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!

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


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Comments

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: an entire fic of Jeeves on holiday featuring nothing but bad nautical and fishing related euphemisms for everything

Fill: Nauty Buoy

[(Anonymous)]

Dear Bertram,

I hope this letter finds you whale. I have greatly enjoyed my fishing trip, although I have been thinking a-boat you a lot. I can sea weed have a wonderful time if you were here with me. The thought holds much al-lure, withtrout a doubt. I would enjoy watching my master bait the hook, fishing rod gripped in his hand. In fact, my flag is already at half-mast just thinking about it.

You cannot fathom the things I would do to you if you were here. Current-ly I am picturing you tide up. A nauty buoy like you deserves to have his bass spanked. I would be stern with you; you would bow before me.

Of course, it wouldn’t be all rough waters. Acting sel-fish would make me feel too gill-ty. In this relation-ship, I am the able seaman and you are the coxswain telling me just how to stroke. Above all, I value our intimasea. Moor often than knot, I want to either make love to you until we both keel over, oar just lay in bed and cuttle.

I harbor such tender affection for you. Yes, I reef-er to you as my master, but you’re so much more. Yes, the sex-tant is amazing, but my feelings for you go so much deeper. I must be strait with you: my emotions are reel. Please let minnow if you feel the same way.

I luff you,
Jeeves

P.S. You have often said that I must be of Viking ancestry, but I am not sure. On one hand, it is true that the Vikings transmitted their folklore and rituals orally, and I would love nothing more than to engage in a rich oral tradition with you. On the other hand, the Vikings believed in a pantheon of pagan gods, while I only worship one divine being (and he’s reading this letter right now).

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: Bertie buys a "horse action saddle for home use". He believes the sales guy who says nothing untoward with that, who doesn't want to ride a horse inside? Perfectly innocent! Meanwhile, Jeeves can't stand watching Bertie using it, esp. after Jeeves secretly tries it on his own.

[(Anonymous)]

Spanking. Doesn't matter which one as long as the other one is doing the spanking.

[(Anonymous)]

Strongly seconded!

[(Anonymous)]

"Free use" fetish, anyone? Bertie starts casually taking advantage of Jeeves, using his body however he likes, whenever he likes. For Jeeves, this new addition to his usual roster of duties is kind of degrading but such a turn-on.

FILL: Jeeves and the Commanding Personality (1/?)

[vensre]

Content notes: undernegotiated D/s, deepthroating, sex toys, degradation and praise, sexual harassment by other character, overstim, manhandling. I managed everything except casually.

---

It didn't start with taking his wrist and making him put his finger on the bow of a package so I could tie it. I did that, but it didn't start me on this crooked path.

It didn't start with using his hand to scratch my back just so, or his lap to rest my head as I kipped on the train. I did those too, but I suppose it was within the scope of his valeting duties with a dash of affectionate indulgence on top.

It started with the cold snap, because my man Jeeves is like a furnace in cold weather. I have a private theory (if theory is the word I want; it might actually be hypothesis but I can never remember) that he's able to will his body to be in whatever state he needs it to face the circumstances: rolling out heat in the winter, temperate in his valeting uniform even on a summer beach, soft when I need him as a pillow, and so on. The only thing he refused to become was a live-in audience to a perpetual banjolele practice, and while that ordeal still rankled like vinegar in a papercut, it showed that he could stomp the brakes if need be, what?

It gave this Wooster confidence, knowing that. Too much, perhaps.

But I was saying about the cold snap. When I returned from my solo holiday excursion to Brinkley Court, Jeeves was already back and waiting at the flat. I hated to drive without him in the winter, as he kept me warm as a cosy dove cuddled up to another c. d.. But needs must when various families demand attendance at various festivities, so we had been parted, and I greeted him with relief.

"What ho, Jeeves. I hope it was a happy one. The family all holding up?"

"They are indeed, sir. Welcome home. And happy Christmas."

He hung my overcoat and helped me peel off the driving gloves, which had done so little to protect the Wooster paws from frigid temps. He touched my hands briefly, seeming concerned, and proceeded to put the gloves and hat away.

But I wasn't done with his warmth; I cupped my icy hands to his neck. Jeeves grunted softly in surprise, and turned to face me with a querying brow, which gave me the opportunity to tuck my numb fingers down inside his collar. His skin was so hot it almost hurt, like running them under steaming water would. I may have even moaned, curling the backs of my fingers against his collarbone, the soft underside of his chin soothing my chilled and aching wrists.

"That feels so dashed good, Jeeves."

His eyelashes fluttered, just a little. "I am glad to give satisfaction, sir."


❧


Thus encouraged, I became rather bolder with my man. I reached into his jacket to retrieve my billfold when he carried it. I took puffs of his cigarette if he was smoking and I didn't want a whole one of my own. I woke up early and caught him breakfasting one day, and took a bite off his plate just for the sake of getting some of whatever he was having. After that he started eating around me more frequently, and I heard that answer loud and clear.

