#web avatar jeeves

[fromthemouthofkings]

I'm having so much fun writing my web avatar!Jeeves fic. You know that one post that's about how if you find yourself confronted with a monster, if you blush fast enough you can shift the genre from horror to romance? Yeah, that's Bertie's whole strategy

Jeeves, shaking: I Am About To Undergo A Horrible Transformation

Bertie:

[wouldtheybecomeafearavatar]

Jeeves from the Jeeves novels by P.G. Wodehouse/Jeeves and Wooster series: avatar of the Web

[bracketsoffear]

Reginald Jeeves (P. G. Wodehouse) "He’s a valet but his real job is being a master manipulator, working behind the scenes to make sure everything works out for his boss. He gets people to steal things, lie, assault officers and even burn entire houses down in order to further his own goals (which is keeping his boss unmarried and going on a shrimping holiday). Everyone loves that he does this too. He’s such a manipulative little shit and everyone likes that about him."

Jane Marple (Agatha Christie) "First of all, she is famously known for her detective ability, which some might suggest puts her in the realm of the Eye. However, much of her detection ability relies less on hard evidence and more on her ability to recognize patterns of behavior and understand the connections between people that she has witnessed mirrored in her various neighbors over the years. Her keen understanding of these connections makes her a great detective, but it also makes her a great Weaver of Webs, as she is able to use people's perception of her as a harmless, somewhatt dotty old woman to achieve her own ends. Criminals don't take her seriously. Nice young people indulge her and perform the heavy legwork that she is incapable of. In every novel, the other characters move around her as she subtly nudges them in one direction or another, a spider at the center of her web.

Now, some of you may be thinking, "So she's manipulative, so what? She isn't scary." Not so! While, granted, she must keep up appearances of harmlessness to achieve her aims, those who know her best are wary of her skill. On some occasions, she has even been compared to Nemesis, the Greek goddess of revenge, for her ruthless way of cutting to the heart of a crime. While she puts onn a facade of innocence, rest assured that by the end of each of her novels, the culprits know fear.

[To move briefly into the speculative; how easy it would be for someone like Miss Marple to commit a crime? Not directly, of course, not when she is so old and frail and harmless -- but, as demonstrated in The Mirror Crack'd, all you really need to form a motive is the wrong words at the right moment, and dear old Jane has such a penchant for gossip. And the punishment is meted out, and the punishment for the punisher approaches, and the spider's hunger is sated. After all, if one wishes to catch a fly, they first must weave their web…]

TLDR: Old woman's calm, sweet exterior hides a keen understanding of the dark side of human nature, which she uses to quietly catch and entrap murderers. She even knits!"

[fromthemouthofkings]

Through the Spider's Eyes

When he answers the door, your first thought is, easy prey.

The club book as good as said so. Spineless, harmless, mentally negligible. Nothing about his appearance (hair uncombed, collar unbuttoned, dumbfounded expression, mouth agape) suggests otherwise.

Smoothly, you introduce yourself and slide inside. The flat is a mess, but quickly put to rights. You mix him a simple tonic, and he begins to speak. He speaks nicely enough. He praises you, thanks you. At least this little fly has manners. He will bleed sweeter. The last few insects that you’ve eaten have left an unpleasant taste in your mouth.

“What is your name?” he asks.

You are the shadow that haunts the city, you are the one that pulls the strings. You are the feudal spirit. Where there is a man sitting fat and happy at the center of his own domain, there you are also. Caught in the web of something much, much greater than yourself, obediently you spin your own little plans. Preying upon those who would control others for their own gain or abetting them, it makes little difference to you. You willingly feed that which owns you, and you in turn are fed.

You are the Spider, and if there was ever a time when you were anything else, you have forgotten it.

“Jeeves,” you tell him, and he shakes your hand.

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[fromthemouthofkings]

Jeeves and the Fox Hunt

Chapter 4

I swung open the doors to the breakfast room, prepared to do my utter best to put on an antic disposish. Now, of course, this was not a natural role for the last of the Woosters. I’d like to envision myself as more of the chivalrous adventuring hero, if I were to be typecast. But somebody had to do the job, and if it would help Jeeves, why then I was game to play the fool absolutely to the hilt.

“What-ho, Prods!” I exclaimed, striding inside only to find the breakfast table empty. So, sadly, was the sideboard.

Puzzled, I rang the bell.

The grim-faced fellow from last night appeared.

“Where is everybody?” I asked him.

“Down at the stables,” he said in a low, growling voice. “Best get a move on, or you’ll be late.”

