So here you have it. Bunter/Saint-George, following on directly from azdak's fic The Rich Man in his Castle, and many thanks to her for allowing me to post a sequel.
Slowly, deliberately, Bunter untied his apron and hung it neatly on a peg by the door. That meant, as Jerry couldn't help noticing, that he was now standing between him and the only possible exit. His heart began to thump.
"You do, don't you?" said Bunter. His voice was soft, but his accent sounded rougher somehow, as if a layer of velvet had been stripped away. "Then get down on your knees."
He had expected anger and an outraged reply, not for him actually to do it. But his expectations of the Viscount had quite obviously been entirely wrong on all fronts and there he was, kneeling before Bunter on the scullery flags and complaining about the effect on his trousers. As Bunter did not believe that the Viscount had seen to a pair of trousers in his life and Bunter was undoubtedly the one who would end up brushing and pressing them whatever the outcome, he did not allow this to move him. The question was, with Saint-George’s hand now well and truly played, what was Bunter going to do about it? An inner voice suggested: score.
Well, there was that. There were risks, of course, but if the Viscount knew anything about Bunter, and apparently he did, a thought to be pushed aside for later, he must know already that blackmail would be a very bad idea. Besides, the rest of the Talboys household wouldn’t be up for hours. Or he could tell the boy to get up and get out in the sure and certain knowledge that he’d never be bothered with him again. Somehow this was less appealing than it ought to have been. It might have had something to do with the grey eyes looking up at him half-veiled by long lashes, and the slight shudder of the shoulders beneath a jacket almost as beautifully tailored as his uncle’s. Like his employer, Bunter was in many ways a simple man at heart. There was nothing to lose by showing a bit of interest.
He unbuttoned his trouser fly while he thought about it. This had the concomitant effect of rather reducing the amount of thinking of which he appeared to be capable and also, he realised, any prospect of making a convincing denial. He became aware that the Viscount had fallen uncharacteristically silent and was now staring at the hand in front of his face. Ah. The hand took the pointed chin and tilted it upwards gently.
‘You haven’t done this before?’ It was barely a question. His voice sounded harsh in his ears.
An infinitesimal shake of the head in response.
He stroked the fair hair back from Saint-George’s forehead, winding his fingers tight against the back of his head, his other hand shoving his pants aside. No denial left.