Let The Kinkiness Begin!
Dec. 24th, 2035 11:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cuddyclothes posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
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.
no subject
Date: 2019-05-07 01:06 pm (UTC)Control & Liberty by DictionaryWrites
https://archiveofourown.org/works/17732657
no subject
Date: 2019-05-07 02:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-05-07 03:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-05-07 03:19 pm (UTC)Re: FILL: You Will Never Be Alone
Date: 2019-05-07 03:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-05-07 08:42 pm (UTC)part 1
Date: 2019-05-08 06:27 pm (UTC)-----------------
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.
part 2
Date: 2019-05-08 06:28 pm (UTC)Jeeves shakes his head, unbelieving. “Mr. Wooster is my employer –”
“Don’t insult me,” Acton says, “I’ve been trailing you for months, I know everything. You want him: well then, take him.”
Jeeves does want Bertie. More than anything. He has dreamed of it, a thousand, thousand times. But not like this. God, not like this.
“What are you waiting for?” Acton is losing patience, the gun shaking in his hands.
Jeeves cannot look at Bertie, although he feels the young man’s eyes on him. For a moment, he considers letting the brute shoot them both. But then Acton grabs Bertie by the hair and presses the gun to his temple. “If you don’t bugger him against this table right now, I’ll do it – and I won’t be gentle,” he says. Bertie struggles, whimpering through the gag.
Jeeves cannot breathe, cannot think – he stands there shaking his head. Acton bends Bertie over the table, pressing his head into the wood. “Your choice, Jeeves. You can do it yourself, or watch me demonstrate on him what I’ve learned in prison.”
“No!” Jeeves cries, “I’ll do it.”
“I knew you would,” Acton snickers.
Bertie looks up just as Acton lets go of him, and Jeeves hurries to his side. He quickly removes the gag and unties Bertie’s hands. “I am sorry, sir,” he whispers, and Bertie’s eyes are full of fear, and confusion, and something else.
“Jeeves...” is all he can say, pleadingly. He is shaking like a leaf.
Jeeves wants to hold him, keep him safe, but Acton is there, hovering behind them. “Get on with it,” he yells.
Bertie shakes his head. “Oh my God, Jeeves… Please…”
“Forgive me, sir,” Jeeves closes his eyes. He cannot look at Bertie’s face as he turns him around, bends him over the table. He uses his spit to prepare him. He tries to be gentle, soothing, but his hands are trembling. He has no choice. It is this or the unspeakable, the unthinkable. So he lowers Bertie’s trousers and underclothing, and tears sting his eyes as he thinks ‘I have dreamed of this for so long… but never this way…’
Bertie is crying. Jeeves hears him sob, sees the tears staining the wood, and he is sure he is going to be sick. When he lowers his own trousers, he stops. He will not be able to… not like this…
“I – I cannot…” he says.
“You’ll have to,” Acton replies, “You know what happens if you don’t.”
Bertie’s hands grip the table until his knuckles go white. Jeeves touches his hip, trying to comfort him. He wishes he could hold him in his arms, dry his tears. After this – if he ever walks out of here freely – Bertie will hate him. He will look at him with disgust and anger and he will fear him, and loathe him.
“Come now, Jeeves,” Acton smiles, clearly enjoying this, “he’s laid out for you like you’ve always wanted.”
And that is when something happens, a small movement, but it is enough. Jeeves sees it, and he knows that whatever comes, they will bear it together. The moment Acton speaks those words, Bertie turns his head to look up at Jeeves, and beneath the tears and the fear and the anger there is love. Love so strong, so pure, that it cuts through Jeeves’ heart like a knife. Utter devotion. Loyalty and understanding.
He forces his body into arousal. He strokes himself until he is ready. “I’m sorry,” he leans in and whispers into Bertie’s ear, placing a soft kiss on his back.
“It’s not your fault, old thing,” Bertie whispers back. It breaks Jeeves’ heart.