There was a turning point on an evening I was dressing to go to the theatre with my aunts and cousins, and Jeeves recommended a solid black tie to accompany the suit.

I reached out — biting the inside of my cheek, as one might when undertaking a delicate operation — and untied his tie, knotting it with all the insouciance I could muster around my own neck. I can hardly describe what it did to me. I felt queerly taller. I felt as though I was in a fight, ears ringing, joints panging and all that. But he just let me, standing there with his head high, and I saw his blank collar and his subtle thingness, the creases around his eyes coming to life as though he wanted me to do it.

Having hurdled that well-tolerated violation I quite felt the sky was the limit. It may seem rash, what I did with him next, but, well, it was rash. Yes, it was a terrible idea that could have seen me jailed or killed if Jeeves was someone other than himself. But I did have a bit of precedent to think he might be receptive, recalling an early, fumbled liberty taken. I was curious about him from the start, particularly after the glimpse I caught in our private box the first time I took him to a show, but it takes me a long time to get interested even if a chap is very nice to look at. Without rehashing the tale here, let it suffice to say that I had an idea he might be keen, or at least not phoning the constabulary.

I had a little toy of the type you can't purchase in Old Blighty, the kind made of glass so it's easily washed, but not hollow, so it's hard to break. I had never allowed Jeeves to become aware of this trinket previously, for reasons that ought to be dreadfully clear if you know where such a thing gets inserted. But it's a bally nuisance to get it where it's meant to go without getting the fingers prohibitively messy and then having to hobble to the washroom before sporting with it. One can't help being tempted to get a second person involved.

I can't even excuse acting on that impulse with the demon drink, as I'd only had a nightcap on the evening in question. Just that when I was facing the unpleasantness of the beginning part of sodding myself with my pretty glass toy, I heard Jeeves in the hallway, no doubt bound for bed, and called out:

"I say, Jeeves!"

I'm bound to say a part of me shut down in panic, to be sure. I was bare from the waist down, half-hard, covered by my blankets.

That good fellow opened my bedroom door and leant in, tired but composed. "Yes, sir?"

"I need some help with this bally thing. I don't want to get slick on my fingers. Would you just pop it in for me?"

I held up the toy. It sparkled in the lamp-light.

Jeeves's mask became absolute. Not to say he was taking it to a taxidermied amphibian extreme, no — he merely acquired the blandest, mildly helpful, attentive valet face imaginable. He took the toy from my hand, and picked up the jar from the nightstand too.

I was in ecstasy from that point on, having gambled so much and won him. I hardly remember it all, I was so dashed aroused. I know he got the toy well-slicked, and I pulled back the covers and rolled the corpus so that he could see the entry point. He put one hand on the billowy portions and the tip of the toy right where it counts, nuzzling it against the hole.

Excitement isn't the same thing as being loose, so it didn't go in whatsoever. We were set on our respective courses, however, unable to divert, so I wriggled around trying to achieve a workable angle, and he massaged me slowly with the end of it. Eventually he had to pause to get more slick.

It was then that I was made to realise that audacity was not my exclusive domain, because when he came back for another go, it was with a warm finger pressed inside. I believe I made some gasping noises.

"I trust you are not hurt, sir," he said silkily. The finger curled.

"No, no. Carry on, Jeeves," I replied, shoring up the whatsit. Surely not dignity. I don't know, but something required shoring.

Jeeves's finger having scouted the territory, when it retreated he slid the toy swiftly home, ignoring my twitch as it passed through that point where it makes you feel a cramp, then jiggled the flared bit to make sure it was correctly seated. I genuinely felt fresh off winning an outrageous pile of oof at the races with this behaviour. He knew so much about this already, of course he did, but he wouldn't be so good at it if he wasn't that way inclined.

I could do so much to him.

I was half-blind with pleasure by the time I rolled myself back over and fisted my prick. Jeeves shimmered off to my w.c., and startled me extremely by returning a minute later to tuck a flannel beneath my tailbone, no doubt to preserve the bedsheets.

To think, really think about all the ways my treasured valet put his foot down… He herded me like a sheep, and nearly groomed me like one, too, controlling my wardrobe, my travel, my relationships. After years together I was only just beginning to understand that he wanted me to push back, to use him. Thinking those words made me shudder. I rolled my hips to feel the toy move inside, and raised my eyes to see Jeeves standing at my bedside with his hands clasped, lips slightly parted, and watching me avidly.

I came off with a heartfelt ah! and lay panting, mindless with bliss. Jeeves set one knee on the bed, and for a moment I was convinced he was going to touch my spent prick. He reached between my legs and his fingers grasped the glass toy, tugging lightly until my muscles relaxed enough to let the thing go. He then used the flannel to dab at stray slick, folded it over, and wiped the spend off my belly.

"Thanks, old thing," I said, trying to hit the right offhand note. I was flabbergasted, positively reeling, but determined not to show it. I imagined there was some likelihood that he was doing the same.

"Goodnight, sir," he said, turned off the lamp, and shut the door behind him.

