Let The Kinkiness Begin!

[cuddyclothes]

And 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!

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Please warn for:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Major Character Death
Rape/Non-Con
Suicide
Attempted Suicide
Incest


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Comments

[(Anonymous)]

Thanks a lot!

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie likes them big, luckily for him Jeeves is pretty well hung. Jeeves build him up to the main event with a series of increasingly bigger sex toys.

[(Anonymous)]

(Inspired by the last fill )Bertie is claustrophobic. The problem is now Jeeves and him are stuck in a wardrobe and will have to stay there for quite some times. H/C and fluff desired but if you want the comforting to be sexy I would not protest overly much <3

[(Anonymous)]

I have to admit that this B.W.W was never a great chum of being trapped inside his aged relative’s dusty wardrobe. Or any other small and dark space, that is.
Nasty things, small spaces. I couldn’t tell you exactly when this deep-hearted dislike of those chaps began, but I suppose it was the early evening of the 4th September of 1906.
‘Twas my first day at school, you see, and for a reason I cannot possibly remember now, a group of birds didn’t like the sight of the Wooster-face and decided to lockme into the headmaster’s desk drawer (I was rather a shrimpy sort of child, you see).
It was not until the next m. that I was found by the h.m. himself and received a good number of cane strokes for bursting into tears upon seeing him.

So you see, that it is not without reason that the heart of your devoted author races at the sort of poky rooms and that sort of stuff.

But where was I? Dash it, I have started right in the middle of the thing again, I am afraid! But I am sure the dear reader willl forgive me my thickheadedness in this case, because I am not ashame to say that the Wooster-mind, far from well-equipped at the best of times, is still somewhat shaken by the rummy affairs of the evening.

So, let me start again…ah, well, now!

This morning I was in a spiffing mood, sunshine, birds and all, and I had my first cup of tea in an unusually early hour. It can’t have been much later than 10 o’clock when I raised the willowy frame out of the bed and was greeted by a telegram of my dear old A. Dahlia.
Jeeves (you know Jeeves, don’t you? I would be dashed surprised if you didn’t, because he has played a not unimportant role in my adventures so far)
Where was I? Ah, yes, Jeeves read this telegram to me while I just finished my second cup of tea. It went: WHAT-HO OLD TWIT STOP COME HERE AT ONCE STOP BRING JEEVES STOP DAHLIA
This is not unusual you see, because my dear a.r. often requires the help of her nephew and the genius brain that is his man to get her out of the soup. And because this Wooster-heart cannot refuse to help his fav. aunt in any case, the same afternoon I found myself in the drawing-room of the aforementhingummy relative.

„I say, old fruit!“ I exclaimed, „What is so important that you drag me here on such a fine morning in early May? I had appointments, you kn…“
„Oh, be quiet, you halfwhit of a nephew! Where is Jeeves? I need him, now!“ My dear aunt was positively furious, like a fire- spitting dragon in one of these fairy thingies.
„What’s all this fuss about, aged relative?“ I asked with genuine concern for the old girl.
„Your uncle, Bertram! Oh, you men are all the same, useless and foolish in the best of times, but utter swines the rest of it!
„Your losel of an uncle has an affair, Bertie! With that horrible American person who is staying with us! You know, Huffy Brickleston- Figg‘s friend from New York. Oh, it is awful!“
„I say, old egg!“ I was astonished. Old boring Uncle Tom having an affair? „Do you have any proof ?“
„That’s what I need you for! Or Jeeves, that is. He has been bally well cautious about it, but I am sure of it! So, get your man here and we can make a scheme…“

And thus, my dear reader, I found the old Wooster-frame pressed against the somewhat more solid body of my loyal man Jeeves in the tightest of spaces, i.e. the wardrobe of my Uncle Tom’s dressing-room.
In case you should wonder if this was the original intention of the brilliant plan my aged A. and Jeeves had forged out earlier, I can assure with all the honour of B.Wooster, that it had not been. No, dash it, the plan had been to pop into my uncle’s room for a minute to look if there was anything fishy among his stuff that would proof that rummy idea of Aunt Dahlia.

However, before we had the chance to take more than a glance around, Jeeves suddenly grasped my shoulder and dragged me into the nearest hide-away. I was about to protest (I mean, no bird likes to be manhandled) when I heard the door to the dressing-room being opened and saw through the little gap in the wardrobe door how old Tom trudging in.

I was hoping that he might just needed his pipe or smth. and that he would get it and leave, but to my great dismay, he settled down on his divan and started reading a book of sorts.
I mean, I say! What are studies, and libraries and sitting-rooms and whatnots for, if not to sit down and read a book? Why, I am asking, can’t my uncle just act like a proper Englishman and use his dressing-room for what it was invented back in the Stone Age or whenever the common design for English country houses was developed?

So, you see that the young master and his honest man were in a rather thick soup, there.