The moment before it happens, they are both very still. Then Jeeves is pushing into Bertie, and Bertie is moaning. He is warm and soft and everything Jeeves dreamed he was. He hates himself for enjoying this, hates himself for getting harder as he slides all the way in. He moves slowly, carefully. He wants to come quickly so it will all end, but he is horrified by what that entails.
Suddenly he feels Bertie move too, matching his slow thrusts. Jeeves looks down at the place their bodies meet, and he cannot help the moan that escapes him. Bertie looks up at him. “I’ve… wanted this… for so long…” the young man says, breathlessly.
“You – you wanted… me?” Jeeves thinks he must be delirious with pleasure and guilt and shame.
“Yes…” Bertie moans, “I – I love you, Jeeves. I have… always… loved you…”
He comes, gasping, pushing hard into Bertie’s body as he spills into him. For a moment, there is only heat, and those three words. Then Bertie comes too, spurting onto the table with a cry of pleasure.
Jeeves turns him around and takes him into his arms. “I love you too… more than anything or anyone…”
It is the one thing Acton had not anticipated. The one thing he dismissed and the one thing that ruins his cruel plans. For when the police arrive, Bertie does not expose Jeeves. No, Bertie stands next to Jeeves and describes him as a hero, his saviour. “It was that man,” he says, pointing to Acton, “who abused me… Jeeves tried to prevent it.”
Acton is furious to the point of madness. He raises his hand to fire the gun, but the police are fast in seizing him.
“What you have done is a crime, Mister Acton,” Jeeves says as they carry the revolting man away, “but love is not.”
Sweet Dreams
Date: 2019-05-08 07:14 pm (UTC)And yet, I would be just as remiss if I were to allow the impression to proliferate that yours truly isn't also known far and wide for his own unwavering persistence.
For example, late one evening recently, I was imbroglioed in an embroil — I think I've got that the right way round — of the type that all too often seems to be hell-bent on pursuing this Wooster to the ends of the earth. There's no time or need to get into all the nitty-gritty here; suffice it to say, a number of malicious actors were hot on my heels due to a misunderstanding that was utterly outside of my control and beyond the reasonable scope of my responsibilities.
Indisputably, the labyrinth-like corridors of Chokingham Abbey are beautifully designed and decorated, but I was traveling much too rapidly down them to fully appreciate the scenery. I swerved around a corner, tyres skidding, and parked at my destination: my chambers.
"Jeeves! Help! Please!" was all I managed to sputter.
He was waiting for me: he caught me by the shoulders and held me upright. I needed all the assistance I could get in this arena, for I was rather winded. In fact, I was panting so hard that I was a little light-headed. Perhaps I should consider introducing regular cardiovascular exercise into my routine if these sorts of high-jinks are going to keep cropping up in the old day-planner.
"I was almost caught stealing the donkey-shaped teapot, but I escaped before anyone saw me! Colonel Rippington is on the prowl though, and surely he suspects me. He and his entourage will be charging in here any minute now and I have no alibi!"
"I believe a solution presents itself, sir. If you were found in bed, deeply asleep, the Colonel would have no choice but to concede that you could not possibly have been anywhere near the antiques room mere moments ago."
"But Jeeves, I'm awful at feigning sleep! All he has to do is pinch me and I'll yelp and the whole souffle will collapse."
"That is why the unconsciousness must be real, sir."
"I suppose you're right. But I can't face being coshed on the crumpet yet again! I always awaken with a devil of a headache. Plus I can't imagine doing so supplements the long-term health of the old grey matter, which after all is in short supply to begin with."
"I have an idea that, while not without some degree of risk, should circumvent that issue, sir."
"You do, Jeeves? What unlimited reserves of grey matter you must have! What's this stratagem?"
Uncharacteristically, he hesitated. "Sir, do you trust me?"
"Of course!" I said with no corresponding hesitation to speak of.
"Then if you will please get in bed, sir, in order to set the scene."
I bunged myself between the sheets, grateful that I had attempted my reconnaissance mission in my pyjamas.
