Let The Kinkiness Begin!
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give_satisfactionAnd we're off! Don't hold back! It's anonymous so let your freak flag fly! Not confident about your creative skills? Practice here! The fills can be anything you want. Fics, videos, artwork and anything else that strikes your fancy. Prompts do not have to be Bertie and Jeeves only! All of the other characters are fair game (Honoria and Madeline tentacle sex, anybody?). As are characters from other books and stories. This meme might be slow to start, so please spread the word!
And remember:
Complete rules for posting are on the group's profile. To protect members' privacy, entry posting is by members only. However, prompts and fills are made anonymously, which means non-members can respond!
Rules
1. No underage characters
2. No RPF/RPS
3. No bashing other people's kinks.
4. Please use content warnings. Put them at the start of your prompt. I.e. Prompt (Content Warning: Attempted Suicide)
Please warn for:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest
NOTE: IP logging is off.
Comment screening is off.
The subscriber and posting access lists are hidden.
HOW IT WORKS: All posts are comments. To make your request, reply directly to this post. To fill someone's request, reply to their comment.
TIP FOR FINDING FILLS: On the left side of each page is a list of posts. In this case, the fill titles appear so that you can find and click on them without scrolling through an increasingly long thread! You can also find Part Two of fills on the list. Another way is to check "Top Level Comments Only". Only the prompts will show. You can judge from the number of responses whether or not the prompt was answered.
ETA: If you have comments about a fill, there is absolutely no time limit on comments. Writers love praise!
ETA ETA: A post from May 21 says that members would prefer fills to fic recs. For more, click on the link.
ETA ETA ETA: Please do not delete your prompts once they are posted. Members might have been writing a fill, or simply enjoy reading them and imagining the scenarios.
And remember:
Complete rules for posting are on the group's profile. To protect members' privacy, entry posting is by members only. However, prompts and fills are made anonymously, which means non-members can respond!
Rules
1. No underage characters
2. No RPF/RPS
3. No bashing other people's kinks.
4. Please use content warnings. Put them at the start of your prompt. I.e. Prompt (Content Warning: Attempted Suicide)
Please warn for:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest
NOTE: IP logging is off.
Comment screening is off.
The subscriber and posting access lists are hidden.
HOW IT WORKS: All posts are comments. To make your request, reply directly to this post. To fill someone's request, reply to their comment.
TIP FOR FINDING FILLS: On the left side of each page is a list of posts. In this case, the fill titles appear so that you can find and click on them without scrolling through an increasingly long thread! You can also find Part Two of fills on the list. Another way is to check "Top Level Comments Only". Only the prompts will show. You can judge from the number of responses whether or not the prompt was answered.
ETA: If you have comments about a fill, there is absolutely no time limit on comments. Writers love praise!
ETA ETA: A post from May 21 says that members would prefer fills to fic recs. For more, click on the link.
ETA ETA ETA: Please do not delete your prompts once they are posted. Members might have been writing a fill, or simply enjoy reading them and imagining the scenarios.
Re: Fill: Darling sir
Date: 2019-06-02 07:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-02 08:02 am (UTC)Re: Fill: Darling sir
Date: 2019-06-02 11:51 am (UTC)Of course Jeeves would come up with an idea to get them out of trouble - and I rather like the idea. Now they MUST get a cat, so that Bertie's friends don't get suspicious next time they visit ;)
Also, this:
"But he assured me that, to him, it seemed more appropriate to call me by these names instead of Bertram or Bertie."
I totally agree with this and it's my personal headcanon as well!
no subject
Date: 2019-06-02 11:53 am (UTC)Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 08:03 am (UTC)My apologies; I know I haven’t begun this properly, but absolutely nothing about this situation is proper, so I figure, why not embrace the theme?
Anyway—when I say reckless, I don’t mean impulsive. “Impulsive” is not controlling oneself all day, waiting patiently and with premeditated forethought to make one’s move, like I did today. When I say reckless, I mean ill-advised. Audacious. Dangerous.
Today, when it came time for the y. m. to m. his m., he hesitated for a brief moment. I felt this compulsion, yes, but thinking about what I was about to do caused me no small amount of horror. Not to mention, it was one of the least preux actions a chevalier ever did undertake. There were a million reasons not to act and only one reason to act.
That one being: I really, really wanted to.
