Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2010-03-15 05:03 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2010-03-15 05:03 pm
Fake News: Clover and Shadows, chapter 5
Title: Clover and Shadows (5/5)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Trans issues, angst, character death, sex
Characters/pairings: "Stephen"/Jon, Gipper
Marvelous betas:stellar_dust and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
balljointed
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.
Now featuring one more illustration and a two-part soundtrack (all spoilerific). And I like to think trans!Stephen was the one who sent this tweet.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |Part 5 | Transverse
Clover and Shadows - Part 5
Jon had barely touched the bell when the door flew open and Stephen grabbed his hand.
"Come in!" he ordered, hauling Jon over the threshold. "Lock the door. There we go. Couch is through here. Sit down. Can I get you anything? Do you like Bud Light Lime? If you do, you're in luck. They send me a crate of the stuff every time I mention it on the show, and I'm not going to drink it."
"Well, uh—"
"Bud Light Lime it is!" exclaimed Stephen, pushing him across the room before fluttering off to the kitchen.
Jon took the last few steps to the couch, and nearly sat on what he thought was a lumpy black pillow until it tilted its head and appraised him with rheumy eyes. "Ah! Sorry!"
The old dog closed his eyes, to all appearances fast asleep again. He didn't move a muscle as Jon settled carefully onto the free cushion beside him.
"Ah, good, you've met Gipper!" said Stephen brightly, returning with a pale-green bottle and a glass of ice. "He's a good dog. You keep Jon company, okay, boy? I have to go, uh, double-check that all the shades are closed."
Jon left the unopened drink on the coffee table in favor of scratching Gipper's head, especially when he discovered that it set the long black tail into a rhythm of lazy thumping.
After a minute or so of this, he got up and went looking.
Jon hadn't gotten two steps into the hall when they nearly crashed into each other. "Ah! Sorry, didn't realize—" He caught himself. "Uh, you were about to come in, right?"
"Of course, Jon!" snapped Stephen. His glasses had gone missing somewhere, and he was wringing the neck of a half-empty bottle of his own. "I was getting there. Don't rush me."
"Sure, sure." Taking a half step back, Jon added, "Listen, if you're not up for this...."
He was cut off when Stephen shoved him against the wall, palms splayed across his chest, and stuck an expensive-wine-flavored tongue in his mouth.
After a moment of surprised writhing, Jon scraped together the presence of mind to tilt his head and meet Stephen's tongue with his own. His hands clawed at the air before settling on Stephen's hips, which responded by thrusting defiantly against his, while Stephen pawed at his chest with such eagerness that Jon couldn't understand why his sweatshirt was still on.
"Told you," panted Stephen hotly against Jon's cheek when at last they came up for air. "I'm up for it."
"Oh, good," gasped Jon, waggling his eyebrows in what he hoped was a passably suggestive manner. "'Cause you're not the only one."
Jon tumbled backwards onto the bed with Stephen on top of him, lips on his neck and fingers busily dispensing of his T-shirt. (The sweatshirt had been abandoned somewhere on the stairs.)
He had to hoist himself into a sitting position to let Stephen wrest the shirt over his head, and was shaking out his hair when Stephen pushed him back down. "Mine aren't coming off," he said sternly, straddling Jon's torso and running businesslike fingers through Jon's mussed curls. "Well, the sweater. And maybe the shirt. But not the undershirt."
Resting his palms on Stephen's Italian-wool-clad legs, Jon began massaging his thighs. "All right."
"It's not that I don't want to," added Stephen, the words starting to race. "But I can't. I still have the wrong parts and it hurts, Jon, it hurts to be seen like that, I know you would be sweet about it because you're sweet about everything but I can't!"
"Hey, hey, enough of that." Catching one of Stephen's hands, Jon untangled it from his hair and pulled it down to press a kiss to the wrist. "I said it was all right, and I meant it. I'm more worried about you — are you still going to get enough fun out of this with everything covered up?"
Stephen snorted. "If you ever paid a late-night visit to the truck stop just past exit 57 on the parkway going south, you wouldn't be asking that question."
"...Well, there you go." Jon tried to sound cheerful as he rubbed the heel of Stephen's hand with his thumb. "This should work along more or less the same lines, only with clean sheets and less venereal disease. So why all the fuss?"
"Because, Jon — much as it pains me to say this about someone whose idea of fancy dress is wearing a plain grey shirt with long sleeves instead of short ones — you're too classy for three-A.M. truck-stop-style sex!"
In the dark, Jon broke into a smile. "You love me, don't you?"
Stephen caught his breath. "D-didn't say that."
Rather than pressing further, Jon slid his palms up Stephen's sleeves, cupped the back of the other man's neck, and drew him down into a gentle, if awkwardly posed, kiss.