Jeeves had a look on his face that I had never seen before. I think it was...embarrassment? Was that possible? And why now?
This question was answered when he swung a well-dressed knee up onto my bed. Before I knew what was happening, the man was straddling my recumbent form.
I gaped at what was clearly a hallucination brought on by too many past biffs to the bean. "Please forgive the imposition, sir," he apologized.
Next thing I knew, his hands were closing around my neck. I was frozen in shock like ice on an electric fence; I raised not a finger to defend myself. Contributing to my immobility was his sturdy weight pinning me down to the bed. Immediately, I felt a pressure start to build in my cranium. It was not painful, only intense.
I was struck by the strength of his grip. He was not squeezing particularly hard, but his fingers felt like the iron bars of a tiny jail cell. A look of determination pervaded his countenance.
Because I do have my occasional bursts of insight, I was starting to get an idea of what his plan was. My windpipe wasn't constricted at all, however; he seemed to be attacking mainly from the side elevations. No sooner did I think, "The blighter's mucked it up, doesn't he realize I can still breathe?" than did I start to notice the edges of my vision going grey and fuzzy. I could breathe just fine but my consciousness was beginning to slip like a silk petticoat.
If I had had the luxury of expecting anything, I would have expected to feel a panicky, desperate sensation, like the survival instinct that kicks in when one is drowning. Or perhaps the kind of tum-wrenching that comes with getting the wind knocked out of one. But instead I just felt suffused with a wonderful feeling of peace, a calm sort of thrill. Or possibly a thrilling sort of calm.
Either way, a dashed pleasant sensation, to be sure. I felt loopy. Blood was rushing up to my face. Either I was already dreaming, or some of it was also rushing down to...
The last thing I saw was Jeeves' dark eyes boring into mine.
*
I woke up still feeling a little woozy and giddy, but besides that, rather spiffing.
A glance at the clock told me only ten minutes had elapsed. It was now past midnight. Jeeves rose from the chair next to the bed.
"Jeeves! Good Lord!"
"Sir, the plan worked. Colonel Rippington was completely convinced of your genuine unconsciousness, and thus, your innocence."
"Did he pinch me?"
"Yes, sir."
"And?"
"You remained nonresponsive, sir."
"Well, that is topping news! Thank you!" I hadn't woken up that morning expecting to end the day gushing with gratitude toward my manservent for suffocating the living daylights out of me, but I've found that life is sometimes unpredictable that way. "That, whatchacallit, assy-fixation wheeze was a real corker. How did you learn to do that?"
Jeeves paused for half a mo' before saying, "I gathered it from medical texts I have read, sir."
"So that was you putting theoretical knowledge into action for the first time?"
"...Indeed, sir."
"Bally incredible!" I hopped out of bed feeling, as I mentioned, a little dizzy, but besides that, unharmed. I happened to catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and leaned close to the glass with a frown. "Say, has the Wooster dial always had all these little freckles?"
"No, sir. Those are what medical professionals term petechiae: minuscule marks indicating intradermal hemorrhage, that is, subcutaneous bleeding due to minor trauma."
"Good Lord, these patecky-whatsits are from the choking?"
"Strangulation, not choking, sir. Regrettably, yes. Fortunately they will fade completely within a few days at most."
"Oh. Quite."
I gazed again into the mirror. There was no bruising on my neck, but those tiny spots dotted my map, concentrated mainly around my eyes and temples. They weren't so unsightly, really. In fact, I actually had a measure of affection for the little chaps. They were a visual reminder of the narrow escape I'd made, a subtle souvenir of Jeeves's ingenuity. Even after I could no longer feel his hands around my neck, my skin still retained some memory.
I had a hunch that long after the spots were gone, I would still remember.
"So, er, old thing. Could you, that is, do you think you might, well — you see, would you possibly teach, well not teach, as such, I mean to say — just in case I ever need to?"
"I would be happy to pass on this technique if you would like, sir." For a question that had been torturous to ask, it appeared remarkably easy to answer.
