She who adores SFAHL (msliz4857) wrote,
She who adores SFAHL

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J/W Fic: Jeeves Lends a Hand, NC17

Title: Jeeves Lends a Hand
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 2830
Summary: Bertie finds out how handy Jeeves can be.
Disclaimer: Neither of these amazing characters belongs to me; I'm only borrowing them temporarily. Thank you, Plum!
Author's Note: This was written for Third Annual Kink/Cliche Challenge. My prompt was caught masturbating, and I picked my favorite English gentleman and his valet as my fandom of choice. For your reading pleasure, here is where you can find all the challenge entries!

Bounteous thanks are showered upon my fabulous beta guru skyblue_reverie who, as always, keeps the voices on track and the characters themselves. Thank you ever so much, my darling!

Jeeves Lends a Hand

Having a gentleman's personal gentleman can be a dashed rummy thing. I have employed a few such birds in my day, and most were not exactly what I would term the salt of the earth. Meadowes had the bally nerve to steal my best silk socks, and that man Bingley nearly burned down my country cottage, leaving me no place to sleep but the potting shed.

Had these been my only examples of purveyors of the feudal spirit, I would have had almost as unhappy a life as if Madeline Bassett had succeeded in dragging me kicking and screaming down the aisle. Fortunately for me, however, a chap named Reginald Jeeves rang my doorbell one day, and my life was never the same.

You see, Jeeves moved into my life and became much more than my manservant. He became my man, and I mean that in the green-carnation, Oscar-Wilde sense of the term. You understand, I didn't realise what any of that meant at the time, and when he first tipped his hat to me, I had no inkling that he would become the central point of my existence. (This was due partly to my being rather naïve on such matters and partly to my being tanked to the gills after an especially late night.) But such is what happened.

I have never before archived the story of how we arrived at our current posish. Jeeves gives me one of his patented eyebrow twitches whenever I make mention of preserving the facts of our first encounter to paper. He finally relented on the understanding that he retains possession of the finished oeuvre and has my permission to destroy it if he feels that circs make such action necessary. In truth, he can destroy these blasted pages any time he chooses. That night and our life since are so indelibly etched on my mind that I don't need a written account of the events to spark my fondest memories.

One evening approximately a year after Jeeves had come into my employ, I was sitting in the lounge, reading a corking good mystery and smoking a casual gasper. Out of nowhere, the telephone jangled on its hook. Jeeves answered it, informing me it was my chum Tuppy Glossop on the other end of the blower.

"What-ho, Tuppy, old fruit!" I greeted him. I listened to him gas on for a bit, and then he came to the purpose of his call. There was a new show at the local cinema; he wondered if I would like to see it with him and afterwards ankle round to our club for a late supper and a few restorative thimblefuls.

"Corking idea, old man! What's say you come round to the flat at, say, eight-ish?" He agreed to my suggestion, and we ended the call looking forward to a gentlemen's night out together.

"I say, Jeeves?"

He oiled into the room silently. Some day I must ask him how he does that. "Yes, sir?"

"Ah, Jeeves, yes. That was Mr. Glossop. He'll be by in an hour or so. We're going to the cinema and then to a late supper, so you needn't worry about fixing me anything or waiting up for me."

"I understand, sir. Would you like me to lay out suitable attire for you?"

"No, Jeeves, thank you. What I have on is perfectly fine."

"Very good, sir," he replied, in that tone of voice that I'd come to recognize as meaning that things were as far from "very good" as they could possibly be.

"I say, Jeeves, if I didn't know better I'd think that what you really meant by that 'very good, sir' was closer to 'what a dashed fool you are, sir.'"

"Not at all, sir. I apologize that I led you to discern any such meaning." He coughed slightly into one hand.

"Ah, there, Jeeves, you see? There's no denying it. You've been with me long enough now for me to have learned that your precise tone there and that exact cough here tally up to a message loud and clear that I've gone off and committed some blasted silly bloomer again!"

"Nothing of kind, sir, I assure you." He looked at me for a brief moment and then continued, "If you will permit me, sir, I should be glad to lay out your casual evening garments for tonight's outing. I believe you will find them much more suitable."

Dash it if he wasn't right, but the upholstery he laid out for me was eminently more suitable than what I'd planned to wear. This wasn't the first time that I truly understood that Jeeves knew best in many things; I believe it was at that exact moment that I came to realise that my best course of action would be to follow his suggestions whenever I possibly could for as long as I possibly could.

