waqaychay (waqaychay) wrote,

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The Rum Situation with Rocky, Part 1

Author: waqaychay
Pairing: Bertie/Rocky Todd, Bertie/Jeeves implied, part 3 will be Bertie/Jeeves/Rocky
Rating: Hard r
Warnings: Slight non-con elements, but nothing terribly squicky. Also, infidelity, if you need a warning for that.
Summary: Bertie stays with Rocky while Jeeves stays with Wilmot. Unfortunately, Rocky doesn't stay in his own bed.
Disclaimer: Not mine. No offense meant to P.G. Wodehouse, Stephen Fry, Hugh Laurie, or Auntie Beeb.
A/N: Consider this a missing scene for the tv episode "Bertie Sets Sail", from which the beginning dialog is taken, or the short story "Jeeves and the Unbidden Guest". This was written for theempress14 because she wanted some Bertie/Rocky to podfic. I can't wait to hear her Rocky voice. ;) This probably isn't quite what she had in mind, but this is as close as I could get. Also, this is not part of my "Jeeves in Love" series. And, of course, a million thanks to the best beta in the world, crowson75 for Brit-picking and helping with the extreme OOCness of Bertie in this one. You are the greatest, love!

If you ask Jeeves -- that's my man, you know, Jeeves -- he will tell you that Bertram Wooster is the epitowhatsit of kindness and generosity. "Oh, yes," he'd likely say, "Bertie is a most tender-hearted and giving soul, known to offer a chum the very shirt off his back if it would help him out of a rum posish."

Well, Jeeves probably wouldn't use words like 'chum' or 'posish', but you see my point. Come to think of it, he wouldn't call me 'Bertie', either, not in the company of others. It usually requires the removal of at least his jacket and tie to get the old man to drop the 'sir's and the 'Mr. Wooster's, and take up the 'Bertie's and the 'my dear's.

Now, I can hear you say, "Hold on, Wooster! What the devil are you doing with valets in their shirtsleeves 'my dear'ing you all over the place?" I should explain that, years ago, Jeeves and I came to an understanding. That is to say, Jeeves sat the young master down one night and explained that all the tender emotions we had been feeling in re. each other meant that we should be spending quite a bit more of our time together sans clothing. Jeeves, being Jeeves, was right, of course, and we have been doing rather a lot of 'sheet shaking', as the Americans call it, ever since. Therefore, a half-naked Jeeves spouting endearments is not unheard of in the Wooster abode, and thank goodness for that.

Back to the matter at hand. Yes, Jeeves will tell you that one Bertram W. Wooster is a good chap to know when in a tight spot, but even he will admit that my generosity has its limits. Take the case of the pill Wilmot, for instance. After the Malvern horror had saddled me with that wet blanket, I was the very soul of gracious tolerance. However, when the wet blanket turned out to be more of a firecracker, Bertram had had enough.

"Jeeves, I have decided," I declared, the morning Rollo the dog attempted to separate me from my ankles. "I'm going away. This afternoon. By the next train. You remember Mr. Todd, Jeeves?"

"No, sir."

"Yes, you do."

"Very good, sir."

Of course Jeeves remembered him, the liar. The last time we met Rocky Todd, the American had written a poem for me called "Seize the Day." Then, he had promptly tried to seize the Wooster. Jeeves had nearly thrown a strop. It wasn't something one forgets.

"He invited me to go and stay with him in Long Island, so that's what I'm going to do. I'll get some peace and quiet if it's the last thing I do."

"Very good, sir. Do you wish me to accompany you, sir?"

"I think not, Jeeves. You better stay behind to make sure Motty doesn't burn down the old homestead."

"...As you wish, sir."

I knew, of course, that Jeeves would have liked to keep a weather eye on Rocky, especially around the young master. He didn't trust the cove to keep his hands to himself. I knew better. The rebuke Jeeves gave him at our last meeting was delivered with such a sharp tongue that I was sure old Rocky was still feeling the sting. Luckily, he never was the kind to bear a grudge, unlike some tall, dark, and brainy valets. Already in a snit over the spiffy new hat I acquired for our stay in New York, Jeeves packed my bag with a considerable huff and nearly refused to see me off. A tender, dying-duck-in-a-rainstorm look never fails to weaken Jeeves's resolve, though, and I found myself locked in a passionate embrace before I sailed out the door.

A train, two taxis, and a dashed long walk down a dirt road later, I found myself at the humble abode of Rockmetteller Todd. I knocked and found the man already in bed. Or perhaps still in bed. You never know with Rocky.

"Bertie!" he cried out in glee when he determined who it was on his doorstep. "Hey, how you doing? Stay a week, stay a month, have a drink!"