And now we are back at the beginning of my story, and I have to say again, only in case that some of my honourable readers had a kip on the sofa or a quick round of darts at the beginning of this adventure and therefore missed the first part of it: Bertie doesn’t like small spaces. Not in the slightest. He would rather spend a night in Aunt Agatha’s bedroom than in a cupboard or a service lift or whatever other small space one can imagine (Tuppy Glossop once spend an evening in the service lift of the Drones, after he tried to get into the kitchen after the chef had gone).

After about two minutes in Uncle Tom’s wardrobe I felt as if there was no air to breathe anymore, and I was almost certain that the walls of the ruddy thing were coming closer and closer. I remembered that dreadful night in the headmaster’s desk and I must admit that my heart was pounding violently.
Jeeves of course kept his usual composure. However he must have sensed that I didn’t feel very well, because he leaned forward and whispered in my ear: „Are you quite all right, sir? It appears that you are shivering.“
Oh, was I? I hadn’t noticed. With some trouble due to the lack of oxy-whatsit in the Wooster-organs, I tilted my head backwards and muttered: „The y.m. is not very“—breathe—„fond of situations like“—breathe—„this, Jeeves.“ Sweat was dripping down my forehead now, and I fumbled about in the dark to make sure that there was still a gap between my body and the walls.
Jeeves remained standing very still. „Are you claustrophobic, sir?“
I had never heard the word before, but then this was not extraordinary when I was talking to Jeeves.
„If that means that I am afraid that this bloody wardrobe is going to swallow me alive any moment now, then yes, I am close…caus…“
„Claustrophobia, sir, refers to the anxiety some individuals experience when being forced to stay in a place with limited space.“
My man was standing very close to me now in order to have better access to my ear, and his warm presence against my back was rather soothing for the young master.“My younger sister suffers from the same condition, sir, and I have noticed that a certain relaxation of the body can be of help in these situations.“

And how was one supposed to relax his body when he was stuck inside of a tiny, tiny wardrobe together with his manservant? It was in this moment that I realised for the first time how strong and tall Jeeves really is. Of course I had noticed before that he is quite an impressive figure, but his manly physique had never been so evident to me. I leaned a bit backwards and whispered: „How…?“

„If you‘ll allow me, sir?“
And I felt two very warm, very firm arms coming around my willowy frame and pulling me slowly -as not to produce any suspicious noise- backwards. Jeeves lowered himself onto the wooden floor, causing the suits and shirts and other bits of clothes around us to rustle slightly. Then he pulled me even closer so that I was sitting half on his lap.
This is, of course, not a very appropriate position for a young gentleman, but I was on the verge of tears by this time and I am sure that crying in front of one’s valet is even more un-gentlemanly than sitting on his lap, so I didn’t protest.

You will ask now, „Wooster, you old twit, how is sitting on another chap‘s lap supposed to help you when you are in a state of panic?“

Well, I can’t answer you the q. why it helped, I only know that it helped. At first I felt a bit self-conscious, not being used to being held by someone and all.

You see, when you grow up as an orphaned child, being moved to and fro by a number of aged relatives, you don’t get a lot of physical attention and loving care and whatnot. Although my aunts, uncles and cousins surely loved me more or less, their affection never reached further than a kiss on the cheek or a fatherly pat on the shoulder.
But I mustn’t bore the dear reader with the sorrows of my distant youth. Back to the wardrobe.

As I said, I was now sitting on the floor, leaning against the solid body of my trusted servant who was still holding me between his arms. Sitting improved the whole cics. a bit, because there was more space above my head now, but it was still bally troublesome to breathe and my mouth was suddenly very dry.
Then I felt a light pressure against my skull. Jeeves had moved his hands from my waist to my temples and was rubbing small circles into my scalp. It felt odd but at the same time it was most relaxing, and I am not ashamed to say that I leaned into the touch and rested my head on the warm Jeevesian shoulder.

„All right, sir?“ I heard the familiar voice in my ear. „Mmn, ´s better“ was all I managed to answer.

„It always seemed to help my sister, sir.“ Jeeves continued stroking the y.m.‘s head with one hand but removed the other one which came to rest on my chest. My heartbeat slowed down a bit, and the dizziness I had experienced since we had entered the ruddy wardrobe began to fade. I felt safe in the strong embrace and, not having to fear being eaten by the darkness anymore, I closed my eyes.