"Dash it, what," I whispered into the dark, because he took the bally toy.


❧


In the morning I found my glass trinket, clean and sparkling in the sun on my washroom windowsill when I went for my bath. Well, I say morning. It may or may not have been technically ack emma.

I was a wreck all afternoon. I struggled through lunch, watching Jeeves serve me as though nothing had happened. I cancelled plans to play rackets with Bingo, because I couldn't think at all. Jeeves fixed me a brandy and soda and performed some light maintenance on our furnishings while I fooled around at the piano. It helped a bit, but not much. I kept thinking about him wanting me to use him, and my heartbeat was constantly throbbing in an area my heart isn't supposed to be.

My toes curled in my shoes. I couldn't take it.

"Jeeves," I said. My voice cracked on it, and his head turned too quickly to be at all casual. I stood, and staggered over to sling myself into the armchair, trying to make it look like a saunter. "Rally round." I unbuttoned my trousers, pulled up the shirts and worked the underthings down, and put the unspeakable right out in the open. I mean to say, the sitting room is more or less a public place. At least when I bicycled naked in the quadrangle, I wasn't rampant.

Jeeves shied a little, the great brain clearly grinding. Then the shoulders straightened, the lines between the brows erased themselves, and a gleam came into his dark eyes. "Very good, sir."

He left the upholstery brush on the floor, a testament to how distracted he really was, and came to me. He sank down on his knees. I squirmed, wanting too much.

He took me in his mouth. My own fell open, and my body curved around his tidy dark head in my lap. I could feel his tongue working on me, much stronger than I felt a tongue would ordinarily be. I wondered how one exercised the tongue, and the images that rushed in only exacerbated the situation.

"Please," slipped out, and I could only hope that it didn't shatter the tone I was attempting to cultivate. I touched the nape of his neck, and felt his jaw tensing as he sucked me. His hands crept around my hips, holding me cozily in place, and he bowed forward and I could feel the head slidingintohisthroat—

"My god!" I groaned, trembling on the edge. I felt his throat flex, a swallow or a gag. He eased back so, so slowly, the most tender touch my prick has ever had. And pushed forward again, kissing against the beardy patch at the base, his breath stopped by how deep he held me. "Oh Jeeves." I said, faint, at the top of a Coney Island roller coaster, and he was drawing off as I shook apart, spilling all into his mouth. Hearing him choke on it a bit, I wanted to scream.

I was rattling like a struck gong as he sat back and looked up at me. My shorted-out brain attempted to interpret the Jeevesian subtleties, but this was the best I could do: a slow nod with a bit of a Soul's True Awakening flavour, Jeeves all the while looking as though he might be deciding where best on my person to spit that mouthful. But I could see his throat working, and when he next opened his mouth, it was to say, "Sir, will that be all?"

I achieved an airy tone mostly by being out of breath. "If you're content, I'm more than. Extraordinarily so."

"It is kind of you to say so, sir," he said, tucking me back into my clothing neatly as I fumbled in my case for a gasper. He put a hand on each arm of the chair to lever himself up to standing, and the way he leant close over me on the way up made my heart jump.

He lit my cigarette for me, placid as you please, then moved off, suffused with the well-earned smugness of a valet who had presented an ideal solution to the young master's conundrum. Butter may or may not melt in Jeeves's mouth, but I dashed well had.


❦
 

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie discovers that Jeeves is an incredibly gentle kisser.

FILL: Sweetness

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie Wooster watches himself lean in as Jeeves places a strong hand on his shoulder. And Bertie knows that he is learning something new about Jeeves with every breath.

First it's the scent of his cologne, the tenderness in his eyes, the air between them that is suddenly hot. Then it's his skin, warm, real – oh good lord it's truly happening.

His lips. His beautiful, beautiful lips, pressed against Bertie's like the softest of whispers. They move - his lips - they grow hungry. They part, but they do not push. Bertie's eyes are closed. He opens his mouth, only slightly, and there is Jeeves' tongue, gently slipping in, gently, oh so gently. Bertie waits, utterly rapt. Jeeves shifts. His chin grazes Bertie’s jaw. Tongues meeting – a sigh escapes him, or was it Jeeves? Bertie is lost in the sweetness of the kiss, the delicate pressure of lips against lips, and the way they peel away from each other before joining again, and again, and again.

Jeeves takes Bertie’s lower lip between his own and sucks on it slowly, tasting him, holding him there, stopping time. There are a thousand things Bertie could say about this moment. A thousand details Bertie could pick and gather and harvest, a thousand different things he is learning about Jeeves that he wishes he’d known before. Warmth and sighs and heat. This and this and this.

But it’s the sweetness of the kiss that Bertie remembers best. Jeeves is an incredibly gentle kisser.

‘Jeeves?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You are an incredibly gentle kisser.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

[(Anonymous)]

[(Anonymous)]

If a picture is worth 1000 words, these are 1000 that I REALLY wanna read.

