|Erin Ptah (ptahrrific) wrote,|
@ 2009-09-26 03:25 am UTC
|Entry tags:||genre: comedy, genre: drama, genre: fluff, genre: smut, pairing: alt!"stephen"/jon, pairing: jon/"stephen", pairing: r!stephen/jon, series: fake news, series: pretty anchor sailor jon|
Rating: G through NC-17
Characters/pairings: Jon/liberal!"Stephen", Joan/"Stephanie", Jon/r!Stephen (Sailor Jon version), Schmon Schmewart, Jon, "Stephen", Jon/happy!"Stephen"
Warnings: (1) character fatal disease (he's not dead yet); (2) character death (he gets better); (3) D/s, innuendo; (4) D/s, shameless lesbian smut; (5) may induce diabetes.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Summary: After the Emmys snub various versions of Stephen (hypothetical cancer storyline, sailorjon 'verse, Liberalverse, genderswapped version of sarcasticsra's Needverse, and happy!verse), Jon comforts him on the way back to the hotel.
Mostly written for The 9/20 Project, which called for post-Emmy comforting and/or sex. There are sequels to the Liberalverse segment found at that link. For those seeking more Joan/"Stephanie", there's a bit of it by doctorv here, and I have some more here.
Five Versions Of The Limo Ride Home
One (Hypothetical cancer storyline)
"You can get back to the party if you want to. Don't feel like you have to keep an eye on me."
"Don't be silly, Jon," snapped Stephen, helping Jon into the car. "If I don't have an award to show off, there's no point. I don't need to stand around and feel all of them pitying me."
Jon knew the feeling. The staff at home had pretty much gotten over it, but he wasn't sure he could stomach the attention of everyone at the Comedy Central after party. He thought about saying this to Stephen, but the seat was so comfortable that he had to slump back into it and close his eyes.
"Jon." Stephen's sharp voice jabbed into him. "Jon! Wake up!"
"Lemme relax," mumbled Jon over the hum of the road. "It's been a long day. And this stupid thing itches." He shoved off the wig, eyes still shut, and gave a few halfhearted scratches to the bare skin.
"Lie down, then."
Belatedly realizing he had never buckled in, Jon slumped gratefully across the seats, cheek pressed against the other man's trousers. Stephen's fingernails went immediately to his scalp and set into a gentle rhythm, drawing from somewhere deep within Jon a sigh of long-awaited contentment.
"You shouldn't be traveling," muttered Stephen above him.
"Doctor wasn't happy about it," said Jon wryly.
"Then how come you came anyway? Don't you health-care-loving socialists believe in listening to your doctors?"
"Thought about it," admitted Jon. His whole body felt like a leaden weight, ridiculous though that sounded in light of all the pounds he had shed over the past two months. "But I wanted to congratulate you in person when you won."
Stephen kept up the gentle scratching well after Jon's breathing had gotten slow and even.
"Of course I didn't win," he groused to the empty cab. "The Academy isn't going to pass up a chance to reward a sick man. All you had to do was show up."
It wasn't working. He couldn't seem to get properly angry. Not even with Jon's mouth hanging slightly open and leaving a spot of drool on his designer pants.
"And not throw up on set," he added as an afterthought. "That probably would have grossed the judges out."
He slid his hand down to give Jon's shoulder a fortifying squeeze.
"Next year," he declared. "Next year I'll have the Iraq shows in the running, and you'll be so much better that you won't get any more pity votes, and I'll make you carry all my statues around. Just wait."
Two (Pretty Anchor Sailor Jon)
Jon felt strangely empty as he sat back in the limo, statuette in hand.
Okay, he had never put much value on these things in the first place; and there were, as John had said, far too many on his shelf already. But he normally enjoyed the parties, the celebrations, the joy in the faces of the writers at having their hard work recognized. Not this time.
It probably had something to do with the Foximamates. Sailor Angry Bill, Sailor Pompous Sean, and now Sailor Crazy Glenn were attacking all over the place in search of Sailor Crystals, with such ferocity that it was exhausting everyone. There had even been an incident on the red carpet before the show, though Sailor Oliver and Sailor Riggle had taken care of it without Jon needing to get involved.
For all that Jon was trying to be strong, he could see that his friends were worrying.
If only he could have accepted the statue for Stephen in absentia. With Stephen himself in Iraq, Demetri returned to the future, and so many of the other sailors busy with their own projects, it might have made him feel less alone.