I took him up on his gracious offer. Of a drink, that is. I had no intention of staying anywhere as devoid of culture as Long Island for more than a few days. A drink became two, then three, then five. For someone so out-of-touch with the New York scene, Rocky made a truly delish martini.

Settled comfortably in Rocky's spare bed that night, I reveled in the peace and quiet. After a week of Wilmot's night-long drunken frivolities, it was a welcome change. For all of the three minutes it took me to wonder what Jeeves was up to, that is. After that, I found myself missing the strong arms of my valet rather desperately.

It had been quite some time since I'd last lain in Jeeves's embrace. We hadn't made love since we were aboard the steamer heading for New York. With the Pershore excrescence staying with us, every moment of the previous week had been spent in trying to keep the gaiety to a level that would not land us all in Sing Sing for crimes against decency. It had been impossible to steal a moment alone together long enough to wrap my limbs around Jeeves, let alone unwrap his clothes from his person. This was the longest I'd gone without entwining my body with his since we first became, well, entwined, and said b. was feeling the strain.

I rolled over onto my back and contemplated the ceiling of Rocky's h. a., and tried to ignore the part of me that missed Jeeves the most as it hardened and throbbed in my pants. I performed a mental recitation of all the females to whom I had ever been engaged, first chronically -- or whichever word it is that means 'in order by time' -- then alphabetically. When that didn't do the trick, I imagined hosting a dinner party for Aunt Agatha, all her Auntly friends, Roderick Spode, and J. Washburn Stoker, to boot. Surprisingly, that didn't help the sitch, either. Finally, heaving a sigh worthy of that Greek chap as he took the world onto his shoulders, I slipped a hand down the Wooster frame to relieve the pressure by a more direct route. Of course, that was when Rocky burst into the room.


He held aloft a lamp and peered into the dim chamber. I quickly retrieved my hand from my pants and sat up, gathering the bedclothes around me to preserve my modesty.

“What is it?" I snapped. "The hour is late, Rocky, and I hardly expect to be barged in upon while I'm attempting to get the required forty winks." And I meant it to sting.

"Bertie, I just had a stroke of inspiration!" Rocky came into the room, set the lamp on the bedside cabinet, and sat on the side of my bed, heedless of my tone or expression. "Listen to this!" He threw his arms wide and his head back and bellowed.

"Come! Come!
Away from the din
Away from the sin

Come! Come!
To my homestead
To my warm bed

Come! Come!

He seemed to run out of steam at that point and sort of slumped forward. I reckoned I was expected to interject with critique at that point.

"That's spiffing, Rocky. A real corker."

"That's as far as I've gotten," he said. "I've been trying to find a something to rhyme with 'in my body.'"

"Ah, I see. 'My hot toddy', perhaps?"

"I wrote it for you," he said, ignoring my respectable suggestion. He turned to me, the light of a Soul's Awakening in his eyes.

"Erm, Rocky, old man."

"I know Jeeves said I should keep my hands to myself, but, Bertie, you're wonderful! Couldn't we just...? He wouldn't have to know."

Here, Rocky laid a hand on my thigh, or what he most likely thought to be my thigh. It was, in fact, that portion of the Wooster anatomy that had been pining for Jeeves just moments before and pined still, despite the addition of an American poet to the bedchamber.

"I say!" I exclaimed and jumped backward as much as I could while seated and ensconced in enough bedclothes to hide my rather sizable excitement. That is to say, I sort of flailed backward, became entangled in the sheets, and fell over.

Rocky seemed to take that for encouragement, the blighter, and quickly moved to my side. "Oh, Bertie!" And here he pressed his lips rather forcefully to my own.

I drew breath to tick him off good and proper, but the moment I opened my mouth to deliver the first blow, I found a tongue other than my own suddenly attacking the bicuspids. All I got out was a forceful "Mmph!" before my ability to produce speech was rendered useless.

In other circs., I would say that Rocky was a good kisser. Not that I have much experience with that sort of thing, but it was a passable imitation of that oral activity which I believe is known as French kissing. Goodness knows why it's called that. When Jeeves and I were last in France, I asked a very nice chap why kissing with tongues was called French, and he said it wasn't. But then, he also said it was called rouler un patin, which has something to do with ice skates, so he may have been completely off his chump.

Whatever it was called, it wasn't a patch on Jeeves's kisses. Of course, his are the very ambrosia of life itself, but Rocky's had its merits. I soon found my eyes beginning to close and lower portions of my anatomy begging to be opened, if you understand me. However, once he lifted his face from mine, the pleasurable haze that had been starting to fog the Wooster mind lifted and reason returned.

"Rocky, old bean, I don't mean to be rude, but would you mind getting the bloody hell off me?"

"Please, Bertie, please," the scoundrel pleaded as he placed burning kisses down my jaw, which, I am loathe to admit, felt awfully pleasant. The nether regions throbbed painfully. I attempted to push him firmly from the vicinity of my throat, but found my hands quite ineffectual, as they grasped the front of Rocky's nightshirt and stayed there, the traitorous things, clutching rather than pushing.