I think I read somewhere once of a bird who lost his eyesight but therefore had a spiffing sense of smell. Something like this must have happened to me tonight, because when I closed my eyes I suddenly noticed an intruiging scent in the air; something lemony, beeswax and a spicy note I couldn’t quite place. I took a deep breath to get more of the scent, and Jeeves bent his head down again and mumbled: „That’s good, sir, long, deep breaths, like this.“

And then the most exraodinary thing took place. You might not believe it, honoured reader, but in this moment my man Jeeves, who always turns his nose up at my piano playing and singing and who refuses to accompany his master to any of the great jazz clubs in the metrop., this Jeeves now started humming quietly next to my ear.
I don’t think it was a real tune, merely some notes he thought of while sitting there, but to me it was the sweetest thing I had ever listened to, better even than ‚Forty-seven Ginger-headed Sailors‘.
After a couple of m.s of leaning against the warm body, listening to Jeeves’s lullaby and breathing in his soothing smell, I was well enough to open my eyes again.
I looked up into my man’s face and even though it was pitch black in the wardrobe, I thought I could see his soft blue eyes shining. And I have absolutely no idea what got into the weak Wooster-brain in this moment, but I reached out an stroked his cheek, rubbing my thumb over the traces of stubble there.
“Thank you, my dear…“ ‚chap‘ I wanted to add, but then my mouth was closed by the warm and tender lips of said chap, and the weak Wooster-brain collapsed completely.

Everything was suddenly forgotten, the crowdedness, the darkness and all the anxiety. All I could do was to cling to my strong, wise Jeeves and melt away under his touch.

I say, when one reads through the last lines of this scribbling, it rather sounds like one of these soppy love thingies by Rosie M. Banks. I always believed that these kind of fierce emotions were inventions of the female mind, because I had never felt this way for one of the many fillies my aged relatives thrusted upon me, but this kiss there in-midst my Uncle Tom’s dressing robes and suits felt rather special. Not fireworks and violins maybe, but certainly a warm, fuzzy feeling deep inside of the Wooster-corpus.

I can’t tell you how long we sat there entangled, but it had to be a solid twenty minutes. I suppose we would have stayed longer, but as splendid as all this kissing and stroking and exchanging of lover’s oath was, it could not make me forget completely that we were still stuck in a very small, very dark space, and after a while I could feel my breathing getting more troubled again( even though this could also have been the fault of my dear man’s eager hands on my more private parts).

Be that as it may, when I peeked through the gap again, there was no sign of any aged r. to be seen, so Jeeves and I crawled outside and into the blessed air and sunshine of a golden early evening in the springtime.
Upon our return to Aunt Dahlia (which was after a fussing Jeeves fixed his y. master’s dishevelled appearance, of course) we had to discover that while the both of us had been hiding away, Uncle Tom had long left the dressing-room and he and Aunt Dahlia had had a mutual discussion (i.e. a monumental row).
He could convince the old aunt that he did not have an affair, and Jeeves and I were released and allowed to return home.

You’re wondering why old Bertie is rushing things to an end now, aren’t you? Well, well, the answer to that is simple: a gentleman always has to make the right choices in his life; and right now the choice presented to me is to either fulfill my duties as your author and to finish this adventure properly tonight, or to postpone this until tomorrow and instead join my genius of a valet in my bedroom.
And by Jove, if you have ever seen my good man late at night scantily dressed in the Wooster bedchamber (I do hope you have not!) you know which on I chose!

So, till the next time, dear reader, cheerio and toodle-o!

[(Anonymous)]

wings!kink but can be pure and fluffy. Bertie discovers Jeeves' secret. Jeeves is an angel.

[cuddyclothes]

This isn't exactly what you're looking for but it's an excellent wing!fic WIP:

Jeeves And The Pulchritudinous Plumage
https://archiveofourown.org/works/13052013/chapters/29854461

[(Anonymous)]

I had a rubbish day so I would really love to see Bertie getting comforted by Jeeves, like full on hurt/comfort with lots of fluff and cuddles in front of the fireplace and then Bertie can fall asleep in Jeeves arms and Jeeves can carry him to their bed.

FILL: You Will Never Be Alone

[(Anonymous)]

He found me on the sofa. I wasn’t much to look at – shirt rumpled, hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes puffy and red. I hid my face in my hands, ashamed. I didn’t want him to see me this way. What would he think of the young master now? I tried to straighten up but my body was numb. ‘What’s the point, Bertram?’ it seemed to tell me.

So I slumped there on the sofa and hid my face in my hands like a child. My eyes were wet, and I hated them for it. He would see – he would see my tears and my emptiness and my ugliness, and he would not love me like before.

‘I need – I need you to leave, Jeeves,’ I lied. My voice was shaky and weak.

For a moment there was silence, and I thought he’d left. But then I felt the sofa shift under his weight, and his voice, soft and clear, ‘If it is truly what you need, I will leave. But – I would grateful if you would let me help.’

I looked up at him. Calm, wise, handsome, perfect as always; he was sitting next to me, both his feet firmly on the ground when mine were folded beneath me. His grey eyes held infinite tenderness, infinite trust, and pain that I knew was my doing. I wished I had the strength to stand up straight and smile, to say ‘Oh that was nothing, Jeeves. A momentary lapse. Carry on, now.’

Instead I reached out and traced his jaw with my finger, refusing to let him see my weakness, but not quite willing to let him go. ‘I had the most bally awful day,’ I muttered.