Stephen moaned as Jon continued pressing kisses to his jaw and neck, wriggling against Jon's bare stomach in a way that would have tickled if it hadn't been so tantalizing, soft plastic dick and all. Jon's heels dug into the sheets as he drew his knees up towards Stephen's back, thrusting for some much-needed friction on his own still-clothed erection; Stephen groaned more heartily, then broke off with an indignant squeak.
"You okay?" asked Jon quickly, as Stephen rolled onto the mattress and fumbled with fistfuls of his sweater.
"Fine," panted Stephen. "It's just — it got twisted, it pinches, it — Jon?"
"Yeah?"
Except for the rise and fall of his shoulders, Stephen had gone very still. "Turn over."
Jon rolled until he was on his side, facing the wall. No way was he going to pull off lying on his stomach at this point.
"And don't look," added Stephen. "Promise you won't look."
"I promise," echoed Jon. He didn't even complain when Stephen shoved a pillow over his head anyway.
Had there been championships for stripping, Stephen could have taken home the gold. Jon knew he was wearing at least three layers of clothing, but it took less than a minute of rustling fabric, including pauses to stretch and breathe, before the other side of the mattress creaked as he flopped back down beside Jon and brushed up to his back.
Jon let out a groan of anticipation as Stephen's tongue raked up his spine. "Ohhh. Welcome back."
"Mine," whispered Stephen, nibbling on his ear while arching cautiously against him. There was still a layer of cloth between Jon's shoulder blades and the swell of Stephen's chest, but it was a bare arm that wrapped around Jon's body and roamed downward. "Is this okay?"
"Fine," gasped Jon at the long-awaited undoing of his much-too-tight khakis. "Better than fine. It's — ooh. Uh. What was—?"
Stephen slipped into his sternest Newsman Voice. "That's called an erection, Jon," he announced, grinding once more against Jon's pelvis to drive the point home (as it were). "You run into them during gay sex. Try to keep up."
Jon's answering laugh turned into a squeak. Words seemed to be failing him; all he could manage was a ragged chant of Stephen's name, in time with the rhythm of the other man's pumping fist and thrusting hips.
At first Stephen was whispering something in his ear, but that soon trailed off in favor of mouthing Jon's neck, kissing and licking and running his teeth over the tender skin, until Jon's vision whited out with Stephen's name tearing itself from his throat.
As Jon came down, Stephen's hand moved to clutch at his chest. His mouth had gone still now, head pressed fiercely against Jon's neck, every ounce of energy poured into being wrapped around Jon as tightly as possible while his hips quickened their pace.
"Stephen—" stammered Jon, the sheets making a paltry substitute for Stephen's soft skin under his fingers. "Let me — do something for you — anything—"
"Love me," pleaded Stephen.
Before Jon could answer, Stephen's whole body shuddered, and with a cry he collapsed around Jon: limp as a popped balloon, if quite a bit heavier.
Tentatively, Jon cupped a hand over Stephen's, and was relieved when Stephen's trembling fingers laced through his.
"Love you," he whispered. "So much."
A sunbeam right across Stephen's eyes woke him up.
He started to stretch, then nearly jumped out of his skin (if only!) when he realized he wasn't alone. The mattress creaked with his startled bounce, rousing the man beside him, who stirred and blinked around the room in confusion. "Hnh?"
"Morning, Jon," breathed Stephen.
Jon squinted over at him, then broke into a sleepy smile. "You're wearing my shirt."
Instinctively Stephen crumpled the blanket over his chest, though he could only feel Jon's eyes running over the grey fabric, not stripping it off. "Grabbed the wrong one last night," he muttered.
"Mm." Jon closed his eyes again, still smiling.
I like him.
The thought drifted by so quietly that at first Stephen thought it was his own. A second later he sat bolt upright. "What's that, Sweetness?"
At the name, Jon too snapped awake. "Stephen! Where's the gun?"
"Oh, Jon, she was never the gun!" The blanket slid down into Stephen's lap as he scrambled forward. "Sweetness, please — I didn't catch that, please, say it again—"
Silence. Silence so profound that it seemed to eclipse the birdsong outside.
"You promised!" he shouted into the empty air. "You promised you wouldn't leave me alone!"
"She's dead, Stephen!"
Stephen turned so abruptly that the extra movement sent a chill through his skin. He finally made a grab for the blanket, and why wasn't she scolding him for taking so long?
"I'm sorry," added Jon softly. "She's been dead for a long time now."
"Shut up!" Stephen hunched into a protective ball, wrapping his arms around his chest. "You don't know anything about it!"
Jon's eyes glittered with one of those stupid unreadable expressions: more than sorrow, not quite pity, tinged with something too complicated to name.