Why hadn't Stephen called? Or emailed? Or done anything besides send cryptic postcards with no words?
Jon pressed his fingers to his temples. He felt a headache coming on.
The pounding in Jon's head subsided as he met his companion's eyes.
Schmon (dubbed after the only word he seemed to say) smiled hopefully and held out his arms for a hug.
"You always seem to know when I'm feeling down, don't you?" murmured Jon, as he put the statue aside and gathered the little boy into his lap.
"Schmon," agreed the kid, stretching his arms across Jon's chest.
With a sigh, Jon stroked Schmon's hair. "There's something I've forgotten," he murmured, mostly to himself. "I know it's there, I know it's important, but every time I try to think about it, it slips away...."
Schmon cuddled quietly against him, and Jon willed himself to relax. Things would work out. It looked bleak now, but teamwork, friendship, and love would win in the end. They had to. And this time next year Stephen would be back, and standing on the stage with a fresh golden statue of his own.
Jon held that image in his heart as the car sped on into the night.
"Jon, I don't think I'm going to come back to the room right away."
It was said all in one breath, and at first Jon was relieved: it was the first thing Stephen had said since climbing into the car. Then he did a double-take. "Wait, why?"
Stephen rested his clenched fists on his knees. Or maybe his hands were in some kind of lotus position. It was hard to tell. "Well, I...I have a little bit of anger and frustration to work through right now. So it would probably be best if I just let myself into the executive lounge and meditated for a while. Or did some yoga. Something to help me find my center again."
His articulation was hardly surprising, even after making the rounds on the party circuit: Stephen had the alcohol tolerance of a mule. Jon, who had a nice buzz going, settled back against the leather and remarked, "Or you could throw me down on the bed and fuck me into the mattress."
Stephen looked up at him with a start. "That wouldn't be a good idea," he breathed, streetlights glittering hungrily off his eyes. "The way I feel right now...you'd probably end up...bruised."
"Well, somebody oughta be, after the way tonight went down," said Jon philosophically. "Why not me?"
"You don't deserve that," insisted Stephen. "You shouldn't be punished just because somebody else voted to give you an award."
Jon considered this, then unbuckled his seatbelt.
After years of watching his words around Stephen, of always having to keep an eye on the limits because Stephen would never set any of his own, this private arrangement was taking some getting used to. But the more Stephen got comfortable with taking control, the more Jon liked it. It was deliciously freeing to be able to relax, to slide out of the boss role, even to let himself be a bit of a brat once in a while.
"Steeeephen," he wheedled, flopping down across the other man's startled lap. "Punish me. C'mon. You know you wa—"
He was cut off by a slightly panicky hand clamped over his mouth.
"—mmph," he finished, and concentrated on breathing through his nose as he looked placidly up at Stephen. Is that all you got?
Stephen swallowed, eyes still glittering, though Jon couldn't be sure if it was from the streetlights or their own internal fire. "Will you — beg for forgiveness?"
Arranging his face into his best 'helpless comedian' expression, Jon lifted one hand and reached plaintively towards Stephen's heart.
"Ohgod," gasped Stephen, a growl creeping into his voice as his hand tensed around Jon's jaw. "Oh, Jon, you're not going to be able to stand when I'm through with you."
Four (genderswapped Needverse)
"Come on, honey. Into the car."
"We can't leave now! That smug overachieving Sarah-Palin-disrespecting multiple-Emmy-winning woman needs to be taken down a notch!"
"Tina Fey is a very nice woman, and you are not starting another feud tonight. Come on."
"Hey!" barked Joan, pinning Stephanie against the side of the limo so forcefully that the taller woman's three-inch heels skittered across the pavement. "No more complaining. You hear me?"
Stephanie squirmed halfheartedly — at half a head taller than Joan even without the heels, she could have broken free handily if she had put in the effort — then slumped. "Yes'm."
Joan held open the door while Stephanie gathered her skirts. In a slinky red strapless dress, which hugged her every curve for most of its length before flaring into a mass of flower-petal ruffles at the base, she looked stunning on flat ground but had a bit of a weakness for stairs. Or getting into cars.
For her own part, Joan had opted for a tailored pantsuit and modest silk shirt in dark greys and pale blues. She and Ellen had a longstanding rivalry over who wore the look best (and who was entertainment's most influential lesbian, though Joan would be the first to admit that she had also had plenty of excellent sex with men, thank you very much), but the whole thing was a good-natured contest between old friends. Stephanie's feuds, even the ones that nobody took seriously but Stephanie, were real.