‘Do you –’

‘No, I would rather forget… Talking about it will only make it worse.’

I felt his body lean into mine, ever so slightly, and I leaned into his. He gently cupped my face in his hand. ‘This is not weakness,’ he whispered, ‘You do not need to hide it from me. I will love you, always, and I will be by your side. I consider it my greatest privilege.’

I bit my lower lip in an effort to contain the tears, but they came nonetheless. They ran down my cheeks and dropped onto his shirt, and suddenly I was sobbing, and I had not cried like this since I was a boy. His arms were around me, a fortress, a haven. He kissed my forehead again and again, his fingers drawing invisible circles over my arms, as if he would absorb my pain, as if he wished it would hurt him instead. And perhaps it did.

I cried in his arms, drawing wobbly streaks of tears down the front of his shirt. He held me, his lips comforting my skin, his entire body cradling mine. Like rain, I cried and cried, and he stood in the downpour, saying ‘nothing can hurt you now’, ‘I am here’, ‘you will never be alone’.

At last I stopped crying. I noticed then that I was shivering. Jeeves gently pulled back, his eyes locked on mine, and said, ‘I will light the fire.’

I watched him as he did, grateful for his presence, for the way he turned to look at me every few seconds. Once the fire crackled reassuring in the fireplace, Jeeves covered me with a blanket and took me in his arms again. I leaned my head against his shoulder.

‘You will never be alone,’ he said softly. His fingers were in my hair, as gentle as a summer breeze, and his scent was in my clothes, my skin – sandalwood and warmth and home. My eyelids fluttered over my tired eyes.

‘Say my name, Jeeves, please.’

He would object, usually. But I only felt him tense for a second, then, ‘Bertie…’

I smiled. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered, and his hand stroked my cheek.

‘You are loved,’ he hummed soothingly; ‘I love you, Bertie.’

‘I love you too, Reggie,’ I closed my eyes.

I was relaxed, comfortable, safe in Jeeves’ embrace. A moment before falling asleep, I felt a great peace, and a certainty: that nothing could harm me, that no troubles were insurmountable, no problems unsolvable. I was safe, I was loved, I would never be alone.

And, dear reader, you are safe. You are loved. And you will never be alone.

[(Anonymous)]

dirty talk!

FILL: Dirty Dialogue

[(Anonymous)]

‘Nothing quite like sharing a bath, eh Jeeves?’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘I wish we hadn’t got out so soon.’
‘The water was turning cold, sir.’
‘Yes, perhaps it was. Oh, well. Er – I say, Jeeves… my pyjamas?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You usually lay them out on the bed.’
‘I took the liberty of neglecting that particular practice, sir.’
‘Oh.’
‘Pyjamas would only be a hindrance, considering the activities to come.’
‘Oh!’
‘If I might make the suggestion, sir, you might discard your dressing gown and lie down.’
‘Only if you do the same, old thing.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, that’s better – hallo! Standing at attention already!’
‘It cannot be helped, sir. The thought of what I am about to do to you…’
‘Tell me, Jeeves. Tell me what you will do to me.’
‘I will bury myself inside you, sir, and pound into you until you forget your own name.’
‘Good lord!’
‘But first, I shall do this…’
‘Mm, yes!’
‘And then – ah. I seem to have misplaced the oil, sir.’
‘Oh, no, actually – er, that would be my fault, Jeeves. You see, I was lonely without you the other day.’
‘Were you, sir?’
‘Dashed lonely. The moment you left, I wished you would return and bugger me in every room.’
‘Mmm…’
‘But you were already gone… so I pleasured myself, imagining it was you, imagining your fingers spreading me wide…’
‘Ooh…’
‘I imagined your throbbing length filling me, your lips on my neck…’
‘Tell me where the oil is, sir, I cannot wait any longer…’
‘Should I? I think I’m rather enjoying this. Maybe I should make you beg?’
‘Sir…’
‘No, not sir. Call me Bertie.’
‘…’
‘Well?’
‘Yes… Bertie.’
‘That’s better. Now beg for it.’
‘Just tell me –’
‘I won’t tell you until you beg.’
‘Please…’
‘Not good enough.’
‘Please let me fuck you...’
‘Oh, Jeeves… but you’re forgetting something.’
‘…’
‘Say it.’
‘Please let me fuck you, Bertie.’
‘Good boy – The oil is in your room.’
‘You – you pleasured yourself in my room, when I was away?’
‘Yes. On your bed, my face pressed into your pillow…’
‘Good heavens, sir… Don’t move. Wait here – yes, like that.’
‘…’
‘I have the oil. Come here.’
‘Oh! Mmm yes Jeeves!’
‘I imagined this moment all day – I could think of nothing else…’
‘Neither… could… I…’
‘Are you ready, sir?’
‘Yes!’
‘Mmm…’
‘Aaaah, yes… yes… faster…’
‘…’
‘Jeeves you’re so – so hard… You’re going to… make me…’
‘Yes!’
‘Aaaah!’
‘Mmmm…’
‘…’
‘…’
‘…Jeeves, you’re a beast.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘By Jove, the neighbours will be complaining.’
‘We can blame it on the newly-wed couple on the second floor, sir.’
‘Excellent idea, Jeeves.’