“But what about breakfast?” I asked pathetically. “I mean I know I’m not much of an early riser, but I didn’t think I’d missed it entirely!”

“The master and mistress don't like to spoil their appetites.” His face split in a wide, pointed smile.

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[fromthemouthofkings]

Jeeves and the Fox Hunt

Chapter 3

I awoke quite suddenly in the middle of the night. At first, I wasn’t certain what had done it. The wind groaned in the window and the house creaked all around me, and for a moment, I thought that was all.

Then a low voice came, deep and rumbling, as if from all around me.

“You will not feed here, Spider.”

I clutched the bedclothes around me, certain that this horrible house had come alive and was now threatening to eat me.

“Did you really think to challenge us here, in our own place of power?”

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[fromthemouthofkings]

Jeeves and the Fox Hunt

Chapter 2

The Prod residence was a big, gloomy old house–or perhaps it only appeared so because I was gloomy and afraid. But the gray skies reflecting dully off the dark windows, the dead ivy rattling ominously against the panes, and the icy wind all added up to a distinctly unwelcoming experience.

Mr. and Mrs. William Prod shepherded me into their home with many a “What-ho!” and a “Ho there!”

I was in my element–as you no doubt know, Bertram Wooster can what-ho with the best of them.

“What-ho, what-ho, what-ho,” I said, bounding up the steps and into a dimly-lit front hall.

Mr. Prod grasped my hand firmly. He was a sprightly older fellow with a surprising lot of strength left in his rangy limbs and a spectacular silver mustache. “Absolutely spiffing to meet you, young man. My niece has been so looking forward to your visit. It is so long since we had such a fine specimen of manhood here for a hunt!”

“Ah, well!” I said. “That’s me. B. Wooster, finest specimen you could wish for.”

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[fromthemouthofkings]

Jeeves and the Fox Hunt

Summary: Aunt Agatha attempts to hook Bertie up with one Bernice Prod, a young lady of her acquaintance who was introduced to her by her old friend Jonah Magnus.

“When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it.” - Caitlyn Siehl

Chapter 1

It is rare that a day passes without the voice of a pal in need calling on young Bertram, without the shadow of an Aunt or some rummy circ. in need of fixing. Indeed, I think that when things get too quiet my man Jeeves has a habit of manufacturing some trouble, just for his own amusement. Poor thing, he is like a fine, majestic zoo animal, like a tiger pulled straight from the wilds of Bengal, and when he doesn’t have a chance to put that brilliant intellect of his to use, he goes quite off his feed.

Several such days had lately passed, however; the Drones club was quiet, the city cold, and everything was dull around the edges, as if the mid-February chill had dampened not only the air but the light and color and cheer of everything as well.

The day on which our story begins was a bitterly cold and an unrelentingly gray one: the sort that made one think of polar expeditions–of those sensational tales of chappies wandering for days through the snow and ice until they’re forced to turn on one another, to forgo the bounds of friendship and decent society and turn hunter into the hunted, to stain the snow red with blood and eat the poor frozen bodies of their friends.

Or at least, that’s what they do in the absolutely gripping novel which I was in the midst of presently.

Having absolutely no inclination or desire to feast upon the flesh of men, I was quite sensibly sheltering inside from the inclement elements, feeling rather like how I imagine Robert Peary must have felt, huddling down with his dogs and listening to the wintery wind howling outside–when the most peculiar thing happened.

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[fromthemouthofkings]

Jeeves and the Fox Hunt

Chapter 5

I ran. What else was there to do? I scrambled away from Bernice and her rifle as quickly as I was able. The dogs snapped their jaws at me. The horses whinnied. I threw myself off the path and down a long, steep incline, bursting through briars and catching on twigs. The pack bounded after me, barking.

Near the bottom of the hill, I slipped on a patch of ice and went tumbling, my ankles twisting and my palms scraping, hot blood welling against the cold snow. My body was flung into a thicket of brambles and I rose woozily, covered in scratches.

The dogs were coming for me, snapping their jaws and flashing so many sets of long, white teeth.

I took flight. The hunting party gave chase. I could hear the baying of the dogs all around me, the calls of the attendants–and their laughter, something about it distinctly canine.

I flew through the underbrush and crashed through icy springs. I sprang over fallen branches. Your own B. Wooster became as fleet and nimble as a fleeing deer. At every moment, I expected to feel those long, white teeth snapping at my ankle, but something held them off. My dread pooled. What were they playing at? I am a better than average sprinter, or so I flatter myself, but I don’t pretend to be a match for a pack of foxhounds and a fleet of riders all ahorse.

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