Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2012-05-10 10:56 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2012-05-10 10:56 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News | Jon/"Stephen" | soft R | Never Was A Cornflake Boy
Title: Never Was A Cornflake Boy
Rating: Soft R
Content: Deals with trauma & sexual assault
Cast: Jon/"Stephen"
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.
Stephen charges into Jon's office with a repressed-jealousy-fueled interpretation of the Admiral General Aladeen interview. Jon is still wrestling with the whole (skip) "being forced to open his pants for a virtual stranger at gunpoint" thing. The results are...turbulent.
This was inspired by a kink meme prompt; the scenario got less kinky and more just plain weird as the writing went along. Title is from Tori Amos lyrics, which are pretty abstract but possibly related if you squint.
"You SLUT!"
It was a sad commentary on Jon's life that he didn't bat an eye. "Afternoon, Stephen. How's tonight's show coming?"
"Who cares? It's not like I can't do it on the fly if the writers drop the ball. Blah blah Romney will seem awesome eventually blah blah Obama is a socialist yadda yadda China something jobs something bears. See? So don't try to distract me!"
Jon fought the urge to bang his head against his desk. For one thing, between the Rubik's cube, the morass of pens, and the overturned stapler, he'd probably cut something in the process. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said, righting the stapler. "What were we talking about?"
"Your shameless filthy on-air prostitution, that's what!"
For possibly the first time ever, Jon knew what Stephen was talking about and felt some of the shame Stephen expected him to feel. "You probably mean the thing with Admiral General Aladeen."
"Oh, as if I believe it's just Aladeen! You think I was born yesterday, Stewart? You think you can pull the wool over my eyes?"
"Would you like me to?" said Jon under his breath.
Stephen ignored him. "If you're willing to show off your penis to any random mentally-unstable dictator with diplomatic immunity and his armed guards standing right behind him, God knows who else you've flashed it to! Guests? Correspondents? I'm glad I got out of here when I did! Is that why Doris Kearns Goodwin keeps agreeing to come on my show, hm? Was she already numbed by repeated exposure to your torch and liberty bells?"
"My wh—? Stephen—I haven't—outside of, you know, loving relationships, it was only him, okay? And he was waving a handgun around, and—listen, I don't feel great about it as-is, I would never—"
Stephen planted his hands on his hips at possibly the gayest angle Jon had ever seen. "Prove it."
"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"
The way Stephen's eyebrows swiveled over this, you'd think he was mentally mapping the Hausdorff paradox. At last he lit up. Jabbing one finger at Jon, he ordered, "Take off your pants."
"Wha...?"
"You said that in 'loving relationships' you let people see your cock, right? And you love me, right? As a friend, obviously. Ergo, if you're willing to drop 'em and flaunt 'em for me, that would prove that you do so with people you love, rather than with every Tom, Dick, and Borat who uses you to hawk their mediocre movie and/or book which is certainly less prestigious than I Am A Pole And So Can You, in stores now."
"Stephen, that doesn't even make sense."
"Doesn't it, Jon? Doesn't it?"
Jon could feel his cheeks turning various shades of rosy. The sad thing was, he didn't want to say "no."
The interview...well, it probably wouldn't screw him up more than he was already, but he would just as soon not repeat the experience, and had planned to spend a while avoiding everything related to it. Those plans hadn't anticipated a convoluted proposition from Stephen. Tempting, ridiculous, adorable Stephen, who had pressed his hand to Jon's through the frostbitten windows of his cabin on a winter night, and, more to the point, who had made out with Jon at half a dozen office parties and denied it later with such a straight face that Jon thought maybe I hallucinated it before maybe he was blackout drunk.
He swallowed. "Go check that the door's locked."
"Why bother? You whipped it out yesterday in front of the whole audience and the cameras—"
"I did turn around—besides, do you really want someone walking in? On our, uh, special friendship time?"
