, Jeeves, do you remember the name of what’s his name? The stout chap in the snappy trousers I wrote about that once. I do believe he’s the same blighter we met last week at Brinkley. I read about it, then put the manuscript away in the walnut whatnot, and now I can’t remember which one it is.”
“You refer to Major Barbazon-Plank, sir, a most disagreeable individual, I agree.” I retrieved the manuscript in question and set it before him, returning to the story I was typing. Mr. Wooster had kept his passion for the sordid detective stories alive, penning them occasionally along with his memoirs. The chapter I was revising was an embarrassingly eulogistic piece starring a clever, tall detective with a bent nose, his preferred hero.
In a few moments, a sharp “a-ha!” came from Mr. Wooster, and he smiled as he scratched out a sheet of notes. That particular smile indicated that he had remembered something from his past, triggered by a point in the manuscript. Every day revealed a bit more, and if he never remembered everything, he would at least have his manuscripts. Besides, as he frequently reassured me, we had the rest of our lives to look forward to remembering.