[Jeeves & Wooster] Ficlet: Third Person
I asked for challenges. janeturenne said kink. I decided on voyeurism. This is probably not what she had in mind, and honestly not what I'd envisioned either, but this is how it went. Don't blame Jane! Blame Emo Gussie! Not that he's got a damn thing to do with anything.
It's either awesome or awful or somewhere between the two. I really don't know.
1100 words exactly. Rated R. Not as smutty as it should be. Not happy at all. ummmm, totally contains Bertie/someone who is not Jeeves.
Third Person
As Jeeves strongly suspected the true cause of the movements Mr Travers had seen in the garden was not a prowler, and that the only crime occurring on the other side of the hedge was a victimless one, he had volunteered himself to 'investigate' in order to avoid the scene coming to the notice of less discreet witnesses.
Rather than affect a noisy approach to warn the pair, something Jeeves preferred not to examine for the moment made him steal silently into the garden and stop short of turning the corner that would lead him around the hedge to a small stone bench. Concern, not curiosity, he told himself, made him part the branches and peer through the hedge.
Bertie had his head on Bingo's shoulder, his eyes closed, but missing the peaceful contented expression to be expected of a man whose...lover? was stroking his hair. He looked pained, as though caught in a nightmare. Bingo said something in a tone too low for Jeeves to hear and wrapped an arm around Bertie, pulling him closer.
Despite suppressing the impulse to surge forward through the hedge and tear them apart, Jeeves could not help but feel a twinge of gratitude towards Bingo for giving Bertie the sort of comfort that Jeeves himself was not at liberty to offer. He gave what he could when it was needed, but Jeeves's comforts were largely verbal or culinary, and never physical.
Why Bertie needed comforting at all was a mystery; other than a predictable eagerness to escape the young female author who was currently a guest of Brinkley Court, Jeeves had noted nothing out of the ordinary in his manner that evening. He frowned, casting his mind back for whatever small sign might have escaped his notice, but other than the one telling glance between the pair now before him that had led to his suspicion of what he might find here, he could discover nothing.
He should, he knew, make his presence known, but as soon as he had thought it, Bertie raised his head, eyes still closed, and Bingo met his lips in what appeared at first to be a brief kiss, but after a breath lingered and deepened. Jeeves inhaled a sharp breath of his own, the immediate pang of desire at odds with a slow-burning rage that was itself titillating. It should be his jaw caressed by an immaculately manicured hand, should be his own larger, rougher fingers curling into soft blond hair that gleamed in the moonlight. His kiss that a soft moan muffled into.
This was not new. This was two bodies that had known each other for years, inside and out, and knew just where to touch. This was practised, instinctive, born of late lonely nights in a hotbed of hormonal turmoil, and it should have been his.
But it was not. He watched, frozen to the spot, as another hand that was not his plunged greedily down the front of Bertie's trousers, skewing waistcoat and shirt upwards and sideways and sure to leave wrinkles. Not his neck that fine white teeth bit into with relish. Not his name gasped out into the night sky. Not his knees digging into the gravelled path. Not his mouth closing slowly over the--
Jeeves spun on his heel at the sound of approaching footsteps, swallowing what threatened to become a sigh.
"What's all this, then?" came a voice from the darkness. "Did you catch the blighter, Jeeves? I'm sure I saw him come this way."
"I believe, Mr Travers, that I surprised Mr Wooster and Mr Little in the process of an act of what might be termed 'ragging.'" Not the smallest sound could be heard from the other side of the hedge.
"Ragging?" asked Tom, not quite shouldering his rifle. "How do you mean?"
"A pleasantry, sir, in other words. One might assume that as the gentlemen were at school together, they must have been taken by a nostalgic spirit. My arrival caused them to beat a hasty retreat in the direction of the boat-house, sir, if you would care to pursue them." Jeeves took custody of the rifle, positioning it to conceal the lingering bulge in his trousers that would be all too apparent in better light.
"Hardly worth the trouble, I should think," Tom said, and then called out, "Be it on their heads if they turn up drowned in the morning!"
Jeeves followed silently back to the house without a backward glance.
Though as a favourite of the lady of the house--and indeed of Seppings, who ruled life below stairs--Jeeves was afforded private quarters, he did not allow himself the indulgence of relieving his arousal. Instead he went about his evening routine as though Bertie were simply downstairs laughing and talking over brandy or entertaining the guests with his dubious musical selections. He laid out pyjamas and dressing-gown, and readied glass and decanter to pour a night-cap when called upon, pausing to watch through the window as two dark figures stole towards the boat-house.
He waited and imagined, conjecturing the details his experience and memory could not supply--the taste of the little hollow just above Bertie's hip, the way ungentlemanly oaths would sound on his kiss-swollen lips, desire thick in his throat. When, after two hours, the two figures again appeared and made their way slowly over the grounds, Jeeves poured the whiskey and soda ('not all the soda, Jeeves,' the constant presence in his head instructed as always). He retired, shamed and aching, to a cold narrow bed and shut off any thought at all.
Jeeves served tea and breakfast and news of the weather punctually at half-past-ten the next morning, all remembrance of the previous night's thoughts firmly stamped down and locked away.
Nervous blue eyes darted to and fro before settling on him. "Jeeves, last night--I mean to say, how much did you, er, exactly see?"
"Very little, sir. It was dark, if you recall."
"Oh, er, well. Thank you, then, for calling off Uncle Tom," Bertie said, blushing into his teacup.
"It was no trouble, sir."
"Bingo and I were at school together, you know. I don't see much of him now that he's gone and married himself off."
"Indeed, sir."
"How much is there on the dresser there?"
"Twenty-five pounds in notes, sir, and approximately four in coins."
"Take it all. You deserve it."
"Thank you, sir."