[(Anonymous)]

Wax play, please!
Hot wax on his skin is a turn-on for Jeeves and Bertie discovers that by chance. Pre-relationship preferred.

Fill: React

[(Anonymous)]

How do you react, reader, when you’re in pain?

Now, I know on the surface it seems silly to be asking a reader a question. After all, I am writing these words in May of 1929, and you could be reading this at absolutely any point in history after that. Not to be morbid, but I may not even be around anymore to hear your answer. Even if I am still kicking, you may not be able to find me in order to tell me. I can usually be found in England or France or the United States, but you may be anywhere, even Germany or Tunisia.

But I'll let you in on a closely-guarded secret, dear reader: I'm actually a lot more clever than I'm often given credit for. In many ways, it's a good thing, because it means I rarely disappoint people: keep expectations low and you will always meet or exceed them. If you give people too much to look forward to, there's always the risk you'll fall short of their image of you.

Take my man Jeeves, for example. I and every right-thinking person I know expects incredible, impressive things from him because of his long record of doing such incredible, impressive things. He's different from you or me though, because he always lives up to those impossibly high expectations. But he is the exception that proves the rule.

Anyway, I mention my under-rated cleverness here not merely to brag, but to make a point: I don't expect you to answer me, reader. That would be foolish. I only ask this question so that you'll think about the answer privately in your own head as you read this story, which will give you something of a glimpse into my mindset at the time all this took place.

Back to the original question: how do you react when you're in pain? The unpleasantness of pain is universal (at least, I used to think so), but one's reaction to pain is idiosyncratic. Some are stoic heroes who reveal no hint of their inner agony; others are tender wimps who cry out at the mere thought of a slight discomfort.

Have you got your answer in your head yet, reader? No? I'll go first then. Bertram is somewhere in the middle of that scale, and if he’s being honest, probably a tad closer to the yelping wimp side. I won't apologize for my opinion on this subject; this is pain we're talking about, not the taste of Brussels sprouts or the suitability of china patterns! I don't bally like pain and I don't see why I ought to pretend that I’m too tough to want to avoid it.

There, does my admission make you feel safe to open up and be honest? This technique worked on some other people I asked, you know. I asked my pals down at the Drones. I asked old school chums. I asked some guests at dinner. After this particular recent incident, I went on a dashed asking spree, of which you, dear reader, are the penultimate stop.

This particular recent incident is in the way of being what you might call the flux of this story. No wait, do I mean the crux? The redux? It's some kind of ux or another, I'll have to check with Jeeves.

What a coincidence: Jeeves happens to be the main character in the story of this p. r. i. Then again, sometimes I suspect that, when it comes to Jeeves, nothing is really a coincidence. Even if it seems that way from the outside, you can be sure it's only because he subtly arranged things to look that way.

On the evening of the p. r. i., Jeeves was subtly arranging things, as I mentioned he does. More specifically, he was arranging candles in my new candelabrum. I had purchased this marvelous item from an antiques shop earlier that day, and I could tell from Jeeves's manner immediately that he did not approve. I called it resplendent, he called it ostentatious; that's how I knew I was truly speaking to the real Jeeves and he hadn't been replaced with some kind of imposter or clone. His unwavering conservatism in the face of fruity objets d’art was actually the cause behind me lucid dreaming once: I dreamt that I brought home a tartan waistcoat and he adored it, which tipped me off immediately that this could not possibly be reality. I realized then that I was dreaming and spent the rest of the dream trying to fly.

So, as I say, Jeeves was setting up the candelabrum for a dinner party I was hosting that night. I was helping him because items of which Jeeves disapproves are usually not long for this world, so I wanted to spend a little quality time with the thing before it met its end in some unfathomable yet inevitable way. A paragon like Jeeves, of course, is an expert candle-arranger; a blot like Bertram, of course, is no such thing. Somehow I managed to tip over a lit candle and unfortunately, Jeeves's hand was below it, both figuratively and literally in the line of fire.

These questions of pain and reactions thereto have so far been waiting in the wings, making last-minute adjustments to their costumes and taking final glances at their scripts; finally it is their cue to take center stage. When you're in pain, reader, do you wince? Do you curse? Do you flinch and draw the affected body part back instinctively? Do you sharply reprimand whoever caused that pain and encourage them to never harm you this way again?

If you do any of these things, you're probably more like me. I actually tried it myself just this morning as an experiment: after ensuring a few moments of absolute privacy, I purposefully spilled a little hot wax on my own hand. I reacted by doing pretty much all the things listed above, with a heavy emphasis on the cursing, and a lesser emphasis on the castigation, seeing as I had no one to blame but myself.

If you do none of those things, however, maybe you're more like Jeeves, in which case I must congratulate you, for that is always a good way to be. That is not to say, however, that I understand you two. I don't see why a person would react the way you both apparently do: why you would hiss gently rather than curse coarsely. Why you would move your hand toward the source of pain rather than away from it, seeking more. Why your dark, dilated eyes would flick up to the person who had inflicted this upon you, and why those eyes would be filled not with rebuke, but with gratitude.