And that realisation brought me to the thought of not being able to follow his counsel because of him being out of my life for one blasted reason or another. I was brought up short to further contemplate that not seeing Jeeves every day, not having him to rely on to pull Bertram out of the soup, not being able to see his marvellous form and handsome face would be the worst disaster imaginable.

By Jove, what was I thinking? My soppiness was reaching Bassett levels, which is a dashed high mark on the wall in case you're not familiar with the likes of Madeline and her stars-are-God's-daisy-chain outlook on life.

Just when I thought the Wooster bean would explode from all this realising, a knock was heard from the other side of the front door. Jeeves answered it, and in breezed Tuppy. After tossing back a quick snifter, we took our leave. My new awareness would have to sit on the back burner and wait to be examined in more detail at a future time.

Tuppy and I had quite a time together that evening. The movie was a corking new mystery called Murder! by a chap named Hitch-something-or-other. Alfred, I think, was his first name. At any rate, it was first-rate entertainment watching Sir John attempt to solve the murder for which Diana had been tried and convicted. He was convinced of her innocence, and I confess to being on the edge of my seat waiting to see if he would solve the mystery before Diana's death sentence could be carried out. I won't tell you how it all ended up in case you've not yet seen it. After all, it wouldn't do for a chap who follows the Code of the Woosters to spoil the ending of a mystery story for anyone.

Afterwards, we found the Drones in its typical state of loud and amusing revelry. After we ate, we tossed down a few with our chums Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps and Bingo Little. Barmy was his usual self, explaining in detail his problems returning from Kensington after a visit that day with his mother. Bingo, not surprisingly, went on at some great length about the newest tender goddess to brighten his existence. Of course, we were all supportive of his moving in on this beazel, even through we knew that the next time a femme fatale or any other sort of female crossed his path, Bingo would be off and tender-goddessing anew.

At the end of the evening—to be truthful, I should say "in the wee hours of the morning"—the four of us said our goodbyes and made our way to our respective homes. We'd spent a dashed enjoyable evening. As I hadn't seen much of those chaps lately, I particularly fancied the sociable and pleasant time we'd spent together.

In the cab ride back to my flat, I had time to put the grey matter to the memories of the night, and before long I found myself thinking back to all that realising I'd done while I'd been dressing. And I came to realise one more thing: As much as I'd enjoyed the time with my chums, I'd felt something missing all night. Well, not a thing, precisely, but a particular person by the name of Jeeves.

When I returned home and entered the flat, I called out, "Jeeves?"

There was no reply, which was dashed odd. Usually on such occasions, I would return home to find Jeeves in the kitchen arranging some cupboard or polishing the silver. Tonight, both lounge and kitchen were devoid of valet.

I called for him again; again I was answered by silence. I saw his familiar bowler tucked into its customary spot in the cupboard, so I knew he had not gone out for a pint and a game of darts with his chums from the Junior Ganymede. I suddenly remembered that I'd suggested he not wait up for the young master's return. Then it bubbled into the Wooster bean that he'd decided to count his sheep early and was already in the land of dreams.

I confess to experiencing more than a passing disappointment at this turn of events. I was feeling rather in the mood to talk. I'd hoped that Jeeves could help me understand my thoughts, seeing as how he is such a brainy bird. I wouldn't tell him directly, of course. I would make use of the Person A–Person B wheeze he's so fond of to explain the posish and see if he could enwisen me in any way.

Being a bit too on edge for sleep just yet, I resigned myself to solitary amusement. I poured myself a short bracer, lit a comfortable gasper, and settled into my favourite chair with a corking mystery novel. I thought to read a few pages before my own attempt at counting the baa-ers and knitting up ravelled sleeves of whatsit.

I had reached a particularly intriguing passage when I heard an odd noise. I first thought perhaps I had only imagined it, but then I heard it again. The sound seemed to emanate from the general direction of Jeeves's lair, so I put down my tome and went off to investigate.

As I reached the slightly opened door of his bedroom I heard the sound again, louder now; I was definitely on the right track. I recognised that the sounds must be of Jeevesian origin; it sounded rather like he was in pain. But just as I was about to fling open the door and rescue him from whatever ill had befallen him, I discerned that his noises were not of pain but, well, of the tender pash.

I was familiar with similar noises that poured from the Wooster throat on occasion when I found myself engaged in certain activities while submerged in the porcelain or slipped between the sheets after Jeeves had been particularly attentive undressing me or performing any of his other duties that put him in close quarters to the Wooster frame.

By this point, I could feel certain stirrings within me, and I felt myself riveted to the spot like Balaam's ass. I peered into the room through the door, which was slightly ajar.