When I was finally alone, I snuck into the one room in the flat that is not mine. I say snuck; it’s not much of a sneak when you’re already alone. And I say not mine; it’s mine in the sense that I own this entire flat, but the servant’s quarters are just that, the servant’s. Let me be clear on this point. Just because I employ a chap, it doesn’t mean I own his soul. It doesn’t mean I’m entitled to everything that’s his.
It doesn’t mean I’m entitled to sneak into his room and steal his gloves.
I hurried back to my room, my ill-gotten gains clutched in my shaking, pilfering hands. I sat on my bed and removed my tie. I doffed my shirt, feeling my heart pounding beneath my trembling fingers as they made short work of the buttons.
That done, I examined the gloves. They were made of supple cattle hide leather, sleek ebony in color with fine black stitching. Intricate embroideries and embellishments revealed that this was a high-quality item. I thought to myself, as I had many times before: despite not being a wealthy man, Jeeves always seems to have the best of the best when it comes to apparel and accoutrements, which just goes to show the man’s consistently bang-on priorities.
I noted that the gloves were rather large in size, which is not surprising, seeing as their owner is an all-around large sort of chap. I slipped the right glove onto my corresponding hand and flexed my fingers experimentally. It was a decent fit, though a little roomy, as men’s gloves often are on me. I wiggled my fingers in a continuous wave, exploring the slight stretch and give of the soft fabric.
I held the other glove, the left, up to my face and steeled myself for what I was about to do. I then inhaled deeply, imbibing the rich smell. It instantly conjured up sense-memories, like that Proust fellow with his madeleines. Or were they éclairs? Some sort of fussy French confection, anyway. In this case, this smell in the Wooster beak evoked in the Wooster brain memories of jaunts in the park…excursions in the city…long drives down country roads spent watching my man's hands resting on the steering wheel, guiding our way.
With these visions in my mind’s eye, I laid back on my pillow and laid that left glove over my face so that its scent could surround me, fill me. With my begloved right hand, I caressed my own bare chest. The leather tugged slightly at the wiry hairs. I reveled in the texture of the fabric on my skin. I pinched one nipple, then the other, and they stood obediently at attention. I swept my hand down my stomach and rubbed on the front of my trousers, coaxing the arousal that was just starting to wax as my nerves began to wane.
I held my breath and dipped my hand into my waistband without undoing the fastenings. I like to do this to myself for some reason; it would be easier to move my hand if I removed the trousers or at least unbuttoned them, but I seemed to prefer to make it harder for myself than it needed to be.
Is that not a perfect metaphor for my whole bally life?
My hand found what it sought and I let out a quivery breath. The sensation of the leather on such sensitive skin drove home the reality of what I was doing, and the meaning behind it.
The gloves: Jeeves's. The bed, the hand, the face, the prick: mine. I was sullying this glove and likewise this glove was sullying me. My loins and my heart had piped up, naughty students at the back of the class who only raise their hands when they have some prankish mischief in mind, offering this foolhardy suggestion, but it was the gloves that had obliged me to take action. I knew it was my choice alone to steal these items and secretly desecrate them, but on some level, I blamed the gloves themselves, for there would have been no crime without the temptation they provided.
But never mind, it’s too late now to point fingers. Speaking of fingers: my wrist’s movement was constrained but my hand stroked as best it could, rousing my cock in languid self-seduction. I lifted the left glove off my face for a moment to watch the rhythmic rise and fall of cloth as the back of my hand tented and un-tented my trousers. There was something strangely erotic in just that, just the visual of the bulge moving up and down, obscured but unmistakable evidence of the wicked act of lust in which I was engaged.
I replaced the left glove and let my head fall back. My hips began rolling of their own accord, helping to accomplish what my constricted hand was struggling to achieve.
I became aware of an excess of friction, but employing the usual solution was not an option. My plan had been to take care of this sordid business as discreetly as possible and then return the gloves before they were missed, leaving their owner none the wiser. I knew lotion or oil would surely stain them, so I had to find another solution.
When my mouth opened in a quiet moan, a leather finger slipped inside. I sucked on it, picturing his finger inside it, gliding in and out between my pursed lips, pushing a little deeper in every time, patiently pursuing the back of my throat. He might hook that finger over my lower teeth, prying my jaw open further. Then he might resume his plundering of my mouth, but with two or three fingers this time.
Presently, I sucked a few more fingers into my mouth, although the limp fabric left a lot to be desired compared to the thrusting rigid digits of my fantasy. I tongued the cloth and tried not to think about whether saliva stains leather.