"Rather!"
And then he was lying in bed.
Jeeves. In my bed. What a night for the anthologies this was turning out to be!
I clambered on top of him just as he had done me. I was feeling rather embarrassed myself, especially when I settled myself upon his hips and remembered what I thought I felt just before going under.
But Jeeves was professional as always. "Simply grasp around my neck with both hands, sir, and squeeze. The objective is to compress the carotid arteries and/or jugular veins on the sides of the neck without injury to the trachea. This serves to restrict blood reaching the brain rather than to cut off the airway, a manoeuvre which brings about the intended result in a much more expeditious and safe manner. Once syncope has been achieved, simply let go, sir."
"Right-o!" I settled my hands upon his throat tentatively.
"You must grasp harder, sir."
"Harder?" I squeaked.
"Much harder, sir... Harder still... It does not need to be very hard. But harder than that, sir..."
I knew I was barely squeezing at all, but it was near impossible to force myself to do something that ran so contrary to my instincts for Jeeves-preservation. As I stated at the beginning of this story, however, the mark of a Wooster is that he sees a thing through to the end, no matter how insurmountable the challenge.
"Now you're getting there, sir. Just a bit harder... You will not hurt me, sir. Harder. Hahhh..."
Why did he end the sentence so ungrammatically, you ask? I let the dreamy expression that settled upon his face answer that question.
Watching my man drift away beneath me aroused a multitude of different reactions at once. It was terrifying but also exhilarating. I could feel his pulse thumping away. I sometimes doubted that the man was flesh and blood, but the warm skin beneath my fingertips proved beyond all reasonable doubt that he was indeed human. Knowing that he trusted me to do this made me feel strangely honoured. And knowing the man's life was quite literally in my hands felt dashed powerful. A spark of aggression flared in the young master, who was previously thought to be properly domesticated.
As my man faded out, I noticed that he was experiencing the same reallocation of blood that I had felt, and I don't mean only in his face. That said, there I was, too, feeling it again, even though my arteries gave me no good excuse this time. Due to our positions, the stirrings were contiguous, and I think one had prompted the other, but I could not say which had started it. It was a chicken-and-egg sort of problem.
His eyes fluttered shut. I let go. I studied his inert form. He continued to breathe but was obviously out cold. It truly seemed as if he had just nipped off for a nap, albeit very abruptly.
I found myself grappling internally with a most unseemly urge. It may not have been at all preux, but I knew this opportunity would never again present itself. As soon as I realized this was (most likely) my one and only chance, the wild impulse overtook me. Before I could stop myself, I leaned down and pressed my lips to his. My eyes fluttered shut, just like his had, and I dreamed a sweet dream, just like he was.
Re: part 2
Date: 2019-05-08 07:25 pm (UTC)Re: Sweet Dreams
Date: 2019-05-08 08:42 pm (UTC)Oh, and my new favorite thing is thinking about Bertie "gushing with gratitude toward [his] manservant for suffocating the living daylights out of [him]"!
Re: part 2
Date: 2019-05-08 08:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-05-09 03:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-05-09 03:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-05-09 04:11 am (UTC)Mod Here
Date: 2019-05-09 04:49 am (UTC)Re: part 2
Date: 2019-05-09 06:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-05-09 11:28 pm (UTC)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!
Author‘s note
Date: 2019-05-09 11:36 pm (UTC)The title is „Clausura“.
(I‘m sorry, it is the first time I am posting anything, I am afraid I have messed it up bit.)
no subject
Date: 2019-05-10 01:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-05-10 02:14 pm (UTC)What makes the happy ending so wonderful is the little trail of sad details about Bertie's childhood. When we reach the end we feel twice as happy for him and Jeeves, because after all the hurt comes the comfort!
Re: Author‘s note
Date: 2019-05-10 03:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-05-10 04:39 pm (UTC)Re: Sweet Dreams
Date: 2019-05-10 06:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-05-10 08:25 pm (UTC)