Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2012-02-24 02:03 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2012-02-24 02:03 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: We'll Always Have New York
Title: We'll Always Have New York
Rating: PG-13 (vague sex)
Pairing: "Stephen"/Jon, Whiskers, Other Whiskers (2/21/12)
Disclaimer: #NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement. Characters belong to the Report. Names of real people are used in a fictitious context, and all dialogue, actions, and content are products of the author's imagination only.
Inspired by a kink meme prompt: "Chris Christie vetoes the NJ gay marriage bill, and NJ resident "Stephen" wants Jon to know he isn't completely and utterly devastated by the news. Really, he's not. Even as he cries himself to sleep at night in his lover's comforting arms."
Posting as an ordinary fic because it didn't come out particularly kinky. Although it does have chocolate. And kittens.
Mirror on the AO3.
"Stephen?" called Jon, tossing his coat over the back of the couch in the front room of Stephen's waterfront New Jersey quasi-mansion and following the smell of burning. "Are you okay?"
"I'm making pancakes!" yelled a quavery voice from the kitchen. "Pancakes of victory! And I don't need any help! Now get in here!"
Jon found Stephen tapping his foot in front of the stove, a half-empty bag of chocolate chips in one hand and a batter-dripping spoon in the other. Two batter ovals dotted with blobs of melted chocolate sizzled in the pan he was watching, their tops liquid and bubbling while their undersides crackled against the heat.
"Stephen, honey, you've got to flip them," sighed Jon, as Stephen poked the doomed pancakes helplessly with his spoon. "No, not with that...where's your spatula?"
Stephen blinked wetly at him. "The thing you use to get the last bit of peanut butter out of the jar?"
"No, the other kind of spatula...listen, it's too late for this round anyway, okay? Take these off the stove before they set off the—"
"Fine!" shouted Stephen, throwing the bag and spoon onto the counter (flinging off sprays of chocolate chips and flecks of batter, respectively) and grabbing the pan off the burner. "I give up, I can't make pancakes, are you happy now? It doesn't change anything!" He thrust the pan into the sink and turned on the water full blast; a cloud of steam billowed out into the room. "There is still a victory, and it was very victorious, and—"
The shrill beeping of the fire detector cut him off.
It took five minutes of waving smoke out the back door with a throw rug before the air was tolerable again. In the process Jon felt eyes on the back of his neck, and let the rug go slack just in time to interrupt the brave but futile charge of a fluffy cream-colored kitten. He slammed the door before it could regroup and bolt into the night, and dropped the rug to scoop the frozen furball up. "Where did you come from, sweetie? C'mere."
When he returned to the kitchen, Stephen was sitting on one of the stools around the island in the center, sulking and eating chocolate chips straight from the bag. "Hi, Jon," he said glumly. "Hi, Whiskers. Hello, Other Whiskers."
A pitiful mewing from the vicinity of Jon's heels guided his attention to the stripey greyish-tan kitten trailing behind him. "Their names are Whiskers and Other Whiskers?"
"Don't you take that tone with me!" Stephen's lower lip trembled dangerously. "I love kittens. And I love democracy! I love the will of the people! Who cares about rings? You probably don't even know my size. A diamond's just a stupid rock anyway!"
Well.
"Stephen," said Jon slowly, "I love you very much, and will sit down and talk with you in just a minute, but first I need to know...do you have cat food in the house? Or, uh, a litter box?"
With some simple direction, Stephen was able to dig through the cupboards for canned fish, while Jon set up a water bowl and improvised a litter box in a large Tupperware container using baking soda and Stephen's backlog of shredded New York Times. Both Whiskerses went for the water first, then climbed all over each other to get to the second bowl when Stephen set it down full of shredded tuna.
It was good to see he wasn't completely nonfunctional. He'd had a similar meltdown after same-sex marriage went through in New York, and Jon had nearly blown up at him for hypocrisy before realizing Stephen's real fear: that Jon was expecting them to sprint to the altar as soon as it opened. Raging against the law was easier for him than an honest "I love you, but I'm not ready for this yet, please don't break up with me over it."