Meanwhile, the right glove's friction was becoming increasingly problematic. I gave in and undid my trousers clumsily. I tugged them impatiently down to my knees and resumed stroking myself, more lightly this time. I tried to fondle gently in the same way that my manservant touches everything when he wears those gloves. He uses a dexterous grip, performing every task he undertakes with a characteristic smooth, nimble grace.
That is what started all this, you know. For me, these gloves have come to represent skill, competence, and self-assurance. I watch them and wonder—how did he come to be so adept? Did he cultivate it in his years of valeting, or did he have a natural aptitude that was only enhanced by years of professional practice?
I was getting too aroused too quickly. I ran my hand over my belly, my bollocks, and my thighs instead, keeping myself at a low simmer so I wouldn’t boil over. I wanted to… No. Dammit, yes. I wanted to spend from the touch of this glove, onto it, into it. I wanted to cover it in my seed, contaminating it, and then clean it all off so Jeeves would never know, and then every time I saw him wearing them from then on, I would feel a private thrill from my sick, filthy secret.
Thinking about the next time these gloves would be worn made me contemplate the last time they had been worn. Though they appeared to be clean, I know they are regularly worn outdoors, where they come into contact with all manner of unsanitary things, and therefore should not be considered hygienic. The thought should have disgusted me, but instead it did quite the opposite. Now I was thinking about the dirty glove shoved in my mouth and the dirty glove wrapped around my prick; embracing the filth was so contrary to my nature that it made me feel like all my inhibitions were gone and anything was permissible. It made me feel base and foul, immersed in shame and, thus, beyond shame.
I could feel my prick leaking. I took a moment to examine the right-hand glove and saw it was a little wet. I wiped it onto the sheets and the signs were gone. But I still knew.
It's not right. I’m well aware. It's not a nice thing to do, to force another man to be involved in this perverted act without his knowledge or assent. I didn’t want to do that to him. I just didn’t know how I would ever in a million years find the words to tell such a man what I think about his gloves, his ingenious hands, his ingenious self.
I didn’t know what to do. The sensation was so beyond topping, but if I kept on like this, I risked soiling the glove and ruining the whole scheme. I had no idea how I would explain the glove being either ruined or suddenly disappearing. The only sensible thing to do would be to take it off. But I just…couldn’t. I couldn’t part with that exquisite, illicit pleasure. It scared me to feel so out of control, so thoroughly engrossed in my obsessive fixation. Every time I’ve thought about those blasted gloves lately I’ve felt a stab of passion, a rush of longing. The fervor of my craving whipped me up into such a state as to completely override my good judgment.
What I needed to do and what I wanted to do were at war with each other. I was afraid that I knew which one was going to win.
I forced myself to focus on a thought that was meant to repel me: Jeeves’s horrified reaction if he found out. But again, the result was the opposite of what I intended. The image my mind supplied of his shock at my revelation nearly made me come off right then. That is what made me realize that I wanted to be found out.
This desire to express myself was the truly insane part of all this madness. It would be too impossibly humiliating to speak of this aloud, but nonetheless, I wanted to confess. Maybe I could make him see that it wasn’t perverted. No, it was perverted, but maybe I could make him see that perverted isn’t necessarily monstrous. Abnormal isn’t necessarily immoral. I may be vile, but I’m not evil. I’m unusual, yes, but maybe, just maybe, I’m not unique.
So, here we are. After what I’ve done, it’s too late to turn back, so I might as well just come out and ask you.
Well...what do you say, Jeeves? I know all this must be dashed surprising for you. But is there any chance that you are unusual like me? Do you see the peculiar yet wondrous beauty of it all? Can you look beyond the conventional, if only just this once, and join me in the realm of the strange-yet-stupendous?
If you’re still reading this, and I know you are, I appreciate it. I thank you heartily if you are even considering tolerating my impertinence. Either way, I would be greatly obliged if you would please respond at your earliest convenience.
Your affectionate, hopeful, and terrified employer and friend,
Bertie
PS. In the box beneath this note is a pair of brand-new gloves. If you still want your old pair, despite what I’ve done to them—or better yet, because of what I’ve done to them—they’re lying on my bed, waiting for you. And so am I.
Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 09:32 am (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 09:58 am (UTC)"There were a million reasons not to act and only one reason to act. That one being: I really, really wanted to."
So very Bertie! Thank you for sharing!
Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 12:25 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 05:30 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 05:38 pm (UTC)FILL: After Red
Date: 2019-06-03 06:00 pm (UTC)- - - - - - - - - -
Bertie Wooster was naked, and he was on his knees in front of Jeeves – tall, handsome, fully-clothed Jeeves, who was looking down at Bertie pensively, wondering what to do with the young man. Bertie’s erection rested hard against his belly, and he waited, trembling, as Jeeves nonchalantly leaned back against the desk and watched him.
Those clever grey eyes, travelling up and down Bertie’s body, stopping here, there, and then there – it made Bertie shiver with anticipation. He couldn’t predict what exquisite new tortures Jeeves was concocting in that great brain of his. It made their little game unexpected, startling in its irregularity. Would Jeeves blindfold him tonight? Would he use the cane on him?
But what made Bertie’s heart pound in his chest now was the air of detachment with which Jeeves observed him, the way he tilted his dark head slightly to the side, pursing his lips in thought. It was positively degrading, to be stripped naked and stared at; appraised like property. Bertie loved it. He wanted more of this – he wanted to be misused, abused and then disregarded, like he was nothing. He wanted to be Jeeves’ plaything.
His knees were starting to ache from kneeling. He squirmed, and the movement caught Jeeves’ eye.
‘I will not pretend to be concerned with your discomfort, Mr. Wooster,’ he said. ‘You shall kneel until I tire of it.’
Bertie bit his lower lip. He wanted to agree, to say ‘yes, Jeeves, anything for you, Jeeves,’ but he would be punished for doing so. He was not to speak, not to move unless given the order.
Jeeves lifted his drink from the desk and lazily took a sip, watching Bertie, still. He seemed composed, calm, unmoved by the situation – but the bulge between his legs betrayed his desire. He placed his glass back on the table, then deliberately removed his jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair.
‘The completest submissiveness is your lot, and that is all,’ Jeeves said, rolling up his shirtsleeves to reveal strong forearms.
Bertie’s stomach lurched with fear and yearning and delight. It was intoxicating, this moment of absolute stillness before Jeeves finally revealed what he would do, how he would draw pleasure out of them both. Bertie’s prick twitched as he watched Jeeves push himself off the desk and walk slowly towards him. A strong hand grabbed his jaw and forcefully tipped his chin up. Jeeves looked down at Bertie.
‘Such a pretty thing,’ he whispered.
Bertie blushed. It was hard to maintain eye contact when Jeeves looked at him this way. There was no desperation or longing in his expression, just the passion that came with the certainty that he owned Bertie; that he would have him whenever and however he wanted. His hand still gripping Bertie’s jaw, Jeeves slid his thumb along the young man’s lower lip. ‘On the table,’ he ordered.
Bertie scrambled to his feet and bent over the table so low that his cheek was pressed against it, right next to Jeeves’ half-empty glass. They had played this game before; Bertie knew the rules well by now. He waited there, bent over the table, his legs spread and his backside waiting for Jeeves to claim it. He heard the sound of a lighter, and the smell of cigarettes filled the room. Bertie didn’t have to look up: Jeeves had started circling him, smoking languidly as he took in Bertie’s eager body.
‘What would they say if they saw you now?’ Jeeves hummed, bringing the cigarette to his lips. It didn’t matter who ‘they’ were: the thought of anyone but Jeeves seeing him like this filled Bertie with dread and a deep sense of shame – sometimes Jeeves would mention people by name, and Bertie knew no greater humiliation.
‘They would say: “that’s Jeeves’ boy”,’ Jeeves puffed out a cloud of smoke, then he undid his tie and left it hanging loose at his neck. He was so different from his usual immaculate, orderly self, but it made him incredibly attractive – shirtsleeves rolled up, cigarette between his lips; only slightly dishevelled. ‘They would instantly understand, Mr. Wooster, that you belong to me.’
Bertie’s face burned with shame and lust. He kept quiet, but good God, it was so difficult to keep his thoughts inside his own head. He wasn’t used to being silent.
Jeeves picked up his glass from the table and finished his drink. He discarded the glass – where, Bertie couldn’t know; he didn’t dare look up. It was usually by now that Jeeves took him, so he spread his legs further apart and waited. But then – it happened so suddenly that Bertie gasped – Jeeves struck the younger man’s bare buttocks with his palm. The blow was so powerful it made Bertie’s knees buckle.
‘I said on the table,’ Jeeves admonished him.
