|Erin Ptah (ptahrrific) wrote,|
@ 2009-02-19 11:01 pm UTC
|Entry tags:||fic exchange, genre: dramedy, genre: smut, pairing: "stephen"/chuck, pairing: chuck/geoffrey, series: fake news, series: strangers with candy|
Pairings: "Stephen"/OMC, "Stephen"/Chuck, Chuck/Geoffrey
Contents: Sex, language, alcohol, injuries, teacher/student kink, bondage, damaged people damaging each other, obscure 1984 reference
One last Secret Santa prompt from fakenews_fanfic: Chuck/"Stephen", lots of sex.
Five scenes with Chuck and Stephen, featuring leather-clad bikers, bar fights, kinky sex, Madame Precious dolls, and a bit of Geoffrey and Seamus.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Five Times Chuck And Stephen Had Sex (Mostly With Each Other)
It starts with the biker.
You know the one. The one who makes his way across the bar and pins Chuck to the wall with nothing but a glare. Chuck wants to run, but he can't. Can't move.
"Did I say you could leave?" growls the biker, low and dangerous.
"N-no?" squeaks Chuck, sending up a quick prayer to St. Ubald (who is the patron saint of either alcohol-based hookups or rabies, he can't remember which) that this is the right answer.
To his relief, he is neither pounded nor stripped in the middle of the crowd. The leather-clad man just jerks his head, and Chuck moves in the direction he indicates like a puppet on a string.
This leads him to a dingy toilet, in a bathroom that isn't even empty (there's a pair of shoes in the stall right next to him!). Just when he's about to protest, the biker leans over, every puff of air laden with the stench of cheap alcohol, and breathes into his ear, "You be a good boy and stay put this time." And Chuck is trapped, as surely as if he had been handcuffed to the pipe.
He waits, gripped with equal parts terror and anticipation, until he hears the sound of those tight pants creaking like a rusty hinge as they return . . . to the next stall over.
"Thaaat's better," says the husky voice, a little more slurred now. "Din' expect you to get cold feet. Y'look like a man who does this a lot."
"Y-yes, sir," replies a quiet tenor. It sounds familiar. Chuck wonders if he's met the man before.
"Lil' whore," says the biker appreciatively. "Get rid of those . . . hey, did you change your clothes?"
"O-kay. Off with th' pants, then."
Chuck realizes he's been forgotten. It isn't long before the next stall is all thrusting and grunting and just a bit of whimpering, loud enough that nobody notices his gasps as he strokes himself in time with the vibrations of the stall divider.
You could say this was the first time, although neither of them ever realizes it.
Their first proper meeting is also in a bathroom.
Stephen stumbles to the sink. He's falling-down drunk and his bent glasses are dangling from one hand, but he does his best to summon the attention necessary to study his reflection. He looks like hell. There's a cut on his forehead, smeared with red, and a fantastically weird bruise blossoming down the sides of his nose.
His reflection hangs his head. "I'm a fraud."
It's neat, the way his reflection is moving without him. Stephen can see the top of his own head. He's never gotten to do that before.
"My life is a lie," continues his reflection desolately. "I go into work in the morning and pretend I know things, I get up in front of all those people and tell them what to do, but I'm making it up as I go, every bit of it. Then I go home in the evening and pretend we're a happy little family, but it's an act and I know it and I think she does too. It hasn't fallen apart yet, but I'm afraid, I'm so afraid they'll all find me out . . . ."
Chuck looks up when he hears the sob.
His own face stares back at him, a shiner blooming around one eye, tears streaming down its cheeks. "You're right," it chokes. "You're absolutely right. Oh, reflection, you see right through me."
It's not a mirror. There's some kind of island in the middle of the room, sinks on either side. In retrospect, the fact that there are stalls behind Chuck and urinals facing him probably should have tipped him off.
"Who the hell are you?" he demands.
"I don't know!" wails his double. "Do you?"
"Mr. Noblet? Are you still here?"
"Tammi!" The teacher springs out from behind the door, pulling it wide open and blocking her from entering the classroom. "What brings you here this fine afternoon?"
"I just had a couple of questions about the test," says Tammi, holding out the packet with the large B circled in red ink on the front page. "For instance, in problem 2 you asked about how oxygen would react with phlebotinum, but I looked all over the book and I couldn't find any such thing as phle—"
"Well, aren't we just a clever Cathy!" interrupts Chuck loudly. "Tell you what. You just stop with the questions right now, and I won't mark your grade down for impertinence. Sound like a deal?"
"But, Mr. Noblet, if we don't ask questions, how are we supposed to—"
"That's a C!" exclaims Chuck, reaching for the test. "Do you want a D? Keep talking. I'll do it. Don't think I won't."
Snatching it out of his grasp, Tammi clutches the packet to her chest and bolts.
Once she's out of sight, Chuck breathes a sigh of relief and shuts the door with a satisfied click. "Now, where were we?"
"You didn't lock the door?" exclaims Stephen, voice strained with fear. "Would you have thought to close the blinds if I hadn't reminded you?"
The smack of a ruler on his bare behind shuts him up.
"This is exactly why you're in the naughty corner," says Chuck icily. "When will you learn not to talk back to the teacher?"
"Sorry, sir," gasps Stephen. He's trying desperately not to grind against the wall; lesson one was that he gets no relief until the teacher says so. "Teach me my lesson."
