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indeedsir_backupOh look, it's back. *whistles, stalking off*
Title: Jeeves and the Meddlesome Medium
Chapter: 8/12
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Summary: Begin at the beginning.
Warnings: Slash-lite. Mmphm.
Chapter Rating: R? PG-13? Does anybody care?
But it was as I stared down at Jeeves’ drowsy form, touseled and beautiful, that another image came to me, making me forget my thirst-driven adventure. I’ve heard that we homo sapien-sapiens have more than one dream per night—that the whole night comprises several interwoven dreams and scenarios. It would appear now, that Jeeves was dreaming of… oh, good God… he was dreaming of Honoria. No, wait, but he was dreaming of Boko as well. It was a flash of images, like a broken cinema picture that’s been put up to the wrong tempo; I caught sight of myself, and of Missy, and of the aforementioned Boko and Glossop. I saw Sir Roderick, and then… a wood that I knew to be nearby Ditteridge. Words and phrases whirled around and I thought for a moment I was getting dizzy spells. The scenery blurred, the pictures melted into colours and the words rapped out at unintelligible tempos.
Suddenly it was over, and as I peered through the darkness, my head still reeling, I noticed faint orbs of blue staring blearily up at me.
Jeeves had woken from what I could only imagine was a nightmare, and he was processing that I was looming over him, staring.
“Is that… surely not…”
“Sir?” His normally smooth, soothing voice was a croaked whisper in his state of half-wakefulness. “Is something wrong?” He asked, tentatively.
“N-ah, not at all, Jeeves. Just, erm, had to get some water is all.” I tried to make myself sound equally sleepy and confounded, but there was a little niggle that told me this, like most of my other thespian attempts, had failed. Thankfully, Jeeves, in his lethargy, did not notice, but gazed steadily up at me in the blue haze of light. He looked strangely beautiful
He always looks beautiful, I thought idly to myself, unsure of how to respond to the stare of dawning comprehension.
“Ah, sir, allow me to get it for you.” He began to pull back the sheets and made attempts to be more respectful.
“Not at all, Jeeves, you stay in bed. I’m already up and out; I’ll not be gone long.”
“Truly, sir, it is no burden. I endeavour to give satisfaction.”
“Jeeves, you’re not required to give satisfaction at three in the ack emma.” A thought floated through my head of the kind of satisfaction I’d like him to give at such an hour, of the delightful circumstances where I might be allowed to once more see his touseled curls, his glassy baby blues, and anything else he’d care to show me. I dreamt of a world where he wanted to show me all he had, without persuasion or insistence. Where he would, and the events that followed would bring more satisfaction than could ever the menial tasks he was bound to.
“Nevertheless, sir…”
“Jeeves, no. Stay in bed.” I snapped at him, more intending the harshness to drive away the inappropriate thoughts than to subvert Jeeves. It worked on both counts. “Really, I’ve got it.”
He cleared his throat gently, his eyes never leaving my form although my own kept switching from him, to the doorknob. I realized I could look at either for too long.
“Very well, sir… then I shall accompany you. As it happens I, too, suffer from thirst.”
“Oh, Jeeves, I’ll get one for you as well!” Apparently this was so much pushing the kind-deed bounderies to Jeeves, that it was almost insulting him.
“Have him fetch for me? Mr Wooster is seldom this willing to perform menial tasks. No, how utterly unacceptable.” Even his inner voice sounded scandalized.
“Sir, I fear I must refuse the notion with fervent opposition, albeit appreciation as well.”
“Eh?” Somewhere between my hours of lost sleep and my distraction at Jeeves discreetly, yet coyly pulling on his dressing gown, I hadn’t energy enough to process half the sitch.
“Thank you, but no, sir. I shall accompany you to the kitchens, if it is agreeable to you.” He tied his gown shut firmly, and opened the door for me to precede him into the corridor.
“Jeeves?” I whispered, as we were heading down the stairway. “Jeeves, have you any idea how to get this Glossop menace off the Wooster heel?”