As we've already established, I know you can't explain it to me. I write this to entertain and enlighten you, you most Jeeves-like reader, not to understand it myself. You can't explain to me why, when the wax splashed on his hand, Jeeves shivered as if chilly, despite the fact that the candle had accumulated a good deal of the boiling hot liquid as it burned. You can't tell me what he was stopping himself from saying when he bit his lower lip. You can't shed some light on why he waved off my profuse apologies, or why, for the rest of the evening, his eyes kept drifting to the burn mark on his own hand as if it were a prestigious prize he had won.

I may not understand this sort of reaction, but I cannot claim it doesn't exist, for I have seen it with my own eyes. I once had a front row seat at a magic show wherein the magician chappie performed all kinds of impossible-looking tricks mere inches from my nose. Just like this incident, it resulted in a baffled, bewildered Bertram, wondering how in Hades the stunt had been pulled off, keeping himself up late at night in futile contemplation, searching for an answer, long after the spectacle was over.

As I briefly mentioned earlier, you are the penultimate party to whom I pose my question. The ultimate, in this, as in all things, is Jeeves. I don't know how he'll react when I bring this up later tonight. His inexplicable reactions are the subject at hand, after all.

Hopefully, he can explain to me why he reacted the way he did. For if he can explain why he liked receiving that pain so much, then maybe he can also explain why I liked giving it so much. And even if he has no answer to all that, I hope he at least agrees to try it again, so that we might find out together.

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves + edging

[(Anonymous)]

What's edging?

[(Anonymous)]

Demisexual!Bertie, in love and attracted to someone for the first time in his life. Confused, he's trying to understand his sexual orientation and asks Jeeves for help even though Jeeves is the one he pines for.

[(Anonymous)]

OMG YES seconding this very strongly ! also there is one of the so called longer prompts that's a bit like this (I know 'cause I made it lol) just in case you're interested

[(Anonymous)]

non sexual pet play
Jeeves is eager to show his master that he is a good boy.

[(Anonymous)]

I'm writing a fill for this one!!

[(Anonymous)]

first time, Jeeves/Bertie, Oxford Style

[(Anonymous)]

Hm what does this mean? Oxford University? Oxford-style shirts? Oxford-style shoes? The Oxford Style Manual?

[(Anonymous)]

Power bottom!Jeeves

[(Anonymous)]

*More fluffy than kinky but hope you enjoy


I'm sure I don't need to tell you just how exhausting dealing with the Wooster tribe and its associates can be, especially without a fish-fed valet to delegate the more mentally taxing parts of an adventure in the country. I am pleased to say that not only did I solve the issues before me all by myself, but I wriggled out of three engagements and left behind several happy endings to be had.

The valet in question, as you very well know by now, is Jeeves. He had been called away to a family emergency so one couldn't fault him the abandonment in my time of need.

"Of course you should attend their side. Blood first, my dear heart. I'll not hear another murmur from you," were my words to him. Jeeves seemed relieved that I understood.

A message from him arrived as I was about to take my leave and return to London. He would not be home until far past midnight. A dashed shame, for I had intended to hold him briefly before sleep. I made a valiant effort to stay awake to greet him, at the very least to make love with him to ingrain my affections in his mind. There was always a slight worry that a frequent lack of attention might lead to him disbelieving the depths of my passion. One can't put them into words without sounding a bit Madeline-esque.

My fears came to fruition when I awoke to his frantic (at least for Jeeves) calling. I could hardly lift my head from my pillow and my eyes remained closed, but I gave him a feeble but cheerful wave.

"Sir, you are fatigued."

"I'm practically corpse-like, Jeeves. I'll admit it. Place silver coins over my eyes, for I can hear Charon rowing in the distance. It is Charon, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"All is now well with the Jeeves clan, I hope."

"Yes, sir. Thank you for your concern."

"Then why the distressed tone, my love?"

"You are still in your clothes, sir."

Of course that would be his grievance.

"I had intended for you to relieve me of them when you returned."

"You wish me to relieve you, sir?"

His eyebrow had raised a full quarter-inch.

I smiled sadly. "I must decline, Jeeves. The mind is willing but the body is weak; the opposite of the usual."

"There is no need for you to expend any effort, sir. I shall be in charge."

Now that was the usual, and after he had disrobed I allowed my man to swiftly and neatly divest me of my own outfit in full, lifting various limbs when required. I only protested again when I saw him slicking his hands.

"See here Jeeves, I really must insist on something less exhaustive. Besides which I'm not prepared, if you understand my meaning."

"It does not matter, sir," he murmured soothingly as he reached behind his back. "This is not for you."

And the man bally well went and sat upon me with the greatest of ease.

I lay in silent shock for a moment whilst he adjusted his position for comfort, before my voice quavered, "I see you took the liberty and prepared yourself this time, Jeeves."

"I did, sir. I apologise for not informing you sooner. I hoped it would be a pleasant surprise."