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie, coming untouched

[thesadchicken]

I'm just going to recommend one of my all-time favorite Jeeves/Bertie fanfics (like, EVER) because it's exactly what you want - trust me, it's SO. GOOD.

Control & Liberty by DictionaryWrites
https://archiveofourown.org/works/17732657

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie + bad guy(s) made them do it. They are being held at gunpoint and forced to do things to each other for the bad guy's entertainment.

part 1

[(Anonymous)]

/!\ WARNING: this is dark. There is some violence (but no blood). Dub-con, and then some stuff is downright non-consensual. There’s a happy ending though.

-----------------

All he can feel is the headache, sharp, slicing through his temples, and then suddenly it’s gone. That is what wakes him: the lack of pain. He blinks, but wherever he is, it is dark. His neck is stiff, his arms folded – no, tied! – behind his back. As soon as he realises this, he scrambles to his feet. It is difficult to find his balance, but he manages. His eyes start to adjust to the dimness around him; he sees the room, grey and empty except for a time-battered table in the corner. He takes an unsteady step forward and walks on something. He looks down: it’s his bowler hat.

“Reginald Jeeves,” a voice calls out.

Jeeves looks up as the door at the end of the room opens, and someone is shoved inside. Hair the color of polished bronze, tall, thin, long-limbed. Bertie Wooster. A second figure enters – broad shoulders, wide hands, and the unmistakable gleam of a gun between the fingers.

“Took you a while to recover. I didn’t think I’d hit you that hard,” the man says, amused.

Bertie’s arms are tied behind his back as well, and he is gagged. His suit is rumpled and creased, his tie hanging loose at his neck. Jeeves’ first instinct is to run towards him, but the man with the gun grabs Bertie roughly by the hair and forces him to his knees.

“Unhand him!” Jeeves cries.

“You’re in no position to give orders, I’m afraid,” the man replies.

“What do you want from Mr. Wooster?” Jeeves asks, heart pounding.

“From him?” the man gives Bertie a sharp kick in the ribs, making him yelp through the gag, “Nothing. He’s here because of you.”

“I don’t understand… Why are you doing this?” Jeeves hears the confusion in his own voice, and it startles even him. He isn’t used to being confused.

“You ask why, Reginald Jeeves?” the man is angry now, the gun in his hand more menacing than ever, “You don’t even remember, do you? I was just released from prison.”

“I don’t –” Jeeves starts to speak, but his voice falters as he finally recognises the brute.

It was years ago. Before Mr. Wooster. Jeeves was young then, too young, too clever, with eyes that saw too much, and a mind that simmered with schemes. “Theft is a crime, Mister Acton,” he remembers himself saying, a triumphant smile tugging at his lips, “and so is blackmail.” He remembers the man being carried away by the police as Jeeves watched proudly, and Lord Everly clasping him on the back, saying, “Well done, Jeeves my boy!”

He exposed a criminal. Won the gratitude of a wealthy man. But most of all, he felt sure of his own cleverness, proud of his unwavering intellect. Justice was served and Jeeves was content. So he forgot.

But Acton did not. Here he is now, and he is holding a gun dangerously close to Bertie’s trembling body.

“This has nothing to do with him,” Jeeves rasps, his throat turning dry, “Let him go.”

Acton smiles for the first time. “Oh, I think not.” He pulls Bertie to his feet and pushes him against the table in the corner of the room. Bertie cowers in fear, his blue eyes meeting Jeeves’. They’re desperate and frightened and Jeeves can hardly bear it.

Acton shoves Bertie one last time then turns to Jeeves, walking towards him slowly, then circling him like a lion its prey. “Sodomy is a crime, Mister Jeeves,” Acton says, echoing Jeeves’ words from years and years ago. Jeeves’ stomach lurches.

He should have been more careful. He should have known that this would happen – but he forgot, he forgot about Acton, rotting in prison, plotting his revenge. The brute has obviously done his research. Jeeves feels sick; to think that this revolting man went looking into his past – his lovers, his letters, his secrets. And then there’s Bertie’s presence… Jeeves is no idiot. He knows the police are coming for him. Acton must have stolen an old letter, or a note, or worse: Jeeves’ journal. Something to incriminate him: proof of his love for men. A certain man.

“Don’t do this,” Jeeves mutters, glaring at Acton. “You may punish me, but he is innocent.”

“Not for long,” Acton spits. He points his gun at Bertie, still shivering beside the table in the corner. With his free hand, he reaches for a knife in his trousers. “I’m going to untie you, but one wrong move and I shoot him.”