Bertie clambered onto the table obediently. His backside stung, and he wished Jeeves would strike him again to make it hurt more. He was so hard already… he wanted more and more and more.
‘Turn around. I want you on your back,’ Jeeves ordered. This surprised Bertie – he was expecting to be buggered roughly from behind. But he did as he was told, and when he looked up from where he lay on the table, Jeeves was leaning over him, his tie in his hands, his cigarette dangling from his lips. He pinned Bertie’s arms above his head, using the tie to attach his wrists together, and then to the table. All the while, Bertie watched, mesmerised by Jeeves’ impassiveness, the methodical, precise way he tied him up.
As his hands were bound, Bertie struggled to keep his legs from dangling over the edge of the table: he had to spread them wider and pull them back towards his chest, exposing his bottom.
Jeeves sucked on his cigarette one last time before letting it fall to the ground and crushing it under his shoe. There was something wild and cruel stirring beneath his calm exterior – it was exciting and frightening and unbearably alluring. Whatever he planned on doing to Bertie, it wasn’t any of their usual games.
‘What would they think of you, Mr. Wooster,’ Jeeves said, finally wrapping his hand around Bertie’s aching cock, ‘if they saw you now: how you let me ravish you… how you crave such degradation…’
Bertie closed his eyes as Jeeves stroked him. He felt his own defencelessness now, the vulnerability of his position, the way he was sprawled – displayed – on the table. He felt Jeeves move, heard the soft ‘pop’ of a bottle being opened, and when Jeeves’ hand returned it was slick with oil. Bertie sucked in a deep breath. Jeeves stroked him harder now, and faster, faster, until he was almost there, so close…
And then Jeeves removed his hand, and it was like the very air had been wrenched from Bertie’s lungs. He bucked his hips in frustration and opened his eyes, looking up at Jeeves questioningly.
‘Not yet,’ Jeeves answered.
Bertie clenched his jaw. It was so difficult not to speak, not to beg and plead and scream. His cock throbbed against his belly, oil pooling beneath it. Jeeves reached down and squeezed Bertie’s balls – at first the touch was gentle, almost disappointing, but then Jeeves’ grip tightened, and he squeezed so hard it hurt, it hurt and it was so good, and again Bertie thought he’d reach his climax…
Jeeves pinched the tip of Bertie’s cock firmly, and the sensation was lost. It was maddening, but it seemed like this cruel game was to go on for quite some time: Jeeves gripped Bertie’s prick again and massaged it with his fingers. He rubbed his thumb over the slit several times – the slightly uncomfortable sensation made Bertie squirm and struggle against his bonds.
‘You know it’s useless,’ Jeeves whispered, ‘I will do whatever I please with you, whether you like it or not.’
Bertie moaned and thrashed his hips desperately. Jeeves wrapped his palm around him again and gave him a few satisfying strokes; then he twisted his wrist on an upstroke and Bertie cried out in pleasure. He wanted release, he wanted it now, he couldn’t take it anymore…
‘Please, Jeeves!’
He knew the moment he spoke that it was a mistake. His aching cock was once again abandoned as Jeeves reached up and pinched Bertie’s erect nipple. The punishing grasp tore a groan of pain out of Bertie, and he struggled again, trying to turn away.
‘A proper gentleman does not beg,’ Jeeves said, squeezing Bertie’s nipple harder and twisting it.
The pain was nearly unbearable, and yet it shot waves of pleasure through Bertie’s trembling body. He was sure he would die of frustration. ‘Please stop! Please! I can’t –’
But Jeeves did not stop. Instead, he used his other hand to squeeze Bertie’s balls just as hard. Bertie whimpered and whined and sobbed, no longer struggling. This seemed to satisfy Jeeves, because he let go, and there was a brief moment of relief.
Then Jeeves’ fingers were between Bertie’s legs, eager, impatient, quickly preparing him. When Bertie looked up Jeeves had already pushed his trousers down and positioned himself – there was a look of hunger on his face that Bertie had never seen. He was lost, completely lost to his passion, not thinking properly, too consumed by lust. He grabbed Bertie by the hips and drove into his hole too hard, too fast, and suddenly Bertie felt fear rise in him, fear and anger and pain because it hurt, it hurt so much and he felt worthless and empty and in so much pain, and Jeeves was thrusting now – too much, he couldn’t…
‘Reginald stop!’ he cried out.