Jon had surprised him by being in no rush. They'd settled back into their carefully-established pattern ever since, keeping two homes but more often than not ending up in the same one at night, avoiding official discussion of their relationship but treating it as a private thing rather than a secret one. Nearly a year later, Stephen was openly demanding Valentine's Day presents and asking his Twitter followers for feedback on distinctly Jon-centric fantasies. And, apparently, warming up of the idea of putting the whole thing in the public record.
Stephen sat back against the island, folded his hands in his lap, and sniffled again. Jon gave the kittens one last skritch on the head each and joined him.
"I do love you, you know," he repeated, resting his hand on Stephen's wrist. "No amount of vetoed legislation can change that."
"Good!" said Stephen promptly. "Because the veto was the right thing to do! The market hasn't spoken, so Big Government shouldn't try to force its agenda on the common man! The very manly, very heterosexual common man, who doesn't want to have our—" He gulped. "—to have the gay agenda shoved down his throat."
"Bull," snapped Jon. "Anything gets shoved down throats, it's gonna happen in my bedroom. Not out of it."
Unamused, Stephen grabbed him, half knocking the breath out of him to muffle a sob against the front of his shirt.
Jon wrapped his arms around Stephen's torso, making soft shushing noises that were half for Stephen's benefit and half for the Whiskerses, who had both jumped at the ruckus and were now huddled against the wall with their ears back. "Shhh. It's okay, sweetheart. Have you eaten recently? Besides chocolate, I mean."
Stephen nodded. "Wasn't really hungry," he choked. "Just thought...should make pancakes...because victory...."
"Good. That's good."
He settled into a rhythm of rubbing Stephen's back, groping for more words of comfort, though he knew his presence offered more reassurance than anything he could say. Words were fluid in Stephen's world; words could mean whatever you wanted them to mean. Having Jon's body solid and warm against his, though...that was hard to doubt.
And if Jon was being honest, Stephen wasn't the only one who needed the comfort sometimes.
Other Whiskers clambered over Whiskers to inspect the Tupperware container, and Stephen clung to Jon like he was the axis around which the world turned, while Jon closed his eyes to soak in the scents of flour and moisturizer and the thump of Stephen's heartbeat.
Closing the door against feline interruption, Jon guided Stephen to his bed (their bed), where several years' worth of highly enjoyable training were set aside in favor of taking him slowly, the better to appreciate every inch of him.
Stephen was uncharacteristically accepting throughout, neither pouting nor urging Jon to pick up the pace. When he did speak, it was only to pant Jon's name with no demands attached.
Neither one felt like getting up to turn off the lights afterward. Stephen's eyes were still reddened, but the puffiness around them had gone down. Jon laced his fingers through his boyfriend's and wondered how bad an example it would set to forget about energy efficiency, just this once.
"One day, none of this is going to matter any more," he said softly, as much for himself as for Stephen. "The last couple states that get on board with same-sex marriage are gonna do it because they're laughingstocks of the nation for being so behind the times. Then, if and when two people who love each other decide to get married, they won't have to worry about what kind of social and political statement it makes. It'll just be about them."
"Who said anything about getting married?" huffed Stephen. "It worries me sometimes, Jon, this fixation you have."
Conscience won out. "Right," said Jon sleepily, rolling out from under the covers to hit the lightswitch. "I'm the one with the fixation here."
"Well, it's certainly not coming from me. Why would I start getting my hopes up about you wanting to celebrate being legal in your native state by making me the happiest man alive? Honestly. You probably wouldn't even know where to start."
There was a scratching noise coming from the far side of the door. Jon unlatched it, only to see the cream-colored kitten (he had forgotten which of the Whiskerses it was) tear off in the other direction. Oh well. Maybe it would wander back in later.
In the moonlit darkness he climbed back under the blankets, and held Stephen's hand. Rubbing his thumb across the base of the ring finger, and whispered into Stephen's good ear: "Nine and a half."
Rating: PG-13 (vague sex)
Pairing: "Stephen"/Jon, Whiskers, Other Whiskers (2/21/12)
Disclaimer: #NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement. Characters belong to the Report. Names of real people are used in a fictitious context, and all dialogue, actions, and content are products of the author's imagination only.
Inspired by a kink meme prompt: "Chris Christie vetoes the NJ gay marriage bill, and NJ resident "Stephen" wants Jon to know he isn't completely and utterly devastated by the news. Really, he's not. Even as he cries himself to sleep at night in his lover's comforting arms."