Jeeves feels the knife press against his wrists, then a tug, and the rope binding him is gone. For a moment, he considers bashing Acton’s face in with his bare hands, but the gun pointed directly at Bertie’s head dissuades him.

Acton starts circling Jeeves again, his grip firm on the gun. “I was saying, Mister Jeeves, that sodomy is a crime. A crime of which you are guilty.”

Jeeves tries to ignore the sharp intake of breath from Bertie. He is staring, wide-eyed. Jeeves has never felt ashamed of himself for being this way, and yet now his neck burns with the humiliation of being exposed in front of his employer. In front of the man he loves in secret.

[(Anonymous)]

bisexual!Bertie, polyamorous!Bertie, and/or genderfluid!Bertie

[(Anonymous)]

Very intriguing, I really hope this gets filled.

[(Anonymous)]

(trigger warning : suicide) Bertie tries to kill himself but fails, it's Jeeves that found and stopped him. H/C angst.

Seen

[(Anonymous)]

(Content warning: attempted suicide)

***

He was not expecting me to be home.

I had departed a few hours earlier for a short trip to visit family out of town for the weekend. The snow was falling hard and fast and I did not discover that the trains were cancelled until I had arrived at the station. I considered getting a room near the station and taking the first train in the morning. There was a housekeeper coming tomorrow morning so Mr. Wooster would be fine on his own. It was a close thing, but I decided to go back to the flat and sleep in my own bed instead.

The few cars still in the street, mostly just cabs, were fighting their way through the piling snow. It took ages to get back to Berkeley Mansions. As I opened the door, I heard alarming noises: a muffled yell and a crash. Without pausing to take off my snow-bestrewn outerwear, I hastened to the source of the sounds, Mr. Wooster’s bedroom. I rapped on the closed door.

“Sir? Are you all right?”

A soft, strained groan was the only response. Icy fear suffused me. I pushed open the door.

He was lying in a heap on the floor. He was clutching his knee and rocking, clearly in pain. Next to him, a chair from the sitting room was tipped onto its side. My attention was drawn above it, and as soon as I looked upward, my stomach lurched.

A rope hung from the ceiling. The word “noose” popped into my mind, but I could not connect it to reality. It didn’t feel like a real word at all. None of this felt real.

I could not speak, or act, or think. I felt numb. Mr. Wooster’s eyes were squeezed shut and his face contorted in a grimace.

“Sir…” I croaked. “I…”

Time had slowed to a crawl, stalled like the cars in the snowy streets below. As I absorbed the meaning of the tableau, realizations were hitting me, one after another.

- He was hurt.

- He had been standing on the chair.

- The sound of me opening the front door had startled him into falling off the chair.

- The chair had been right below the…the rope.

- He was not expecting anyone until the maid was to come the next morning.

Normally, when I am in an unexpected situation, my instinct is to find something I can control and take action. In this moment, nothing was presenting itself to me. I wanted to go to Mr. Wooster, but it felt like there was an invisible wall between us. It felt like he was on the other side of some quarantine, and if I were to cross over, the contagion might infect me, too.

Every question I wanted to ask was absurd, unanswerable. “What is going on?” “Are you okay?” “What were you thinking?” “How could you do this?”

Picking up the chair would be absurd. Cutting down the rope would be absurd. Leaving the rope to just dangle above our heads would be absurd. There was no right move here.

I surprised myself by striding to him, dropping to my knees, and gathering him into an embrace. He flinched and stiffened at first, resisting, but then suddenly flung his arms around my neck and pressed his face into my shoulder.

I thought, if he was willing to do something so desperate and unthinkable, to throw away everything, then it was nothing for me to dispense with something as comparably insignificant as propriety. I scooped him up carefully into my arms and laid him gently onto his bed. I shucked my thawing jacket and hat onto the floor and laid down next to him, taking him into my arms again.

He seemed to be beyond crying, too stunned for tears. All he could do was cling to me like I was the only solid object left on earth.

"I am so glad you're still here" came out of my mouth. I forgot the proper feudal appellative in my stupefaction.

We remained frozen in place. Sounds from the hallway drifted in, sounds from the street. No one outside this room had any clue, the magnitude of what had so nearly been lost.

"I wish I could say the same," he said flatly.

I held him for an eternity, trying to soothe him as best I could. The story trickled out in small drops, haltingly at first, and then the dam burst and the flood was released.

***

It is a fact of human nature that we only see what we want to see.

But I ask, how could I possibly have known? Who ever would have guessed? A man with nearly every advantage the world has to offer. Money, status, looks, talent, friends. To be sure, his family has its issues, but no life is without some trials. This was a man who constantly had light in his eyes and laughter on his lips. He came across not merely as content, but probably the happiest person I know. Many of his acquaintances thought of him that way, too. He was cheerful, playful, goofy, silly. Certainly not depressed. Certainly not…suicidal.