"You make a good point," said Stephen. "If a suspiciously non-whorish one."
While Stephen checked the door handle, closing the blinds for completeness' sake, Jon straightened his T-shirt and ran his tongue over his teeth. So far, so good. Stephen hadn't bothered to don the full Brooks Brothers regalia before coming over, which meant less fear of feeling like a total slob by comparison.
"Privacy assured," Stephen announced. "Now let's see this penis I've heard so much about."
"Just a minute." Jon was needy and lonely, sure, but not that needy and lonely. "First you have to kiss me."
Stephen's face went blank. "...huh?"
"It's your own logic," said Jon, starting to get into this. "You said this would work as proof because of our relationship, but that only makes sense if we start with some evidence for the relationship itself. Unless you have a gun to point at me—" (Gears in Stephen's head, rusted though they were, visibly began to turn.) "—and Sweetness doesn't count, she's a friend—" (The gears creaked back to a stop.) "—then I'm not stripping for you unless we make out first. You know. Like loving friends do."
If they'd been in a romantic comedy, Jon could imagine the blocking perfectly. Still shot on the middle of the office, the windows brilliant in the background. Stephen enters from stage left; a second later, Jon steps in from stage right. They gaze at each other from across the frame.
"Are you sure that's how this works?" said Stephen. The gloss had come off his righteous indignation; whatever doublethink allowed him to enact the most sexually charged scenarios without threatening his eggshell obliviousness was faltering. "I mean, obviously we're friends and all, at least unless Papa Bear's mad at you...but I feel like having my lips do things with your lips is possibly crossing the line into Gay."
Jon shrugged, all faux nonchalance. "Do you want to see my dick or don't you?"
"O-of course." Stephen was sweeping toward him again. "As a gentlemanly aid to the defense in the case of You v. Your Incredible Sluttitude, mind you, and not—"
Jon grabbed the man's shirt front, took the last long(-ish) stride to pull them together, and pressed his mouth to Stephen's while Stephen was still talking.
Drunk Stephen was sloppy and slippery and melancholy when you kissed him, not handsy in a second-base way but definitely in a cuddling way. Sober Stephen gripped Jon's shoulders with military attention, and kept trying to say things, tough no-nonsense authoritative ones by the sound of them—but without breaking the kiss, so they came out as angry mumbles with his teeth scraping Jon's and his tongue still caressing Jon's palate. It was still oddly sweet, different but delicious, and Jon wanted to filter apart a hundred different altered states and kiss Stephen in every last one of them.
You are in a compromised emotional state. This is not a good time at which to make yourself vulnerable, said a voice in his head, sounding like his therapist. Another, louder voice countered, But what the hell, you could get your balls blown off tomorrow, right? Might as well make some regrets while you still can.
He rocked his pelvis against Stephen's, and, hm, evidently sober Stephen got hard faster than he did.
Before Jon could comment, Stephen leaped away like he'd been burned. "That wasn't—I'm not—!"
Oh, thank goodness, said the sensible voice in Jon's mind. "Not what?" said Jon.
"I didn't like—" Stephen gulped. One of his hands made a vague floppy gesture that might have been intended as pointing. "I was coerced!"
"Yeah?" snapped Jon. "How do you think I feel?"
Stephen went statue-still. Muscles around his mouth twitched in a complicated symphony. Slowly, his eyes widened.
"Jon," he said, reeling his posture up from hunched accusatory Igor to man of business, "it occurs to me that I may have been a bit...hasty...in coming to judgment."
Well, knock Jon down with a feather.
"Perhaps what you need," continued Stephen, trying to straighten the tie he wasn't wearing, "is not accusations of tawdry harlotry, but support in what I am sure is a very difficult time for you."
"That sounds...suspiciously reasonable."
"It's because I understand, Jon! I, too, am a survivor of abuse at the hands of a cruel and inhumane dictator! By which I mean you, obviously. As far as I'm concerned, you are now absolved of all charges to your honor and above all suspicion, and we can forget this whole thing happened and never speak about it again."