“I have, indeed, procured a solution of sorts, sir. I shall impart the information to you when we return to your rooms, sir.”
“Right-ho.”
The ordeal of the kitchen, it must be said, was a blur of blushing cheeks, awkward reaches, and exchanging glances. The image had returned to me; the one someone had dreamed of, the one I had dreamed of, of kissing Jeeves. Of the tender touches and caresses, of the way our lips aligned so, so perfectly. He seemed to be thinking of something he ought not to have.
“It is never to be. I cannot have it, I must not want it.” Was all that came from his cranium. Whatever ‘it’ was, I was feeling the dashed same way about him. But I was so used to the impossibility that it was lulled into a numb longing, a sort of ferocious want that was kept on morphine so perpetually it had not the energy even to think. But as long as I didn’t act, it would be alright.
As we gathered up our glasses, however, more began to pour forth from my man. “He is so beautiful at night. He is always beautiful, but now he is irresistible. You must resist. You will, as you have always done. You have not always shared a room with him—you have never shared a room with him. And you must stay awake with him, you must talk to him. The lights will be on, it should help. You can see him more clearly, it will not help.”
All this he thought as he opened the door for me. He looked briefly at me, a respectful, expecting glance that I knew very well. And all this time, when he’d given me that glance that meant he would not meet my eyes—this was when he was hiding something from me. My heart pounded fervently, and I stared at him, all my energy used in keeping upright and keeping my jaw shut.
“Sir?” He said, calling me back to consciousness. But the morphine had suddenly worn off and been replaced with absinthe. I wandered through the door, in a trance, my subconscious planning what I would do so that I would not have to think about it.
“Lord, why did he look at me in such a way? Those eyes—you must feign exhaustion. He will not mind. Feign exhaustion and fall into sleep, tell him in the morning. Resign in the morning, no, resigning is not an option. You must not leave him; even if you cannot have him, if you cannot want him, you must stay near him.”
His haphazard thoughts took us back to my room, and this time, I opened the door for us. He clicked on the lamps and I made my way to my bed. At last he reached for the lamp beside me, and his fingers had just left the chain when I grabbed hold of him, pulling him down on top of me and crushing my lips to his throat. He let out a gasp that spoke too many things; fear, shock, pleasure, surprise.
“Shh, Jeeves, you’ll wake the others. We’ve got to be awfully quiet.” Our waters were on the night table that stood between our beds. “Do you...” I wrapped my legs around him, and he stared down at me, in unmasked awe.
“Do you want this, Jeeves?” His mind was reeling—I couldn’t just hear it, I could bally well feel it, pressed beneath him as I was.
Finally, the unintelligible mixture of voices speaking what could have been different languages for all I knew, ceased. There was silence, and he said, blankly, “Does a fish long for the ocean?”
I screwed up my face, puzzled. “Jeeves?”
“Does a fish long for the ocean? It is engulfed in it, breathes it, relies on it for life, needs it utterly and wholly. Without it, the fish is nothing—is dead, or nearly dead. I ask you, sir, does a fish long for the ocean?
I paused a moment; I’d sent the poor chap into shock. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
His breathing hitched; apparently his mind had reached a favourable consensus. “So I long for you, sir.” He said, and took a great breath as though he, himself, was diving into the ocean for which he longed. He kissed me utterly and without fear.
“My dear.” I gasped as we resurfaced for breath. The love in his eyes was obvious, had always been obvious, now that I recognised it; but it also reached into his every cell, his nerves twitched with love, and his every molecule vibrated with love. I felt it in his touch as he caressed my head, touched his forehead to my collarbone, as his capable hands travelled along my every contour. Our robes and nightwear were lost in the ensuing fondling. The pleasure cradled us like a summer breeze, and we fell asleep together, spent and safe, with the door locked and the moon standing guard. Our glasses of water were left untouched, but at least we were not.