But I have to admit, the signs were there. For anyone who cared to look closely enough.

- All of Mr. Wooster's friends drank, but Mr. Wooster drank. His nights of excess frequently resulted in injury to person and property, not to mention run-ins with the law. But he kept at it ceaselessly, despite the mounting physical, legal, financial, and social consequences.

- Reckless behavior, even when sober, had gotten him maimed countless times. He sometimes acted as if he cared not a jot for his own safety. Most people in his life, including myself, chalked it up to recklessness and clumsiness, because we have words for those concepts. We do not have words for men who don't care if they hurt themselves because they don't think they are worth being careful of.

- What looked like a large circle of friends from the outside was, upon closer inspection, essentially an illusion. He had plenty of friends from school and from his club, but what kind of “friends” routinely take advantage of one's generous nature with no regard for his safety or happiness? They used him like a tool and discarded him when they were done. It was a similar situation with the endless string of women to whom he found himself engaged, despite there being no genuine connection between them to speak of. This pattern of unstable, one-sided interpersonal relationships had persisted for his entire life.

- Most telling was one thing that I suspected no one knew about besides me. A series of white lines could be seen on the insides of his thighs, ghosts of old scars, visible only from certain angles. I first noticed them on his right leg one day as he climbed into the bath and I didn’t think much of it. If I had, I probably would have assumed it was the product of some drunken escapade or childhood caper. But on another day while I was again attending him in the bath, my observant gaze found their mirror image on his left leg. This time, the suspicion crept into my mind. The lines were too straight and uniform to be accidental.

Yet it seemed ludicrous, absolutely preposterous. Mr. Wooster…cut himself? Happy-go-lucky Bertie, always so jovial and carefree? Who could have known what behind that sweet grin? Who would have guessed it was all a carefully maintained facade hiding inner torment? How could I or anyone comprehend why he would feel the need to inflict pain on himself, to punish himself, to externalize his private agony?

When I first noticed the scars, I thought about saying something, but I didn’t have the faintest idea how I would ever begin such a conversation. There are simply no words. No words that are acceptable to exchange between gentleman and valet, certainly. I had instead cordoned this knowledge off into a corner of my mind that I rarely revisited. I had no context for it, nothing to relate it to. There was nothing to do about it, so I just pretended it wasn’t there.

But I cannot ignore it anymore.

Now that I know, so much about his previous life and character has taken on a sinister hue, been imbued with a darker meaning. This whole time, he hasn’t been irresponsible; he has been self-destructive. He hasn’t been roped into a series of comical misunderstandings; he has been habitually mistreated. He hasn’t been irked by imperious relatives; he has been made to feel disposable.

After all, his friends use him and all his family members are either abusive, controlling, neglectful, or long dead. Why not destroy himself? Who does he know that is really going to care?

I care, of course. I care a great deal, but I do not show it. He has no real reason to believe that I think about him beyond the tasks I am obligated to do for him and the money he pays me. It's certainly not that I don't feel it, because I feel it so fervently that it threatens to overwhelm me. But there is no way to channel it that is proper. Showing him any affection would be indecorous. I have never let him know that I am impressed with him or proud of him. For all he knows, I agree with everyone else that he is nothing more than a mentally negligent wastrel. Of course, I am courteous and kind to him. But from his point of view, that's just duty, the service that any valet is contracted to do. When I go above and beyond, he interprets that as me living up to my own personal code of excellence, not something done specially for him. Our class distinction precludes most of what I could do to show him that I care, and our genders preclude the rest.

I am the person he is closest to, and yet, he hardly knows anything about me, because I made sure he didn’t know. And he doesn’t know how I feel about him, because I made sure he never saw.

He knew that what he was about to do would be a horrible thing to put the poor housekeeper through, but putting me through it instead was absolutely not an option. He knew he would not get a better chance than this to take this desperate action. And he sincerely felt he could not go on any longer.

As he explained his perspective, I began to understand his hopeless position. What does he really have to live for? What is his purpose? This life of transient relationships, pointless self-indulgence, endless pleasure-seeking that only leaves him empty. Nothing to anchor or sustain him.

But then again, what does any of us have to life for? We are all muddling through, trying to make the best of ourselves, trying to help others, or at least please them. Trying to find kindred spirits, trying to be understood.

I have as much to live for as he does. I have him. And I need to let him know that he has me.

***

Everything he was trying to escape…the grief he lives with, for his past, for his sham of a life…the persistent misery that he could hide from everyone but himself… As I sat and absorbed it all, I thought about how close I had come to never knowing any of it.

“I have no words to express how deeply sorry I am that I have not been there for you, sir.”

“Nonsense. You saved my life, my dear man.”

“But still, I should have—”

“You saved me,” he said firmly. “A million times, even before tonight.”