"I'd rather say it is, only…"

He caught the tone of my voice and his lip pursed in concern.

"I'm not too heavy, am I?"

"No, no!" I lied. "It's just that, well, gravity and all that. I worry you'll do yourself a mischief in that position."

"Unlikely, Mr Wooster. Your length is not invasive."

I couldn't help feeling there was an insult hiding in that sentence, but before I could call him out on it he began to undulate like a piston and all thoughts popped in my brain like soap bubbles in an overly full bathtub.

He closed his eyes in mild pain as 'sir' danced on his tongue, his hand firmly attending to his erect state. It was quite the sight I can assure you - and I will only assure you, for I do not intend to actually share the delightful image with anyone.

In what I'll confess was a shamefully short time later, I squeezed his thigh in warning and he lifted himself in time to avoid my release. Our mouths met for the first time in days but might as well have been years, as he stroked us both to completion. Then a peaceful quietude fell upon us, where if I'd had the energy I normally had I would have wrapped myself like half an octopus around his form and not let go until dawn. As it was, Jeeves was the clingy one that night.

I fretted.

"Jeeves, your family are all sound now, aren't they? Nothing amiss is going on?"

He drove my concerns away with a gentle kiss. "I simply missed you, sir. It has been several days since I was able to sleep beside you, and over two weeks since I was with you in this manner."

That had not occurred to me. Jeeves had left so abruptly, and it had been a week before then that we had done more than snore and snuffle in bed together. He too was fearful of fading feelings following fewer fornications. I was comforted by this and used my remaining energy to hug him tightly.

"I hope we shall never have to go through this again. For the sake of my poor hips at least."

"My condolences to your hips, sir. I shall adjust my diet accordingly," he replied in a soupy fashion.

"I merely tease, dear heart. You are physically perfect, you know?"

He was placated by my admission as he so often is when I praise his looks.

"Thank you."

"And you were a marvel just now. Unfortunately the activity has taken its toll; you'll forgive me if I finally give in to the Sandman?"

"Of course. Good night, sir."

If he kissed my brow or if I dreamt it I do not know, but I did not stir until late morning and for the first time in all the years we had been together, neither did Jeeves.

[(Anonymous)]

Older Bertie and younger Jeeves or the other way around. Definitely not underage, but maybe an age difference of twenty to thirty years.

[(Anonymous)]

May I post a prompt inpired by this one or should I wait until yours gets filled?

[(Anonymous)]

Time travel! Young!Jeeves/Bertie (but not underage of course)
Bertie finds himself in the past and decides to search for Jeeves in this time.

[(Anonymous)]

The one who made the other prompt here, and this prompt is great, I think it includes my wish a little bit, doesn‘t it?
And I guess Older!Bertie is wonderful, at least when it‘s based on the TV- series; I mean, Mr Laurie still looks very good...

[(Anonymous)]

Time travel, older!Bertie/Jeeves
Older Bertie lost his Jeeves years ago in an accident and has never recovered from that loss. Now he is given the chance to save Jeeves' life in the past and also decides to tell him about Bertie's feelings.

[cuddyclothes]

Please see the Jeeves and Wooster time travel post.

[(Anonymous)]

Another time travel variation... I hope the prompters of the other ones don't mind.

older!Jeeves/Bertie:
Bertie ends up in the future where he finds a heartbroken, older Jeeves who hasn't spoken to "his" Mr Wooster since he failed to prevent his former master's marriage many years ago. Bertie is shocked to find out that older Jeeves never loved anyone but Bertie, but never dared to confess his feelings. Bertie knows his feelings would have been returned.

I would not mind older!Jeeves' looks based on Mr Fry's. Not at all. <3

[(Anonymous)]

Forgive me but... time- No, not another time travel scenario. Time loop however... *hides* in the style of Groundhog Day.
Bertie confesses his love to Jeeves but things go terribly wrong. The next day Bertie finds himself reliving that day and at first is glad that Jeeves does not remember but then Bertie wants to try again...

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie, cold hands on warm skin

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves/Bertie with a focus on Jeeves' legs, please!

[quaffanddoff]

In case additional visual inspiration is required for this one....

[cuddyclothes]

[(Anonymous)]

Bertie calling Jeeves "sir."
This could probably be combined with a lot of other prompts.

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: Jeeves/Bertie, compersion (i.e., the feeling of happiness and/or arousal one gets when one's partner is with other partners. Basically the opposite of jealousy.)
There are various ways this could go: Could be pre-relationship or open relationship. One could accidentally walk in on the other in flagrante delicto. Bertie could come asking Jeeves for sex advice regarding his new boyfriend or girlfriend. The important part is, one gets laid and the other is turned on by it.

Fill: Spectator of the Show

[(Anonymous)]

I was sitting in an armchair in the corner of Mr Wooster‘s bedroom. It was evening, the curtains were drawn and the walls bathed in golden candle light.
My pose was relaxed, and I had a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other one.

On the bed was my beloved master; and I was watching him.