***
Stephen was engaging in his post-taping victory lap around his office when one of the PAs (he hadn't bothered to learn her name; there were two of them with ponytails and it was confusing) came in. "Mr. Colbert? Mr. Stewart's out back. Says he wants to talk to you."
The warm spring air was doing wonders for Jon's pallid complexion. And his light jacket was doing wonders for his shoulders. Shake it off, Col-bert. "Jon, my friend with not at all suspicious timing! What are you doing here?"
"Well, I was thinking," said Jon from street level. "About what you said earlier."
Stephen kept to the top of the steps, leaning over the railing. "You mean the stuff I don't remember and won't talk about?"
"No, that's the thing. Not talking about it...it isn't healthy. Especially not for guys who've gone through what, uh, 'we' have."
Stephen squirmed. Jon didn't look suspicious, but you never could tell with liberals. "Are you going somewhere with this? I have places to be. A dog to feed. Ice cream to eat."
"I think we should form a support group."
"Say what now?"
"A support group," repeated Jon. "It's, like...it's a safe space. For just the two of us. Where we can be honest, and...and share feelings...and things...and stuff. We could have the first meeting tonight, if you wanted. My place is free."
"And just how well-defended is your 'safe' place?"
Jon shrugged. "The doorman seems very capable?"
"Uh-huh. Don't waste my time, Stewart." Jon opened his mouth, presumably to object; Stephen, with Olympic-level skill, talked over him. "Obviously this isn't going to work unless we hold it at my place. I'll make the snacks if you bring the drinks."
Rating: Soft R
Content: Deals with trauma & sexual assault
Cast: Jon/"Stephen"
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.
Stephen charges into Jon's office with a repressed-jealousy-fueled interpretation of the Admiral General Aladeen interview. Jon is still wrestling with the whole (skip) "being forced to open his pants for a virtual stranger at gunpoint" thing. The results are...turbulent.
This was inspired by a kink meme prompt; the scenario got less kinky and more just plain weird as the writing went along. Title is from Tori Amos lyrics, which are pretty abstract but possibly related if you squint.
"You SLUT!"
It was a sad commentary on Jon's life that he didn't bat an eye. "Afternoon, Stephen. How's tonight's show coming?"
"Who cares? It's not like I can't do it on the fly if the writers drop the ball. Blah blah Romney will seem awesome eventually blah blah Obama is a socialist yadda yadda China something jobs something bears. See? So don't try to distract me!"
Jon fought the urge to bang his head against his desk. For one thing, between the Rubik's cube, the morass of pens, and the overturned stapler, he'd probably cut something in the process. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said, righting the stapler. "What were we talking about?"
"Your shameless filthy on-air prostitution, that's what!"
For possibly the first time ever, Jon knew what Stephen was talking about and felt some of the shame Stephen expected him to feel. "You probably mean the thing with Admiral General Aladeen."
"Oh, as if I believe it's just Aladeen! You think I was born yesterday, Stewart? You think you can pull the wool over my eyes?"
"Would you like me to?" said Jon under his breath.
Stephen ignored him. "If you're willing to show off your penis to any random mentally-unstable dictator with diplomatic immunity and his armed guards standing right behind him, God knows who else you've flashed it to! Guests? Correspondents? I'm glad I got out of here when I did! Is that why Doris Kearns Goodwin keeps agreeing to come on my show, hm? Was she already numbed by repeated exposure to your torch and liberty bells?"
"My wh—? Stephen—I haven't—outside of, you know, loving relationships, it was only him, okay? And he was waving a handgun around, and—listen, I don't feel great about it as-is, I would never—"
Stephen planted his hands on his hips at possibly the gayest angle Jon had ever seen. "Prove it."
"How the hell am I supposed to do that?"