Posting as an ordinary fic because it didn't come out particularly kinky. Although it does have chocolate. And kittens.
Mirror on the AO3.
"Stephen?" called Jon, tossing his coat over the back of the couch in the front room of Stephen's waterfront New Jersey quasi-mansion and following the smell of burning. "Are you okay?"
"I'm making pancakes!" yelled a quavery voice from the kitchen. "Pancakes of victory! And I don't need any help! Now get in here!"
Jon found Stephen tapping his foot in front of the stove, a half-empty bag of chocolate chips in one hand and a batter-dripping spoon in the other. Two batter ovals dotted with blobs of melted chocolate sizzled in the pan he was watching, their tops liquid and bubbling while their undersides crackled against the heat.
"Stephen, honey, you've got to flip them," sighed Jon, as Stephen poked the doomed pancakes helplessly with his spoon. "No, not with that...where's your spatula?"
Stephen blinked wetly at him. "The thing you use to get the last bit of peanut butter out of the jar?"
"No, the other kind of spatula...listen, it's too late for this round anyway, okay? Take these off the stove before they set off the—"
"Fine!" shouted Stephen, throwing the bag and spoon onto the counter (flinging off sprays of chocolate chips and flecks of batter, respectively) and grabbing the pan off the burner. "I give up, I can't make pancakes, are you happy now? It doesn't change anything!" He thrust the pan into the sink and turned on the water full blast; a cloud of steam billowed out into the room. "There is still a victory, and it was very victorious, and—"
The shrill beeping of the fire detector cut him off.
It took five minutes of waving smoke out the back door with a throw rug before the air was tolerable again. In the process Jon felt eyes on the back of his neck, and let the rug go slack just in time to interrupt the brave but futile charge of a fluffy cream-colored kitten. He slammed the door before it could regroup and bolt into the night, and dropped the rug to scoop the frozen furball up. "Where did you come from, sweetie? C'mere."
When he returned to the kitchen, Stephen was sitting on one of the stools around the island in the center, sulking and eating chocolate chips straight from the bag. "Hi, Jon," he said glumly. "Hi, Whiskers. Hello, Other Whiskers."
A pitiful mewing from the vicinity of Jon's heels guided his attention to the stripey greyish-tan kitten trailing behind him. "Their names are Whiskers and Other Whiskers?"
"Don't you take that tone with me!" Stephen's lower lip trembled dangerously. "I love kittens. And I love democracy! I love the will of the people! Who cares about rings? You probably don't even know my size. A diamond's just a stupid rock anyway!"
Well.
"Stephen," said Jon slowly, "I love you very much, and will sit down and talk with you in just a minute, but first I need to know...do you have cat food in the house? Or, uh, a litter box?"
With some simple direction, Stephen was able to dig through the cupboards for canned fish, while Jon set up a water bowl and improvised a litter box in a large Tupperware container using baking soda and Stephen's backlog of shredded New York Times. Both Whiskerses went for the water first, then climbed all over each other to get to the second bowl when Stephen set it down full of shredded tuna.
It was good to see he wasn't completely nonfunctional. He'd had a similar meltdown after same-sex marriage went through in New York, and Jon had nearly blown up at him for hypocrisy before realizing Stephen's real fear: that Jon was expecting them to sprint to the altar as soon as it opened. Raging against the law was easier for him than an honest "I love you, but I'm not ready for this yet, please don't break up with me over it."
Jon had surprised him by being in no rush. They'd settled back into their carefully-established pattern ever since, keeping two homes but more often than not ending up in the same one at night, avoiding official discussion of their relationship but treating it as a private thing rather than a secret one. Nearly a year later, Stephen was openly demanding Valentine's Day presents and asking his Twitter followers for feedback on distinctly Jon-centric fantasies. And, apparently, warming up of the idea of putting the whole thing in the public record.
Stephen sat back against the island, folded his hands in his lap, and sniffled again. Jon gave the kittens one last skritch on the head each and joined him.
"I do love you, you know," he repeated, resting his hand on Stephen's wrist. "No amount of vetoed legislation can change that."