Of all the sights I could have expected to see, what appeared before my eyes was nothing I would have imagined. There was Jeeves, laid out on his bed, naked as the day he was born. One of his hands was caressing his chest; the other was firmly gripped on the substantial evidence of his arousal, rapidly stroking. His eyes were closed, there was a light sheen of perspiration on his face, and he was softly panting. Then as his body arched, he uttered a low loud moan, companion to the earlier sounds that had drawn me to the scene.

I tell you, Jeeves in such a pose is a most stimulating sight, and I was bally well stimulated by seeing him in that state. I felt my heart swell with quite tender feeling for him; I felt another part of the Wooster anatomy swell with a decidedly baser emotion. I couldn't resist—I ran my fingertips over the material covering my thighs. My eyes fluttered closed, and I gave in to the sensations that had flooded over Bertram.

I heard myself moan and quickly opened my eyes. My gaze was immediately met by his own; it seemed as though he had been staring at me for some time. But then his eyes again closed almost immediately. He must not have seen me, for he continued on with his ministrations.

Not eager to be found out, I leaned away from the door and braced myself against the wall. I was hidden from view but close enough to hear his passion and allow it to enflame my own. Before long, I became lost in my own pleasure and lost track of external sounds or activities.

I couldn't tell if minutes or hours had passed. I only knew that the picture I now had in my mind of Jeeves in such a state as I'd seen him would never leave me. I couldn't risk looking back into the room again; as I leaned there against the wall outside his room I imagined him moving closer and closer to his release.

I couldn't tell what sounds were real from inside his room and what sounds were coming from only inside my own canuba. I was a bit desperate by this point, and I couldn't help but undo the fastening of my trousers and reach to take my own arousal in hand and begin stroking.

This was bally well the most impassioned I had ever felt in my life, knowing that Jeeves and I were each nearing release. I let myself go slack against the wall, fluttered my eyes closed, and allowed my mind to wander further. I imaged that we were lying side by side and that it was his hand on me and my hand on him that were driving us each to the pinnacle.

In my mind, we were both becoming undone, our passionate moans growing louder and louder. We shared tender words and passionate kisses, stroking each other more firmly and writhing against each other more desperately.

In the hallway, my hand had a strong, secure grip on that part of me requiring such handling, and I had nearly lost all coherent thought. My entire body tensed as I was moments from release; I suddenly heard myself calling out, "Jeeves! Oh, Jeeves! Yes, oh yes, Jeeves!"

"Yes, sir?" A familiar voice whispered into my ear, and a familiar hand reached into my trousers and wrapped around my own.

That was it; I couldn't hold back any longer. As I shuddered beneath the onslaught, I opened my eyes to find myself staring directly into the blue eyes about which I'd been dreaming more and more often. When I didn't think I could hold his gaze any longer, he leaned over and kissed me gently.

And with that, I was utterly spent, and I slumped against the wall trying to refocus myself and bring myself back to some semblance of sanity and rational thought. He pulled me into his embrace, and I could feel the fabric of his dressing gown under my hands as I clung tightly to him.

"I say, Jeeves, I've been having some dashed rummy thoughts about you lately. Which is to say that I've imagined us, well, perhaps not like this exactly, but certainly being together forever."

"Indeed, sir, I feel that such is a consummation devoutly to be wished."

"I take it then, Jeeves, that you feel the same way about the young master?"

"Quite so, sir."

"Right-ho, then, Jeeves. I shall say it clear, then. I love you, old top. I wasn't truly aware of it until just very recently, but I daresay you've known for some time, what?"

"Let us say that I was certain about my own feelings and had strong suspicions as to yours, sir. I will further confess that I deliberately allowed you to see my activities this evening in order to bring about a change in our relations."

"Jeeves, there is no doubt about it. You are a marvel. Now, shall we retire to my room for the night, old thing? I quite enjoyed that kiss and I'd rather like to conduct further explorations." I smiled as he bent to kiss me again.

"Thank you, sir. I should be most happy to oblige your request."

We have grown closer as the days and months have passed. He's managed to save the Wooster skin from an assortment of threats of a romantic nature with a variety of beazels, none of whom had anywhere close to Jeeves's charm, intelligence, and utter thingness.

As it turns out, Jeeves was quite expert in other fields as well. His expertise didn't end with kisses; it extended to all manner of physical and verbal demonstrations of affection.

Having a gentleman's personal gentleman can be a dashed handy thing.
Tags: jeeves, myfic, wooster

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