The way Stephen's eyebrows swiveled over this, you'd think he was mentally mapping the Hausdorff paradox. At last he lit up. Jabbing one finger at Jon, he ordered, "Take off your pants."
"Wha...?"
"You said that in 'loving relationships' you let people see your cock, right? And you love me, right? As a friend, obviously. Ergo, if you're willing to drop 'em and flaunt 'em for me, that would prove that you do so with people you love, rather than with every Tom, Dick, and Borat who uses you to hawk their mediocre movie and/or book which is certainly less prestigious than I Am A Pole And So Can You, in stores now."
"Stephen, that doesn't even make sense."
"Doesn't it, Jon? Doesn't it?"
Jon could feel his cheeks turning various shades of rosy. The sad thing was, he didn't want to say "no."
The interview...well, it probably wouldn't screw him up more than he was already, but he would just as soon not repeat the experience, and had planned to spend a while avoiding everything related to it. Those plans hadn't anticipated a convoluted proposition from Stephen. Tempting, ridiculous, adorable Stephen, who had pressed his hand to Jon's through the frostbitten windows of his cabin on a winter night, and, more to the point, who had made out with Jon at half a dozen office parties and denied it later with such a straight face that Jon thought maybe I hallucinated it before maybe he was blackout drunk.
He swallowed. "Go check that the door's locked."
"Why bother? You whipped it out yesterday in front of the whole audience and the cameras—"
"I did turn around—besides, do you really want someone walking in? On our, uh, special friendship time?"
"You make a good point," said Stephen. "If a suspiciously non-whorish one."
While Stephen checked the door handle, closing the blinds for completeness' sake, Jon straightened his T-shirt and ran his tongue over his teeth. So far, so good. Stephen hadn't bothered to don the full Brooks Brothers regalia before coming over, which meant less fear of feeling like a total slob by comparison.
"Privacy assured," Stephen announced. "Now let's see this penis I've heard so much about."
"Just a minute." Jon was needy and lonely, sure, but not that needy and lonely. "First you have to kiss me."
Stephen's face went blank. "...huh?"
"It's your own logic," said Jon, starting to get into this. "You said this would work as proof because of our relationship, but that only makes sense if we start with some evidence for the relationship itself. Unless you have a gun to point at me—" (Gears in Stephen's head, rusted though they were, visibly began to turn.) "—and Sweetness doesn't count, she's a friend—" (The gears creaked back to a stop.) "—then I'm not stripping for you unless we make out first. You know. Like loving friends do."
If they'd been in a romantic comedy, Jon could imagine the blocking perfectly. Still shot on the middle of the office, the windows brilliant in the background. Stephen enters from stage left; a second later, Jon steps in from stage right. They gaze at each other from across the frame.
"Are you sure that's how this works?" said Stephen. The gloss had come off his righteous indignation; whatever doublethink allowed him to enact the most sexually charged scenarios without threatening his eggshell obliviousness was faltering. "I mean, obviously we're friends and all, at least unless Papa Bear's mad at you...but I feel like having my lips do things with your lips is possibly crossing the line into Gay."
Jon shrugged, all faux nonchalance. "Do you want to see my dick or don't you?"
"O-of course." Stephen was sweeping toward him again. "As a gentlemanly aid to the defense in the case of You v. Your Incredible Sluttitude, mind you, and not—"
Jon grabbed the man's shirt front, took the last long(-ish) stride to pull them together, and pressed his mouth to Stephen's while Stephen was still talking.
Drunk Stephen was sloppy and slippery and melancholy when you kissed him, not handsy in a second-base way but definitely in a cuddling way. Sober Stephen gripped Jon's shoulders with military attention, and kept trying to say things, tough no-nonsense authoritative ones by the sound of them—but without breaking the kiss, so they came out as angry mumbles with his teeth scraping Jon's and his tongue still caressing Jon's palate. It was still oddly sweet, different but delicious, and Jon wanted to filter apart a hundred different altered states and kiss Stephen in every last one of them.