I was watching his firm, slender backside shining with sweat, his fair head moving up and down as he thrusted with vigour between the spread legs of the man beneath him.
I had never seen that boy before, Mr Wooster had picked him up in Picadilly Circus earlier.
But he didn‘t matter.
It was only my lover I wanted to see, writhing and panting and groaning with lust.

I take a delicious pleasure from watching him like this. I certainly enjoy to engage in these activities with him as well, and we do so often, but seeing him doing what he usually does to me from a viewer‘s perspective is almost more thrilling.

Mr Wooster does not like to watch me with other gentlemen, because he wants me exclusively, and I would never let any other man have me this way; however it arouses him extremely to know that I am looking at him during his exertions.

They were nearing the end now, and my young master began to thrust faster. The body beneath him was shaken with every push of his hip.
I took a sip of brandy, my eyes never leaving the scene in front of me. I was painfully hard, but I didn‘t touch myself, I never do on these occasions. I don‘t participate in the act, merely a spectator of the show.

When Mr Wooster reached his climax, he turned his head and gave me one of his wide, sunny grins. He is always proud like a little child when he achieves his goal of giving me satisfaction.
This was, as always, the moment of highest pleasure to me, and we spent ourselves together; I into my trousers and he into the anonymous man.

Then I set my drink and the cigarette aside, while he laid back on the bed. The young man quickly gathered his clothings and left the flat.
I went over to my dear Bertram who was still smiling and kissed him gently on the forehead.

„Thank you“ I murmured. He pulled me on top of his warm, damp body and said:
„You‘re welcome, but tomorrow it‘s just you and me again, what, old thing?“

I couldn‘t possibly argue with that.

[(Anonymous)]

Clean talk kink? The opposite of dirty talk. Bertie gets turned on by Jeeves talking about sex and avoiding the use of "dirty" words, choosing medical terms instead and speaking them without any shame.

[(Anonymous)]

Jeeves or Bertie pregnant please, the other one a terribly proud and happy father-to-be
OR
Jeeves or Bertie pregnant, but they have to hide it because it‘s unnatural/socially unacceptable.

[(Anonymous)]

seconding this so hard! to my knowledge there is only one story like this in the fandom so far and I want more

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: Jeeves/Bertie, nipple play

FILL: Tease

[(Anonymous)]

It is late afternoon, and it is raining. Sunlight falls onto the floor white and withered, and the zigzagging raindrops on the window make light shadows dance across the flat. There is only the peaceful pitter-patter of rain– until a sigh is heard, and a soft thud as Reginald Jeeves is gently pushed against the front door, and Bertie Wooster leans in to kiss him.

Jeeves pretends to turn away, a secret smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Playfully, he turns his head to the side to avoid his master’s kiss. It lands on his cheeks.

‘Oh come now, Jeeves,’ Bertie reprimands him, but there’s laughter in his voice.

‘I’m afraid I have work to do, sir,’ Jeeves persists, teasingly sliding his arm around Bertie’s waist, only to push him away.

Bertie bites his lower lip. He isn’t good at hiding what he feels: his face always mirrors his emotions, and this is no exception. He smiles, even though he tries not to. He can’t stop himself from smiling when he’s with Jeeves. ‘Surely it can wait,’ he says, diving once more to claim his valet’s lips.

Jeeves gives in this time, but only briefly. ‘No, sir, I fear it cannot.’

Bertie’s fingers are already fumbling with Jeeves’ tie, unbuttoning Jeeves’ shirt, pulling his undershirt up and pushing the fabric away to reveal soft, flushed skin. ‘Hmm, there’s only one thing left to do then…’

This isn’t what Jeeves is expecting. The game is supposed to end with Bertie begging, like it always does. But this is different. The novelty of it sends a shiver down Jeeves’ spine. ‘Sir?’ he breathes, eyelids drooping as Bertie places a kiss on his neck.

‘Yes,’ Bertie says, mouth still pressed against Jeeves’ skin, ‘If you absolutely must go – well then, old fruit, go… but not before I show you what you’ll be missing.’

Jeeves likes the hunger in his master’s voice, the slight trembling in his hands as they tug at Jeeves’ jacket, which is soon on the floor. Jeeves almost wants to object – but oh, Bertie’s slender fingers are so soft on Jeeves’ chest, wandering downwards… across his stomach… slipping under his trousers…

And then they’re gone. Jeeves does not try to supress his grunt of frustration. He looks at Bertie, questioning, and Bertie only smiles. His big blue eyes travel up and down Jeeves’ body possessively. There’s pride in the way he reaches out, rests his palm over Jeeves’ pounding heart. The moment stretches, and they start to wonder if the game is already over.

But quite suddenly, Bertie’s smile widens. He tilts his head forward and with his tongue traces a line from Jeeves’ throat to the center of his chest. Then, ever so slowly, he turns. Jeeves feels his young master’s warm breath tickle his skin. For a second, they do not move.