By the time the car pulled away, Stephanie had kicked off her shoes and tucked most of her glittery ruby jewelry safely away in her purse, leaving nothing but the arc of a rhinestone-studded WristStrong bracelet curving down across the back of her right hand. Her bare feet twitched and flexed against the carpet.
"You want me to rub those for you?" offered Joan, nodding in the direction of Stephanie's newly freed toes.
"Why bother, Joan?" demanded Stephanie, gesticulating wildly, or as wildly as she could in the small space. "Why would they be sore? It's not like I had to walk anywhere tonight. Like, say, even one walk from a chair in the crowd all the way up to that nice tall faraway stage oh Joan why don't they like me?"
"Aw, Steph," breathed Joan. "Come here."
Stephanie launched herself into Joan's arms with such force that it nearly knocked the wind out of her, burying her face in Joan's cleavage. "What did I do wrong?" she wailed, between muffled but impeccably ladylike sniffles. "Why couldn't they — why didn't I — why am I not good enough?"
Joan stroked Stephanie's freshly permed curls in silence for a moment, letting the other woman quiver in her arms while she reached inside herself for the necessary vein of steel.
"Let go, Steph," she ordered.
Stephanie peered up in confusion over the smooth curves of Joan's shirt. "What...?"
"Let go," repeated Joan, in a tone that fell somewhere between the Boss Voice and the Mom Voice. "Hands behind your back. Now."
With one more lingering sniff, Stephanie pulled away and tucked her arms behind her, head demurely bowed.
There was a small part of Joan, the part that had idolized Simone de Beauvoir and Andrea Dworkin back in her college days, that still had reservations about this part of her relationship. She had spent more than a few conversations, especially early on, confirming and reconfirming that Stephanie didn't just feel pressured to surrender to her good-Southern-girl upbringing, as she had done in the past with more men than Joan cared to think about.
But when she ran a sure finger along the bared skin above Stephanie's neckline, and was rewarded with a soft gasp of anticipation, Joan started to feel a lot less reserved.
"Of course you're good enough," she murmured, sliding her palms along Stephanie's body, drinking in the feel of her skin. "Do you trust the Academy's taste more than mine?"
Stephanie gulped doubtfully. "Y-you do wear those ratty grey T-shirts."
In one sharp motion Joan shoved her backwards.
Stephanie squeaked in surprise as she found herself pinned to the leather, but dissolved into a moan when Joan cupped her breasts and kneaded the soft flesh with both hands, lips working her neck all the while. Not until her breath was coming in short, hot bursts did Joan back away and let her hands stray downwards.
Without having to be asked, Stephanie obediently lifted her hips. "It's okay, you know," she gasped, while Joan hiked up her skirt. "If — if I'm just an old T-shirt — I'll—"
"You're not a shirt, Steph," said Joan, hooking her fingers under the straps of Stephanie's lucky flag-patterned panties. "You're a sweet, brilliant, amazingly talented woman. You're my amazingly talented woman." She slid the underwear down over Stephanie's hips. "All mine."
"Please—" Stephanie's legs were writhing frantically, as if trying to cover for the stillness of her trapped arms, but she kept them pulled together as best she could. "Joan, please, I need—"
"Tell me," breathed Joan, fingertips tracing circles on the outside of Stephanie's thigh.
"Need you — with me," begged Stephanie, caressing Joan's cheek tremulously with one knee.
Smiling in the dark, Joan lowered herself onto Stephanie's disheveled form, gently this time. "You're a good girl, Steph," she whispered, drawing the other woman into a kiss before slipping two fingers into her.
Pressed this close together, Joan could feel every gasp, every spasm, every twist. Stephanie's racing heart seemed to be falling in step with the pulsing between her own legs, which in turn matched the rhythm of Stephanie gyrating against her, pleading with her hips for more stimulation. A third finger slid in, this one less easily; sparks flashed in Stephanie's eyes. "Please, Joan — take me—"
"Greedy, greedy!" chided Joan, stroking roughly and feeling Stephanie bite down on a squeal. Her voice was hitching too much to be really authoritative, but Stephanie was in no shape to notice. "You're wet, but not that wet. There's lube back in the room — and the vibrator, so you can thank me properly."
"Yes'm!" Stephanie arched her torso, catlike, as her muscles throbbed around Joan's hand. "I will — thank you — I — Joan!"