"Try to move."
Chuck gives a tentative wriggle, then seriously pulls. All it does is chafe his wrists and strain his ankles. He's on the floor of his own living room and he's completely helpless. (There's no fear. He's been through worse than anything Stephen can dish out.) "Best job you've ever done."
"Good," smirks Stephen, and rises out of Chuck's line of sight.
Chuck's tingling with anticipation until he hears a familiar click, the whisper of well-oiled hinges. No. Not that cupboard. Stephen wouldn't dare . . . .
And then he's back, with Julia in her elegant fur-lined coat and matching muff cradled between his long fingers.
The bonds are good, all right. They don't slip an inch as Chuck thrashes against them. "Put her back! You don't deserve to touch her!"
"What kind of grown man plays with dolls?" wonders Stephen, paying no heed to the raging at his feet. "It's so girly. 'Ooh, look at me!'" He flounces Julia as if she's the one talking. "'I'm Chuck Noblet! I'm a pretty little girl!'"
"Madame Precious figures are not playthings!" shouts Chuck. "They're limited edition collectibles! And they're mine!"
"Ah," says Stephen, eyebrows snapping into an expression of deadly seriousness, "but right now, you are mine."
Christ, he means it. Something inside Chuck breaks.
"Please," he chokes, head hanging, "please, I'm begging you, for the love of God, don't hurt her. Do anything you want to me; Lord knows I deserve it. But please, please, please don't do it to Julia."
Stephen moves. Chuck barely has the energy to follow his feet across the floor. But moments later Stephen grabs his hair and pulls his head back far enough to see the cabinet, and sure enough, Julia is on her stand in the cabinet where she belongs.
Before he knows it, Chuck is sobbing with relief.
Stephen cradles his head, rubs his shoulder, presses surprisingly tender kisses to the back of his neck. "Shhh. It's okay. You saved her, you see? It's okay."
He turns Chuck over, and there are pillows waiting, cushioning him from the floor in a position that somehow manages to be comfortable in spite of the awkward way he's been tied.
"You've been through a lot tonight," murmurs Stephen, brushing away his tears. "Just relax now. Let me take care of you. You've earned it."
So saying, he proceeds to give Chuck the best blowjob of his life.
Not until much later does Chuck realize that, physically, it wasn't all that impressive. The difference is that, for just a little while, Stephen managed to make him forget that he didn't deserve to enjoy it.
"Goddamn, Chuck," breathes Stephen appreciatively. "You kiss your wife with that mouth?" And he thrusts, just in case Chuck was thinking of making a witty reply.
Chuck's wife is out of town. (Something about her grandmother's funeral. He wasn't really paying attention.) Which is why Stephen is now riding his face so hard that it takes all his concentration to keep up, leaving none to think about the fact that they're doing it on her bed.
Stephen's had a bad day. The afternoon saw a shouting match with someone he thought was an it-getter, someone he thought he could trust, who ended it by snapping go fuck yourself and storming off, ignoring Stephen's brilliant comeback of maybe I will!
It's ridiculous. He didn't do anything wrong! He is not going to beat himself up over this!
Chuck's nearly gagging now. His hands rise of their own accord, clawing at Stephen's hips.
Stephen feels the scratching as a kind of distant sting, but it doesn't matter, he's close, so close—
"Honey, I'm—oh my God, Chuck!"
The girlish shriek follows Stephen as he drops over the edge.
The roll of toilet paper serving as makeshift tissues is halfway unspooled, crumpled pieces scattered across the carpet like leaves in the fall.
"I don't understand!" wails Geoffrey, tearing off another piece. "How could you cheat on me, Chuck? And with someone so . . . grotesque!"
"I'm Stephen," says the man he's addressing. "That one's Chuck."
The shock is enough to momentarily staunch Geoffrey's tears. He looks from one to the other, reevaluating the scene in his mind, then turns to Chuck (the right one this time) and sobs, "You let him top? You never let me top!"
Stephen is back into his pants by now. Chuck shooes him out with a jerk of the head, then sits down on the bed and tries to put an arm around the sniffling man next to him.
"Why can't you ever put my feelings first, Chuck?" bawls Geoffrey, batting the hand away. "I always do!"
In the darkened hall, Stephen dithers outside the closed door as he tries to mentally place the rest of his outfit. His shoes are safe by the front door. His tie is definitely on the floor next to the bed. Is he going to have to drive home shirtless . . . ?
Stephen nearly jumps out of his skin. A little boy of about four, downright cherubic with sandy hair and sky-blue footie pajamas, is standing a few feet away from him.
"You're not Daddy," the child says accusingly.
The little features contort into a puzzled frown. "Are you a homewrecking slut?"
Where do they get this stuff? "Shouldn't you be asleep?" snaps Stephen. "Go back to bed!"
"I can't! There's a bear in my closet!"
Stephen feels himself soften. You can't yell at someone for that. Not when it's bears.
And anyway, the noises now coming from the bedroom suggest that Chuck and his whatever-that-man-is-to-him have settled their differences, and shouldn't be disturbed for a while.
"We'll go there together," he says soothingly, putting a hand on the kid's shoulders. "Lead the way. Nothing to be scared of. Uncle Stephen's got your back."