All at once, everything stopped. Jeeves pulled out and Bertie’s head fell back against the table. He winced at the lingering pain, panting through the avalanche of emotions that assailed him. He knew he was being untied and carried onto the bed, but it was happening far away. For a moment he was floating between relief and regret, and then finally he felt a soft hand on his face, and he opened his eyes.
Jeeves was leaning over him, carefully touching his cheek with the tips of his fingers, like he was afraid he would break him. The expression on his face was of utter horror. Bertie shook his head and reached out, grabbing Jeeves by the shirt and pulling him into his arms. ‘It’s alright,’ he whispered. He felt the mattress shift as Jeeves sat down, and then they were locked in a tender embrace. It made him feel real again, it made him feel a little more like himself.
‘I am so sorry…’ Jeeves’ lips moved against Bertie’s neck.
‘It’s quite alright, old thing,’ Bertie held him close, and for a moment he only thought of the guilt on Jeeves’ face, and how he wanted it gone.
Jeeves was shaking his head. ‘I – I lost my senses. It is unforgivable.’
‘Come now, it was nothing.’
But Jeeves had pulled the sheets over Bertie’s still-shaking body and was arranging the pillows behind his back. ‘Rest,’ he whispered, placing a kiss on Bertie’s forehead, ‘I will be back.’
Bertie closed his eyes. He felt drained, weak. He didn’t know how long he’d been alone – it felt like mere seconds. Jeeves was back with a tray: on it were chocolates, a cup of tea and a glass of water. He placed them on the bedside table and sat on the bed. His hands were now gently cupping Bertie’s face.
‘I love you,’ he said. It was absolutely heart wrenching.
Bertie kissed him. ‘I love you too, Reggie.’
‘I should never have –’
Bertie silenced him with another kiss. There was something about having Jeeves’ arms around him that made Bertie feel safe, like he was finally coming home. ‘Hold me, Reg,’ he said softly, and Jeeves did.
They lay in bed together, Bertie’s head resting on Jeeves’ chest. ‘Perhaps we need a new word,’ Bertie observed.
Jeeves’ lips grazed Bertie’s forehead. ‘Mm?’
‘Yes. I rather liked calling you Reginald. I don’t think I want to limit it to this.’
A smile – and Jeeves held Bertie a little closer. ‘Whatever you want, my darling.’
- - - - - - - - - -
I have notes for this one:
- Jeeves quotes Le Marquis de Sade when he says “The completest submissiveness is your lot, and that is all.”
- The first question I asked myself when I started writing this was: Jeeves’ POV or Bertie’s POV? I just couldn’t make up my mind, so instead of writing in first person (as is the tradition in Wodehouse fanfic) I decided to go for the more neutral third person.
- The title refers to the common color-system used as safe words in BDSM (Yellow for “be careful!” Red for “stop!”)
- It is my own personal headcanon that Jeeves and Bertie’s ACTUAL safe word is “Eulalie” (I mean, come on, it makes so much sense!) but that would’ve added a comedic element which I believe in this particular story would have been inappropriate.
Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 07:02 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 09:54 pm (UTC)Re: FILL: After Red
Date: 2019-06-03 11:14 pm (UTC)I feel like third person is great when you want to get in both people's heads, but first person can be easier when writing about two men because otherwise you end up having to repeat their names a lot to clarify which "he" you mean.
I think you made the right move with the less comedic safeword but I also support them changing it for the future because Reginald is too nice a name to be off-limits.
Re: Fill: (G)love
Date: 2019-06-03 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-04 04:02 am (UTC)Re: FILL: After Red
Date: 2019-06-04 08:55 am (UTC)Not gonna lie, this took me ages to write because of that! I really didn't want to be repetitive but sometimes it's inevitable.
I'm glad you agree :) And yes, Reginald is such a lovely name!
no subject
Date: 2019-06-05 08:22 am (UTC)Fill: Veritas
Date: 2019-06-05 08:40 am (UTC)As for my personal tastes, you may call my palate unsophisticated, but I happen to like a little sweetness. I like richness and boldness. A little spice, a little zest. A full body. A sharp bite.
I savor my wine. When I overdo it, I regret it, but before too long, I find myself (over)doing it all over again. I can be so contrary like that sometimes, it’s really quite perverse. I have so little self-control sometimes.
Take Friday night, for instance. I overdid it, which is typical, and found that my man had overdone it too, which is not typical in the least. I stumbled back home at quite a late hour. By that time he has usually long ago gone to sleep—or at least gone to his room. I can’t really say what he does in that room once he goes in there, whether he goes to sleep, reads an improving book, writes his manifesto, practices traditional Cossack dancing, or whatever else. I really have no idea since I am not privy to those kinds of intimate behaviors.