As dawn broke, I helped him change out of his clothes. I examined the bruised and swollen knee. After keeping such close contact during the course of a raw, emotional night, the physical barriers between us were down. I felt compelled to place a reassuring kiss on his knee. He sighed shakily and murmured his thanks. I took a chance and kissed the scars on his thigh, then kissed his cheek, before helping him finish changing. Under normal circumstances, taking such liberties would be unimaginable. But now that the truly unthinkable had been so narrowly avoided, I could tell that my reckoning of what was or wasn’t acceptable was going to be substantially transformed.

We laid there, entangled in one another, until he fell asleep.

I remained awake and watched him sleep. He looked so peaceful. As always, it was impossible to detect the storm brewing within. But at least now I know it is there. And that makes all the difference.

Now, things are going to change. As soon as he wakes up, I’m going to take his hands in mine and tell him what he means to me. I’m going to say everything I have been holding back, just in case I never get another chance.

His ordeal is far from over. He feels utterly defeated; he said that, after having failed at life, he has now failed at dying. The road ahead will not be easy. It might get even worse before it gets better. But it will be worth it. I will do everything in my power to make him okay.

I have kept him at a distance. I have let fear of impropriety stop me from doing what I should and, if it weren't for a fortunate accident, it would have cost me his life. But no longer.

The man has never been seen for who he really is. Most people look at him and see a means for getting what they want. But not me. I’m going to ask him to show me his real self. If he cannot just yet, that’s okay. Eventually I’ll prove that he is safe with me.

He will know that, no matter what happens, I’ll be there. Even if nothing else makes sense in the world, I’ll be enough. I cannot live his life for him. I cannot make him happy. But I can make sure he knows that, if he has me, he has everything he needs.

[(Anonymous)]

I want to recommend this, not precisely what you're looking for but I love it and everyone should read it https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579745

[(Anonymous)]

In his younger days, Jeeves was a gigolo for a number of upper-crust ladies, including some in Bertie’s familial/social circle. He’s stayed ahead of his scandalous past so far, but it’s bound to come back to haunt him eventually...

[(Anonymous)]

Smoking fetish! Jeeves/Bertie, pre-relationship please

[(Anonymous)]

Oh! I was just about to request smoking!Jeeves. And pre-relationship would be great. Could we team up, OP?

[(Anonymous)]

chained heat!Jeeves/Bertie
They end up handcuffed to each other for 24 hours.

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie, coming in trousers

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie sponge!kink

[(Anonymous)]

Maybe I am the only one wondering but what exactly is sponge!kink ? I did google it but didn't find anything

[(Anonymous)]

drunk!Jeeves

[(Anonymous)]

This fill was written for another prompt but it fits this one, too!: https://give-satisfaction.dreamwidth.org/2406.html?thread=215654#cmt215654

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie/reader + reader watching Jeeves/Bertie. Reader is very interested in Bertie and tries to seduce him but quickly finds out Bertie's secret, that his heart belongs to Jeeves. So reader helps them get together. (reader = second person view, you)

[(Anonymous)]

ooooooh I love this! I hope this one gets filled!

[(Anonymous)]

Inspired by the previous prompt, could someone write Jeeves/Bertie!pining in second-person POV?

[(Anonymous)]

Anonymous put it better than I could when they said: "Jeeves/Bertie: bladder desperation... No wetting, just one of them growing more and more desperate to go but circumstances don't allow it for some time. And the other one, to his shock is terribly aroused by it but does his best to encourage the sufferer to stay calm and hold out. A successful relief without accident in the end. The other one may watch."


All of this, except I'm desperate (:|) for Jeeves to be the victim this time. The original prompt and fill were great, though

[(Anonymous)]

You know why I love the internet? Because not only can I find Jeeves & Wooster porn, I can even find multiple other people who are into Jeeves & Wooster omorashi specifically. The internet is wonderful.

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: Bertie doesn't think Jeeves is his type because Bertie likes muscular bodies. But then he sees Jeeves exercising. Can be working with weights, ballet, Swedish exercises, etc. Also clothed or unclothed.

[(Anonymous)]

Just to be sure: Do you want Bertie to discover that Jeeves is, contrary to his expectations, in fact quite muscular beneath his starched shirts or do you want him to realise that a less shaped body can be attractive as well?

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: Jeeves "destroys" Bertie's monogrammed handkerchiefs with jizz

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: Jeeves has a thing for hickeys. Bonus points for his thing being the one getting marked, and double bonus points for it just ceasing all thought in that great brain and Bertie using that knowledge to his advantage.

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: Reversal - Jeeves comes back from one of his 'holidays' with hickeys and Bertie spies them and realises that it simply will not do for Jeeves to have his perfect flesh marred by anyone but him.
Established open relationship, or oblivious Bertie deciding to finally claim Jeeves.

[(Anonymous)]

Both these hickey prompts are hot. Also really into the idea of them in an open relationship.