Then Bertie covers Jeeves’ nipple with his mouth. Jeeves gasps.
There’s something exceptionally sensual about the way Bertie’s lips part to take in the delicate flesh, the way they capture the skin, claim it. Jeeves cannot look away. This, paired with the heavenly sensation of Bertie’s mouth on such a private, sensitive part of his already-eager body… Jeeves shivers.

Bertie’s lips part again, only slightly, and his tongue darts out to stroke the erect nipple. Jeeves’ mouth falls open in a silent cry of pleasure. He will not moan, not now, not yet – it would please Bertie too much. But oh, the pleasure…

Bertie’s tongue is now circling Jeeves’ nipple, slowly, so slowly… and Jeeves is struggling not to plead, please, sir, please more… more… faster… His head falls back against the door behind him and he sighs. Bertie, tongue still moving, reaches down and pats Jeeves’ erection through his trousers.

‘Hmm,’ he hums his approval, and it reverberates through Jeeves’ body.

It’s too much now, too much, and Jeeves allows himself to press his hardness into Bertie’s palm. A mistake – as soon as he does, Bertie removes his hand and chuckles.

‘I’m sorry Jeeves, but we don’t have time for that. You have work to do, don’t you remember?’

And with that he moves to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment as the first. Jeeves’ eyebrows tilt upwards, and he finally cannot take it any longer: a moan escapes him, so desperate and undignified that it shocks even him.

Bertie looks up, eyes dark with lust. ‘Good lord,’ he mutters, ‘Jeeves, don’t hold back. I want to hear you moan.’

‘Very… good… sir…’ Jeeves pants, blushing.

Once more Bertie’s lips and tongue tease and prod and pull at Jeeves’ now aching nipple, and Jeeves does as he is told: he moans, without affectation or artificiality, but he moans. At first words – ‘good heavens…’; ‘more, sir!’; ‘oh, sir, please!’ – but then Bertie is sucking hard, and Jeeves is too far gone, too consumed with desire to do anything but groan. He bucks his hips once, so desperate that he thrusts against the air itself. In response, Bertie bites him.

It sends tremors through Jeeves’ body.

Just then, everything stops. Bertie takes one step back and looks at Jeeves the way one would look at a painting near its completion. Satisfaction is written over the young master’s handsome face.

‘Right ho,’ he says, licking his lips, ‘Carry on, then.’
Jeeves is panting against the door. He is so painfully hard.
‘You do not truly expect me to work now, sir?’

Bertie’s eyes gleam. ‘I certainly do, Jeeves. You insisted earlier.’

Jeeves stares at his master, disbelieving. He cannot move, not even to pick up his jacket or button his shirt. He stays there against the door, hair falling into his eyes, both nipples hard, tender and pink. Bertie kisses him chastely on the cheek. ‘You’ll think of me while you work, won’t you?’ he bats his eyelashes innocently, then he leaves, disappearing into his room.

That evening, Jeeves finishes his work even faster than usual, and they stay up rolling in bed until dawn.

[(Anonymous)]

Prompt: Jeeves gets hugged by a stranger and Bertie gets jealous, pre-relationship.

[(Anonymous)]

I knew it would happen. I heard the sickly-sweet sigh escape her rouge-painted lips; the exclamation, the grateful ‘oh, Mister Jeeves!’ that she hurled at him like one hurls... a thingummy at... something or other. I really can’t be bothered with metaphors, you see, because now the wily female arm rose and fell and coiled around the broad Jeevesian shoulders. I seethed at the sight. Of all the bally nerve!

‘You are wonderful, Mister Jeeves! You have saved my life! You are my knight, my hero!’ she said as she pressed her body into his.

This insolent beasel was Miss Leighton. A friend of Madeline Basset – although you might have guessed this from the disgusting litany of sentimental nonsense that she gave Jeeves as she threw her arms around his neck. Jeeves had just fished the young thing out of the soup (something to do with teacups and fiancés and stray cats) and she chose to express her gratitude in this rather inappropriate way. He looked surprised at first, eyes widening comically, and I might have laughed had it not been for the lady’s head leaning against my valet’s chest.

Then the unthinkable happened. Although he still wore his stuffed-frog expression, Jeeves’ hands came up to gently pat Miss Leighton on the back.

The embrace only lasted a few seconds, but to the lonely young master watching from behind, they felt like hours. To see something as precious as Jeeves’ embrace given away so easily, so freely, when all this time I had dreamed of it… it was maddening. I mean to say – here I was, watching as she felt what I longed to feel, learned what I longed to learn: the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his skin, the gentleness of his arms… and oh, the tenderness I would pour into the embrace, if given the chance! Her dewy-eyed gratitude was nothing compared to what stirred in the Wooster chest.

Miss Leighton let go of poor, startled Jeeves. I waited for her to leave.

‘Jeeves…’

‘Yes, sir?’

I looked at him, this paragon of men. A million words – a million words I wanted to say.

‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘Carry on.’

He nodded solemnly. Was it truly disappointment that I read on those finely chiselled features?

‘Very good, sir.’

One day, I promised myself. One day.