You are in a compromised emotional state. This is not a good time at which to make yourself vulnerable, said a voice in his head, sounding like his therapist. Another, louder voice countered, But what the hell, you could get your balls blown off tomorrow, right? Might as well make some regrets while you still can.
He rocked his pelvis against Stephen's, and, hm, evidently sober Stephen got hard faster than he did.
Before Jon could comment, Stephen leaped away like he'd been burned. "That wasn't—I'm not—!"
Oh, thank goodness, said the sensible voice in Jon's mind. "Not what?" said Jon.
"I didn't like—" Stephen gulped. One of his hands made a vague floppy gesture that might have been intended as pointing. "I was coerced!"
"Yeah?" snapped Jon. "How do you think I feel?"
Stephen went statue-still. Muscles around his mouth twitched in a complicated symphony. Slowly, his eyes widened.
"Jon," he said, reeling his posture up from hunched accusatory Igor to man of business, "it occurs to me that I may have been a bit...hasty...in coming to judgment."
Well, knock Jon down with a feather.
"Perhaps what you need," continued Stephen, trying to straighten the tie he wasn't wearing, "is not accusations of tawdry harlotry, but support in what I am sure is a very difficult time for you."
"That sounds...suspiciously reasonable."
"It's because I understand, Jon! I, too, am a survivor of abuse at the hands of a cruel and inhumane dictator! By which I mean you, obviously. As far as I'm concerned, you are now absolved of all charges to your honor and above all suspicion, and we can forget this whole thing happened and never speak about it again."
***
Stephen was engaging in his post-taping victory lap around his office when one of the PAs (he hadn't bothered to learn her name; there were two of them with ponytails and it was confusing) came in. "Mr. Colbert? Mr. Stewart's out back. Says he wants to talk to you."
The warm spring air was doing wonders for Jon's pallid complexion. And his light jacket was doing wonders for his shoulders. Shake it off, Col-bert. "Jon, my friend with not at all suspicious timing! What are you doing here?"
"Well, I was thinking," said Jon from street level. "About what you said earlier."
Stephen kept to the top of the steps, leaning over the railing. "You mean the stuff I don't remember and won't talk about?"
"No, that's the thing. Not talking about it...it isn't healthy. Especially not for guys who've gone through what, uh, 'we' have."
Stephen squirmed. Jon didn't look suspicious, but you never could tell with liberals. "Are you going somewhere with this? I have places to be. A dog to feed. Ice cream to eat."
"I think we should form a support group."
"Say what now?"
"A support group," repeated Jon. "It's, like...it's a safe space. For just the two of us. Where we can be honest, and...and share feelings...and things...and stuff. We could have the first meeting tonight, if you wanted. My place is free."
"And just how well-defended is your 'safe' place?"
Jon shrugged. "The doorman seems very capable?"
"Uh-huh. Don't waste my time, Stewart." Jon opened his mouth, presumably to object; Stephen, with Olympic-level skill, talked over him. "Obviously this isn't going to work unless we hold it at my place. I'll make the snacks if you bring the drinks."
no subject
I always figured that "Stephen" would be fiercely protective of the people he loves. Once he figured out what happened, he would be tearing through heaven and earth trying to avenge Jon.
Jon's playing along with his sex game because he's still traumatized is interesting. Stephen backing off when he realizes that Jon isn't in a fit emotional state shows he at least has some awareness of the gravity of the situation. Still, it takes Jon reaching out and asking for it to make him willing to provide support. It's surprising that Jon reaches out to Stephen for support, and not one of his more trustworthy friends.
I hope management makes Jon go to a shrink, just to get checked out. And they should research their guests in the future!
no subject
This Jon already has a psychiatrist, never fear! When he reaches out to Stephen, I doubt he has personal support in mind so much as support for their relationship. About time they tried to work their way back from this spiral of dysfunction they've gotten stuck in :)