Title: Jeeves and the Meddlesome Medium
Chapter: 8/12
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Summary: Begin at the beginning.
Warnings: Slash-lite. Mmphm.
Chapter Rating: R? PG-13? Does anybody care?
But it was as I stared down at Jeeves’ drowsy form, touseled and beautiful, that another image came to me, making me forget my thirst-driven adventure. I’ve heard that we homo sapien-sapiens have more than one dream per night—that the whole night comprises several interwoven dreams and scenarios. It would appear now, that Jeeves was dreaming of… oh, good God… he was dreaming of Honoria. No, wait, but he was dreaming of Boko as well. It was a flash of images, like a broken cinema picture that’s been put up to the wrong tempo; I caught sight of myself, and of Missy, and of the aforementioned Boko and Glossop. I saw Sir Roderick, and then… a wood that I knew to be nearby Ditteridge. Words and phrases whirled around and I thought for a moment I was getting dizzy spells. The scenery blurred, the pictures melted into colours and the words rapped out at unintelligible tempos.
Suddenly it was over, and as I peered through the darkness, my head still reeling, I noticed faint orbs of blue staring blearily up at me.
Jeeves had woken from what I could only imagine was a nightmare, and he was processing that I was looming over him, staring.
“Is that… surely not…”
“Sir?” His normally smooth, soothing voice was a croaked whisper in his state of half-wakefulness. “Is something wrong?” He asked, tentatively.
“N-ah, not at all, Jeeves. Just, erm, had to get some water is all.” I tried to make myself sound equally sleepy and confounded, but there was a little niggle that told me this, like most of my other thespian attempts, had failed. Thankfully, Jeeves, in his lethargy, did not notice, but gazed steadily up at me in the blue haze of light. He looked strangely beautiful
He always looks beautiful, I thought idly to myself, unsure of how to respond to the stare of dawning comprehension.
“Ah, sir, allow me to get it for you.” He began to pull back the sheets and made attempts to be more respectful.
“Not at all, Jeeves, you stay in bed. I’m already up and out; I’ll not be gone long.”
“Truly, sir, it is no burden. I endeavour to give satisfaction.”
“Jeeves, you’re not required to give satisfaction at three in the ack emma.” A thought floated through my head of the kind of satisfaction I’d like him to give at such an hour, of the delightful circumstances where I might be allowed to once more see his touseled curls, his glassy baby blues, and anything else he’d care to show me. I dreamt of a world where he wanted to show me all he had, without persuasion or insistence. Where he would, and the events that followed would bring more satisfaction than could ever the menial tasks he was bound to.
“Nevertheless, sir…”
“Jeeves, no. Stay in bed.” I snapped at him, more intending the harshness to drive away the inappropriate thoughts than to subvert Jeeves. It worked on both counts. “Really, I’ve got it.”
He cleared his throat gently, his eyes never leaving my form although my own kept switching from him, to the doorknob. I realized I could look at either for too long.
“Very well, sir… then I shall accompany you. As it happens I, too, suffer from thirst.”
“Oh, Jeeves, I’ll get one for you as well!” Apparently this was so much pushing the kind-deed bounderies to Jeeves, that it was almost insulting him.
“Have him fetch for me? Mr Wooster is seldom this willing to perform menial tasks. No, how utterly unacceptable.” Even his inner voice sounded scandalized.
“Sir, I fear I must refuse the notion with fervent opposition, albeit appreciation as well.”
“Eh?” Somewhere between my hours of lost sleep and my distraction at Jeeves discreetly, yet coyly pulling on his dressing gown, I hadn’t energy enough to process half the sitch.
“Thank you, but no, sir. I shall accompany you to the kitchens, if it is agreeable to you.” He tied his gown shut firmly, and opened the door for me to precede him into the corridor.
“Jeeves?” I whispered, as we were heading down the stairway. “Jeeves, have you any idea how to get this Glossop menace off the Wooster heel?”