Although, I have learned a little.
That night, I learned that even Jeeves’s legendary grace falters when he’s under the surface. His reflexes slow and his speech slurs. His eyes look tired and bright all at once. He relaxes and loosens up. He grins, by Jove! It’s quite an extraordinary sight.
He arrived at the flat just a few minutes after I had. I could hardly believe my eyes when he slipped through the front door. His face was flushed, partly due to drink, partly to embarrassment. He apologized for appearing before me in such a state; I pish-toshed it away immediately, for it was his night off, and this is exactly the sort of merriment in which he ought to engage on these occasions.
I was already in a good mood, and the sight of a sozzled Jeeves struggling to maintain his usual flawless composure amused me greatly. I had pity for him, because his shame was so apparent, but at the same time, I relished finally seeing a slip of his impenetrable mask, a chink in his armor, a stain on his dignity.
See? I told you I can be quite perverse sometimes.
I rushed to assure him that his inebriation was absolutely fine and not at all indecorous. He didn’t really believe me. I insisted that he sit on the couch and have a last nightcap with me, even pouring the thing myself.
We traded stories about our respective revelries of the evening, a birthday party at my club and a retirement party at his. I must admit, I had trouble paying attention to what he was saying because I kept getting distracted by how he was saying it. This wobbly, slackened Jeeves was less restrained, less precise. I am even tempted to use a word I never thought could apply to him: silly. He kept hiccupping. The silliness was contagious. I teased him and he blushed. I felt a bit cruel doing it, but I could sense he enjoyed the razzing.
I poured another round for each of us. I suppose I got a little carried away. I was joking about his clothes, something about his tie being slightly askew, and I reached out for his collar. He flinched away, which of course made me want to touch it again. He evaded me again, a most un-Jeeves-like mischievous grin on his face. I redoubled my efforts to grab the tie, and he kept escaping my clutches. We were both laughing at this point. We are both far too manly to do anything that could be described as giggling, so I must instead say we chuckled or perhaps guffawed. Somehow, accidentally, inexplicably, impossibly, I found that my hands were all over my valet, tickling him.
I doubt the feudal spirit even has rules prohibiting this, if only because the feudal chappies never thought to prepare for the remote possibility of such an eventuality ever occurring.
Although he was laughing, he was really trying to stop me. Unfortunately for him, I was really trying not to be stopped. I managed to unbutton his jacket and shove my hands beneath his arms, fiddling around his ribs, twiddling my fingers up and down his flanks. The poor blighter must be exceptionally ticklish, because even through a few more layers of clothing, he was squirming quite badly. He fought back valiantly until he ran out of breath, then collapsed back against the couch cushions, still wriggling. I leaned over him so I could reach his armpits.
We were breathless with laughter, caught up, carried away with our own antics. I threw my leg over his to try to keep him under my control. It didn’t really work; instead, now that I was straddling his thigh, I was in danger of being kneed in quite a sensitive place if he thrashed too hard. Only seconds after crossing my mind, my concern became a reality, and I heaved a great “Oof!” when his knee struck its mark.
He froze, instantly contrite. “Forgive me, sir, I do apologize!”
I quickly realized that I was fine despite the initial shock of pain. I also felt vaguely embarrassed—although physical proximity with my body was part of many of his professional duties, that was one place we had never made any kind of contact. But the only long-term effect of the jolt was to re-invigorate my fighting spirit. “No harm done, old thing. But I will get you back for that!”
He instinctively shielded his groin with his hands, even though that kind of eye-for-an-eye style vengeance had not been my intention. I seized my chance to undo his waistcoat buttons and continue my tickling attack.
“Wait a moment, sir—”
“No can do!”
“I insist you stop, I have to, er, I need—”
“I will have my revenge!”
“You must excuse me, I shall return momentarily—”
“You can’t talk your way out of this!”
“I must use the bathroom, sir! Stop!”
I stopped.
Jeeves coughed awkwardly. He added apologetically, by way of explanation, “I drank quite a lot of wine at the party, sir, and as that was a few hours ago…”
Again I felt a rummy sort of embarrassment. My man and I cross plenty of lines of propriety that other gentlemen and valets wouldn’t cross, but this was too many for one night, and we had both had too many drinks for one night, and everything seemed blurred and confused. I didn’t know what to do, so I said, “You’ll go nowhere!” and renewed my onslaught.