"Damn it all, man, think of Jeeves!"

Rocky paused in his assault on my collarbones and slid atop the Wooster corpus to straddle my hips, much as I had done to Jeeves the last time we were able to partake of each other's flesh. The heat of his body sank through the layers of sheets and pyjamas between us and into my nether bits. "Jeeves isn't here, and dear God, I want you to fuck me." With that vulgarity, the man had the bally nerve to grind into me, driving the point home, as they say.

It is a well-known fact that Jeeves is the one in the driver's seat when it comes to the daily business of our household. It is less well known that Jeeves is also the one in the driver's seat when it comes to matters pertaining to our bed. More specifically, he is in my seat, if you see what I mean. I've often dreamt of a bit of role-reversal -- turn about being fair play and all that -- but Jeeves won't hear of it, and a gentleman doesn't like to insist once a suggestion has been nolle prosequied. And here was Rocky Todd, who obviously was no gentleman, offering me the very experience I had desired and now had to refuse. I nearly wept.

"I'm sorry," I gasped under the writhing body still grinding away south of my equator. "Rocky, no. I'm sorry. It can't be done."

I blush to admit it, but that was my last attempt at refusing his attentions. Americans are known for their can-do spirit, and Rocky was no exception, despite his sluggardly ways. Is 'sluggardly' a word? Well, if it's not, it should be. The hound kept at me, and, blast it, while the brain was calling for a halt, the body was chomping at the bit. Rocky reached between us and ripped the bedclothes away. He put a hand in a place only Jeeves had ever touched before, and I was lost.

With a mighty groan, I heaved and had Rocky under me faster than Tuppy Glossop can put away his first helping of steak and kidney pie. Rocky's knees came up to cradle my hips, and that jolly well felt topping. In my mind's eye, I saw Jeeves under me thus, all flushed desire and eager submission, and nearly peaked.

"Bertie, Bertie!" Rocky wailed in my ear, and the flat American vowels sounded wrong as they assaulted the eardrums. I ignored them and focused instead on the feel of a man below me, letting me lead the dance, as it were. I thrust hard between Rocky's legs, not bothering to remove the fabric between us. Our pricks moved against each other, but as close as I was to the end, it wasn't enough. I pushed up onto my hands and really threw my back into the thing, tossing my head back and moaning to the ceiling. Below me, Rocky clung like a limpet to my nightwear and keened as he found his release. Imagining what it must feel like to be inside his body as this was happening, I shuddered and cried out, finding my own crest of illicit ecstasy.

After the heavenly choir stopped singing and the bliss receded, I crashed to the bed. Flopping onto my back, I gasped for breath. I was feeling tingly, warm, and rather boomps-a-daisy, even with the discomfort of wet pants sticking to places where they ought not to stick.

"That was beautiful, Bertie," Rocky said from the other side of the bed. "Next time, though, I want you to come in me."

The boomps-a-daisy-ness fled from my body like nephews fleeing from an enraged Aunt. "Er, Rocky."

He rolled onto his side to face me, the Love Light blazing in his eyes. "Yeah?"

"I don't think we should.... That is to say, old man.... You know how it is once you've had a snootful and get to missing your manservant? Er, I mean loved one. Absence making the h. grow f., and all that. You get suggestible. Not that this wasn't awfully pleasant. Your moaning is the real Tabasco, I have to say. Not that I'd like an encore, you understand. What I mean is... don't tell Jeeves!" I blurted, very near to swooning like a female from sheer panic.

Rocky smiled. "Don't worry. I won't." He yawned widely and rolled once again onto his back. "Good night, Bertie."

In moments, the perisher was asleep. The tender embrace of Morpheus eluded the young Wooster, however. How was I ever going to hide this transgression from Jeeves? The man's fish-fed brain was sure to figure it out. What in the blazes was I to do?

I lay awake until Rocky's snores filled the room and I had come to a hard decision. There was nothing for it but to confess, before Jeeves found me out himself, and hope that earned me a bit of leniency.

As the sun peeked over the horizon the next morning, I was packing my things. With any luck, I would be on my way to New York by the time Rocky woke up. Hardly gentlemanly of me to sneak out the back after a drunken roll in the hay, I admit, but what does one say after a right ranygazoo such as this? Jeeves would know, I was sure.

I almost felt bad for old Rocky, thinking about what Jeeves would say to him, but then I remembered that he would have a tongue-lashing reserved for me, as well. And it wouldn't be the fun kind of tongue action that ended with me shouting his name and messing yet another set of bedsheets. I couldn't worry about old Rocky at the moment. Jeeves was going to murder me.

Tags: jooster, my fic

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