The last word was a cry of frustration as Joan pulled out, leaving a slick trail along Stephanie's already damp and heated thighs.
"We're going to pull into the hotel in a minute," she explained shakily, retrieving Stephanie's discarded panties from the floor and using them to wipe off her hand as best she could. "You have to be a little more composed before we walk in. You can move your arms now — but don't touch yourself," she warned as Stephanie began to rise up on her elbows, hips moving instinctively even against empty air. "Not until I let you."
Stephanie put out a hand for her underwear; Joan quickly tucked it in the inside pocket of her jacket. "No sense putting these on when they'd be coming right off again."
Chest still heaving, Stephanie gaped. "J-Joan!" she panted, voice ragged. "What if—" She clung to the edge of her skirt, shoving the ruffles down over her knees, but couldn't hide the thrill in her voice. "What if everyone knows?"
Joan smirked. "It's a floor-length dress. How are they going to tell?"
"I mean—" Stephanie worked the fabric down her legs, gasping as every inch unbunched itself from her waistline and slid tantalizingly across her. "What if — if they can tell that — that I'm yours?"
"Would that be so bad?" Joan smoothed back Stephanie's sweat-dampened curls, fighting the urge to just throw her down again as the limo curved into place. "Steph, my Stephanie, there's no trophy I would rather be seen with."
Stephen fairly skipped up to the car, where Jon had been waiting with a fair amount of trepidation.
"I'm so happy for you!" he gushed, flinging his arms enthusiastically around Jon's shoulders. "Two new Emmys! You must be so proud! And letting one of the writers do the speech instead of you — oh, Jon, you are so classy."
"Couldn't do it without 'em," said Jon, rubbing his neck sheepishly as Stephen released him and smiled. "Hey, Stephen...are you okay?"
Stephen cocked his head in confusion as Jon opened the door and waved him in. "Why wouldn't I be?"
It was a fair question. In all the years Jon had known him, Stephen had never shown more than a glimmer of distress, always shallow and evaporating as quickly as a puddle after a rainstorm. Maybe it was just Jon's unquenchable pessimism, but he couldn't shake the feeling that, one of these days, Stephen was due to snap.
"Well, uh, your people have done great work this year too," he said carefully. "And, frankly, you deserve a lot more recognition than you're getting."
Was Stephen actually humming? "Oh, Jon, we don't do it for the recognition! It would be nice, of course, but the joy of the work is its own reward!"
Jon sighed, slumping against the leather and putting a hand over his eyes. Stephen was all sunshine and flowers, and experience told him there was no point in wading through it in search of something deeper. "Still, it would be all right if it started to get you down after a while."
He was expecting the other man to move cheerfully on, so Jon nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a touch on his thigh. Somehow Stephen had appeared right beside him, sudden and silent, looking fretfully up at him with those big round Disney-princess eyes.
"H-hey there," stammered Jon, gaze tracing the curve of Stephen's pout.
"Jon," said Stephen, managing to look remarkably solemn for a man wearing a white tuxedo and a sparkly pink tie, "why is it so hard for you to be happy?"
"Uh." Jon broke into his trademark self-effacing laugh. "Well, I am Jewish, you know."
Stephen pursed his lips as he took this in. "But still," he declared at last. "My team created a lot of great shows, and we had fun doing it, and sure, it would have been nice to get a shiny trophy, but there's always next year! And you — your people did get trophies, and after all the hard work you've done, all the joy you've brought into people's lives...." He squeezed Jon's leg for emphasis. "You deserved it. All of you. And you should be so proud of yourselves."
To his surprise, Jon realized the corners of his mouth were twitching. Not only that, the instant he decided to stop holding back, his face split all at once past the self-consciously closed-lipped smile he offered the cameras and into a broad, lopsided, ridiculously giddy grin.
"We did good," he admitted, face reddening at the sudden rush of emotion.
Stephen fairly bounced in his seat. "Yay!" he trilled, clapping his hands and pressing a chaste kiss to Jon's cheek. "It always makes me happy when you're happy, Jon!"
Taking a slow, steadying breath, Jon let himself bask in the unfamiliar glow. Joy. The good stuff, too: not soured by guilt, or a sense of unworthiness, or that self-preserving instinct that insisted he never get his hopes up too high.
It was kind of nice.
"We did good," he repeated quietly; and Stephen hugged him, and laughed, and bubbled on some more about how he was just so proud; and Jon thought that maybe, just maybe, he could let himself feel like this more often.