He looked to be a new level of frantic. “No, sir, please, please!”
I felt a sudden, odd throb that I decided must be a delayed reaction to the kick I’d received. “You’ll just have to hang on a little longer!”
“I need to go now, sir, I beg of you!”
Good Lord. Another throb, but no man ever felt this kind of throb from an injury. I couldn’t really handle dealing with what that meant at this moment. “Now?” I squeaked.
“Now, please, let me go, sir!” His hands continued gripping his crotch. His eyebrows arched in desperate apprehension. He looked so helpless and vulnerable beneath me, worked up, struggling, pleading with me. The effect threatened to overwhelm me.
What was happening to me? The tingly feeling of arousal was now unmistakable, but—here? Now? Jeeves? All because he had to…?
I felt heated all over. I noticed I was sweating slightly. I was still kneeling over his leg and I shifted my balance, which brought my hips into contact with his thigh. I knew I should spring back off, lest it stir me up further, but I didn’t. This decision was the beginning of the end of my precarious self-control.
“One more minute and I’ll let you go,” I declared, surprising myself. “Can you do that?”
He was, quite understandably, wide-eyed with shock. He could tell that I meant what I was saying. “Y-yes, sir,” he said, and to my ears, it sounded like a surrender.
I grinned wickedly and started the tickle-attack anew. In his writhing, his crisp shirt was starting to come untucked. I pulled it and his undervest free from his trousers in order to run my hands over his warm skin. He twisted and flinched under my ministrations, half-laughing, half-whining, and half-groaning. I know that's too many halves, but that's oddly appropriate to describe this sound, which seemed to surround me as if emanating from more than just one single Jeeves. The more I heard this sound, the more I wanted to do whatever it took to elicit it.
He had apparently accepted his fate, for although he was still thrashing and twitching, he wasn't really fighting me anymore. Feeling him give up and submit to me set off firecrackers deep inside me. Tabasco sauce flowed through my veins. Absently, I felt myself harden as his hips bucked me. Occasionally mine bucked back. If I weren’t so foxed myself and could think straight, I would have realized I was essentially riding his thigh.
In fact, if I could think straight, I probably wouldn’t be doing any of this. I could only imagine what the man must be thinking. Come to think of it, what was I thinking? Is this new or has this been inside me, unnoticed, all along? What is “this,” anyway? Heretofore unseen aspects of ourselves were being revealed to one another tonight and I wasn’t sure I was looking forward to facing the consequences of those revelations in the morning. But there was no time to worry about that now: I had more pressing matters to attend to and only a minute to do so.
My hands, which had been tending to his ribs, slid back down his sides and pushed experimentally on his stomach. He tried to stifle a whine as his back arched and his taut belly quivered with tension. I knew all kinds of muscles inside him must be clenching and squeezing, trying to maintain control. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. I pressed harder on his lower abdomen, knowing how much more difficult this must be making his endeavor. It was clear to see from his expression, wincing with discomfort and exertion, that he was afraid he was really going to lose it. A thrill shot through me at the thought of what would happen to his crisp uniform, the pristine couch, maybe the floors, if he failed at this challenge.
I have my theories on what that would be like, detailed theories which I often take out and contemplate on long, lonely nights, but I will never know for sure, because he succeeded at this challenge, just as he does at all others. Eventually, I had to abandon my mission and begrudgingly admit, "All right, Jeeves, you made it! Well done, old thing.”
"Thank you, sir. Now, please..."
“You may get up and go," I said. "Or…you could stay and let go. Right here."
He whimpered then, a sound I never dreamed of hearing from him, and looked like a man grappling with an impossible question. We stared at one another, silent thoughts passing between us.
Was he seriously considering…?
Suddenly, he made up his mind. He sat upright abruptly, pushing me off his leg. With an inscrutable last glance at me, but no words, he biffed off, speeding to the bathroom.
In vino veritas. I remained seated, and as I watched him go, I pondered the surprising, unexpected truths that may be found in wine. And I pondered those other truths that not even wine can reveal.
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Date: 2019-06-05 10:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-05 10:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-05 10:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-05 10:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-05 01:41 pm (UTC)Re: Fill: Veritas
Date: 2019-06-05 02:05 pm (UTC)"In fact, if I could think straight, I probably wouldn’t be doing any of this."
L I T E R A L L Y !