Jeeves collected the muddied, wrinkled suit from the chair and made his way down the narrow back staircase to attempt to remove the stains, but he suspected it was beyond repair.
It's either awesome or awful or somewhere between the two. I really don't know.
1100 words exactly. Rated R. Not as smutty as it should be. Not happy at all. ummmm, totally contains Bertie/someone who is not Jeeves.
Third Person
As Jeeves strongly suspected the true cause of the movements Mr Travers had seen in the garden was not a prowler, and that the only crime occurring on the other side of the hedge was a victimless one, he had volunteered himself to 'investigate' in order to avoid the scene coming to the notice of less discreet witnesses.
Rather than affect a noisy approach to warn the pair, something Jeeves preferred not to examine for the moment made him steal silently into the garden and stop short of turning the corner that would lead him around the hedge to a small stone bench. Concern, not curiosity, he told himself, made him part the branches and peer through the hedge.
Bertie had his head on Bingo's shoulder, his eyes closed, but missing the peaceful contented expression to be expected of a man whose...lover? was stroking his hair. He looked pained, as though caught in a nightmare. Bingo said something in a tone too low for Jeeves to hear and wrapped an arm around Bertie, pulling him closer.
Despite suppressing the impulse to surge forward through the hedge and tear them apart, Jeeves could not help but feel a twinge of gratitude towards Bingo for giving Bertie the sort of comfort that Jeeves himself was not at liberty to offer. He gave what he could when it was needed, but Jeeves's comforts were largely verbal or culinary, and never physical.
Why Bertie needed comforting at all was a mystery; other than a predictable eagerness to escape the young female author who was currently a guest of Brinkley Court, Jeeves had noted nothing out of the ordinary in his manner that evening. He frowned, casting his mind back for whatever small sign might have escaped his notice, but other than the one telling glance between the pair now before him that had led to his suspicion of what he might find here, he could discover nothing.
He should, he knew, make his presence known, but as soon as he had thought it, Bertie raised his head, eyes still closed, and Bingo met his lips in what appeared at first to be a brief kiss, but after a breath lingered and deepened. Jeeves inhaled a sharp breath of his own, the immediate pang of desire at odds with a slow-burning rage that was itself titillating. It should be his jaw caressed by an immaculately manicured hand, should be his own larger, rougher fingers curling into soft blond hair that gleamed in the moonlight. His kiss that a soft moan muffled into.
This was not new. This was two bodies that had known each other for years, inside and out, and knew just where to touch. This was practised, instinctive, born of late lonely nights in a hotbed of hormonal turmoil, and it should have been his.
But it was not. He watched, frozen to the spot, as another hand that was not his plunged greedily down the front of Bertie's trousers, skewing waistcoat and shirt upwards and sideways and sure to leave wrinkles. Not his neck that fine white teeth bit into with relish. Not his name gasped out into the night sky. Not his knees digging into the gravelled path. Not his mouth closing slowly over the--
Jeeves spun on his heel at the sound of approaching footsteps, swallowing what threatened to become a sigh.
"What's all this, then?" came a voice from the darkness. "Did you catch the blighter, Jeeves? I'm sure I saw him come this way."
"I believe, Mr Travers, that I surprised Mr Wooster and Mr Little in the process of an act of what might be termed 'ragging.'" Not the smallest sound could be heard from the other side of the hedge.
"Ragging?" asked Tom, not quite shouldering his rifle. "How do you mean?"
"A pleasantry, sir, in other words. One might assume that as the gentlemen were at school together, they must have been taken by a nostalgic spirit. My arrival caused them to beat a hasty retreat in the direction of the boat-house, sir, if you would care to pursue them." Jeeves took custody of the rifle, positioning it to conceal the lingering bulge in his trousers that would be all too apparent in better light.
"Hardly worth the trouble, I should think," Tom said, and then called out, "Be it on their heads if they turn up drowned in the morning!"
Jeeves followed silently back to the house without a backward glance.
Though as a favourite of the lady of the house--and indeed of Seppings, who ruled life below stairs--Jeeves was afforded private quarters, he did not allow himself the indulgence of relieving his arousal. Instead he went about his evening routine as though Bertie were simply downstairs laughing and talking over brandy or entertaining the guests with his dubious musical selections. He laid out pyjamas and dressing-gown, and readied glass and decanter to pour a night-cap when called upon, pausing to watch through the window as two dark figures stole towards the boat-house.
He waited and imagined, conjecturing the details his experience and memory could not supply--the taste of the little hollow just above Bertie's hip, the way ungentlemanly oaths would sound on his kiss-swollen lips, desire thick in his throat. When, after two hours, the two figures again appeared and made their way slowly over the grounds, Jeeves poured the whiskey and soda ('not all the soda, Jeeves,' the constant presence in his head instructed as always). He retired, shamed and aching, to a cold narrow bed and shut off any thought at all.
Jeeves served tea and breakfast and news of the weather punctually at half-past-ten the next morning, all remembrance of the previous night's thoughts firmly stamped down and locked away.
Nervous blue eyes darted to and fro before settling on him. "Jeeves, last night--I mean to say, how much did you, er, exactly see?"
"Very little, sir. It was dark, if you recall."
"Oh, er, well. Thank you, then, for calling off Uncle Tom," Bertie said, blushing into his teacup.
"It was no trouble, sir."
"Bingo and I were at school together, you know. I don't see much of him now that he's gone and married himself off."
"Indeed, sir."
"How much is there on the dresser there?"
"Twenty-five pounds in notes, sir, and approximately four in coins."
"Take it all. You deserve it."
"Thank you, sir."
Jeeves collected the muddied, wrinkled suit from the chair and made his way down the narrow back staircase to attempt to remove the stains, but he suspected it was beyond repair.