"Good!" said Stephen promptly. "Because the veto was the right thing to do! The market hasn't spoken, so Big Government shouldn't try to force its agenda on the common man! The very manly, very heterosexual common man, who doesn't want to have our—" He gulped. "—to have the gay agenda shoved down his throat."
"Bull," snapped Jon. "Anything gets shoved down throats, it's gonna happen in my bedroom. Not out of it."
Unamused, Stephen grabbed him, half knocking the breath out of him to muffle a sob against the front of his shirt.
Jon wrapped his arms around Stephen's torso, making soft shushing noises that were half for Stephen's benefit and half for the Whiskerses, who had both jumped at the ruckus and were now huddled against the wall with their ears back. "Shhh. It's okay, sweetheart. Have you eaten recently? Besides chocolate, I mean."
Stephen nodded. "Wasn't really hungry," he choked. "Just thought...should make pancakes...because victory...."
"Good. That's good."
He settled into a rhythm of rubbing Stephen's back, groping for more words of comfort, though he knew his presence offered more reassurance than anything he could say. Words were fluid in Stephen's world; words could mean whatever you wanted them to mean. Having Jon's body solid and warm against his, though...that was hard to doubt.
And if Jon was being honest, Stephen wasn't the only one who needed the comfort sometimes.
Other Whiskers clambered over Whiskers to inspect the Tupperware container, and Stephen clung to Jon like he was the axis around which the world turned, while Jon closed his eyes to soak in the scents of flour and moisturizer and the thump of Stephen's heartbeat.
Closing the door against feline interruption, Jon guided Stephen to his bed (their bed), where several years' worth of highly enjoyable training were set aside in favor of taking him slowly, the better to appreciate every inch of him.
Stephen was uncharacteristically accepting throughout, neither pouting nor urging Jon to pick up the pace. When he did speak, it was only to pant Jon's name with no demands attached.
Neither one felt like getting up to turn off the lights afterward. Stephen's eyes were still reddened, but the puffiness around them had gone down. Jon laced his fingers through his boyfriend's and wondered how bad an example it would set to forget about energy efficiency, just this once.
"One day, none of this is going to matter any more," he said softly, as much for himself as for Stephen. "The last couple states that get on board with same-sex marriage are gonna do it because they're laughingstocks of the nation for being so behind the times. Then, if and when two people who love each other decide to get married, they won't have to worry about what kind of social and political statement it makes. It'll just be about them."
"Who said anything about getting married?" huffed Stephen. "It worries me sometimes, Jon, this fixation you have."
Conscience won out. "Right," said Jon sleepily, rolling out from under the covers to hit the lightswitch. "I'm the one with the fixation here."
"Well, it's certainly not coming from me. Why would I start getting my hopes up about you wanting to celebrate being legal in your native state by making me the happiest man alive? Honestly. You probably wouldn't even know where to start."
There was a scratching noise coming from the far side of the door. Jon unlatched it, only to see the cream-colored kitten (he had forgotten which of the Whiskerses it was) tear off in the other direction. Oh well. Maybe it would wander back in later.
In the moonlit darkness he climbed back under the blankets, and held Stephen's hand. Rubbing his thumb across the base of the ring finger, and whispered into Stephen's good ear: "Nine and a half."
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(Anonymous) 2012-02-24 10:22 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
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(Anonymous) 2012-02-26 11:50 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
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Even if "Stephen" weren't so transparent, the fun thing about writing them as an established couple is that Jon's built up some experience in handling these moods. And "Stephen" has just enough of a grip on his insecurities not to lose it when Jon insists on taking care of the kittens first :3
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I love how Stephen's obsessed with the "victory" and how it drives him to reveal his true nature. Also, the comment about not forcing their (I mean the gay) agenda down the throats of macho men and Jon's reaction to it was perfect.
Best part, of course, was at the end when Jon whispered Stephen's ring size in his ear. I'm sure Stephen secretly has the entire wedding planned by now. I'm now picturing a church that looks like the American flag threw up on it:)
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Poor transparent Stephen. He was all settled in for a night of being mournfully comforted to sleep, and now he's going to have to stay up for hours redoing the wedding plans in his head.
The church (synagogue?) decor will be thorough and ridiculous. Jon will probably have to fight to keep him from buying it all with SuperPAC money, too XD
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