“I have, indeed, procured a solution of sorts, sir. I shall impart the information to you when we return to your rooms, sir.”
“Right-ho.”
The ordeal of the kitchen, it must be said, was a blur of blushing cheeks, awkward reaches, and exchanging glances. The image had returned to me; the one someone had dreamed of, the one I had dreamed of, of kissing Jeeves. Of the tender touches and caresses, of the way our lips aligned so, so perfectly. He seemed to be thinking of something he ought not to have.
“It is never to be. I cannot have it, I must not want it.” Was all that came from his cranium. Whatever ‘it’ was, I was feeling the dashed same way about him. But I was so used to the impossibility that it was lulled into a numb longing, a sort of ferocious want that was kept on morphine so perpetually it had not the energy even to think. But as long as I didn’t act, it would be alright.
As we gathered up our glasses, however, more began to pour forth from my man. “He is so beautiful at night. He is always beautiful, but now he is irresistible. You must resist. You will, as you have always done. You have not always shared a room with him—you have never shared a room with him. And you must stay awake with him, you must talk to him. The lights will be on, it should help. You can see him more clearly, it will not help.”
All this he thought as he opened the door for me. He looked briefly at me, a respectful, expecting glance that I knew very well. And all this time, when he’d given me that glance that meant he would not meet my eyes—this was when he was hiding something from me. My heart pounded fervently, and I stared at him, all my energy used in keeping upright and keeping my jaw shut.
“Sir?” He said, calling me back to consciousness. But the morphine had suddenly worn off and been replaced with absinthe. I wandered through the door, in a trance, my subconscious planning what I would do so that I would not have to think about it.
“Lord, why did he look at me in such a way? Those eyes—you must feign exhaustion. He will not mind. Feign exhaustion and fall into sleep, tell him in the morning. Resign in the morning, no, resigning is not an option. You must not leave him; even if you cannot have him, if you cannot want him, you must stay near him.”
His haphazard thoughts took us back to my room, and this time, I opened the door for us. He clicked on the lamps and I made my way to my bed. At last he reached for the lamp beside me, and his fingers had just left the chain when I grabbed hold of him, pulling him down on top of me and crushing my lips to his throat. He let out a gasp that spoke too many things; fear, shock, pleasure, surprise.
“Shh, Jeeves, you’ll wake the others. We’ve got to be awfully quiet.” Our waters were on the night table that stood between our beds. “Do you...” I wrapped my legs around him, and he stared down at me, in unmasked awe.
“Do you want this, Jeeves?” His mind was reeling—I couldn’t just hear it, I could bally well feel it, pressed beneath him as I was.
Finally, the unintelligible mixture of voices speaking what could have been different languages for all I knew, ceased. There was silence, and he said, blankly, “Does a fish long for the ocean?”
I screwed up my face, puzzled. “Jeeves?”
“Does a fish long for the ocean? It is engulfed in it, breathes it, relies on it for life, needs it utterly and wholly. Without it, the fish is nothing—is dead, or nearly dead. I ask you, sir, does a fish long for the ocean?
I paused a moment; I’d sent the poor chap into shock. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
His breathing hitched; apparently his mind had reached a favourable consensus. “So I long for you, sir.” He said, and took a great breath as though he, himself, was diving into the ocean for which he longed. He kissed me utterly and without fear.
“My dear.” I gasped as we resurfaced for breath. The love in his eyes was obvious, had always been obvious, now that I recognised it; but it also reached into his every cell, his nerves twitched with love, and his every molecule vibrated with love. I felt it in his touch as he caressed my head, touched his forehead to my collarbone, as his capable hands travelled along my every contour. Our robes and nightwear were lost in the ensuing fondling. The pleasure cradled us like a summer breeze, and we fell asleep together, spent and safe, with the door locked and the moon standing guard. Our glasses of water were left untouched, but at least we were not.
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Date: 2010-07-18 11:43 pm (UTC)