"I know she loved you," he said. "I know you'll always love her, and no matter what happens, you're always going to miss her. And I know that nothing will ever replace what you two had."
Stephen blinked rapidly, swallowing around the lump in his throat.
"I also know that I love you," continued Jon after a beat. "And that if you want it — if you'll let me — I'll make sure you never have to be alone again."
He fell silent, waiting.
Outside the sun shone brighter than ever, and the birds began to sing.
And when Jon held open his arms, it suddenly seemed the easiest thing in the world for Stephen to fall into them, to nuzzle the other man's chest in an attempt to return the hug without actually letting go of himself, while Jon pulled him close and rubbed his shoulders and whispered soothing reassurances in his ear: Shh. It's okay. I love you.
I've got you.
It's checking his new mustache in the mirror one last time, just to enjoy how it looks when smoothed by his broader and rougher hands, before catching the bus downtown to the audition.
He signs in as Stephen Colbert and steps in front of the camera.
A week later he has the job, and a week after that WPTS News 7 at Noon gets a letter from his cousin Margo, who misses her long-lost baby brother. His first reply is brief. It won't be the last.
Stage presence doesn't translate into screen presence; his delivery is wooden at first, his relationship with the camera wide-eyed and standoffish. He knows there's an audience out there, but he hasn't figured out how to work them when he can't see them.
He'll get better.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Trans issues, angst, character death, sex
Characters/pairings: "Stephen"/Jon, Gipper
Marvelous betas:
stellar_dust and balljointedDisclaimer: 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.
Now featuring one more illustration and a two-part soundtrack (all spoilerific). And I like to think trans!Stephen was the one who sent this tweet.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |
Clover and Shadows - Part 5
Jon had barely touched the bell when the door flew open and Stephen grabbed his hand.
"Come in!" he ordered, hauling Jon over the threshold. "Lock the door. There we go. Couch is through here. Sit down. Can I get you anything? Do you like Bud Light Lime? If you do, you're in luck. They send me a crate of the stuff every time I mention it on the show, and I'm not going to drink it."
"Well, uh—"
"Bud Light Lime it is!" exclaimed Stephen, pushing him across the room before fluttering off to the kitchen.
Jon took the last few steps to the couch, and nearly sat on what he thought was a lumpy black pillow until it tilted its head and appraised him with rheumy eyes. "Ah! Sorry!"
The old dog closed his eyes, to all appearances fast asleep again. He didn't move a muscle as Jon settled carefully onto the free cushion beside him.
"Ah, good, you've met Gipper!" said Stephen brightly, returning with a pale-green bottle and a glass of ice. "He's a good dog. You keep Jon company, okay, boy? I have to go, uh, double-check that all the shades are closed."
Jon left the unopened drink on the coffee table in favor of scratching Gipper's head, especially when he discovered that it set the long black tail into a rhythm of lazy thumping.
After a minute or so of this, he got up and went looking.
Jon hadn't gotten two steps into the hall when they nearly crashed into each other. "Ah! Sorry, didn't realize—" He caught himself. "Uh, you were about to come in, right?"
"Of course, Jon!" snapped Stephen. His glasses had gone missing somewhere, and he was wringing the neck of a half-empty bottle of his own. "I was getting there. Don't rush me."
"Sure, sure." Taking a half step back, Jon added, "Listen, if you're not up for this...."
He was cut off when Stephen shoved him against the wall, palms splayed across his chest, and stuck an expensive-wine-flavored tongue in his mouth.
After a moment of surprised writhing, Jon scraped together the presence of mind to tilt his head and meet Stephen's tongue with his own. His hands clawed at the air before settling on Stephen's hips, which responded by thrusting defiantly against his, while Stephen pawed at his chest with such eagerness that Jon couldn't understand why his sweatshirt was still on.
"Told you," panted Stephen hotly against Jon's cheek when at last they came up for air. "I'm up for it."
"Oh, good," gasped Jon, waggling his eyebrows in what he hoped was a passably suggestive manner. "'Cause you're not the only one."
Jon tumbled backwards onto the bed with Stephen on top of him, lips on his neck and fingers busily dispensing of his T-shirt. (The sweatshirt had been abandoned somewhere on the stairs.)
He had to hoist himself into a sitting position to let Stephen wrest the shirt over his head, and was shaking out his hair when Stephen pushed him back down. "Mine aren't coming off," he said sternly, straddling Jon's torso and running businesslike fingers through Jon's mussed curls. "Well, the sweater. And maybe the shirt. But not the undershirt."
Resting his palms on Stephen's Italian-wool-clad legs, Jon began massaging his thighs. "All right."
"It's not that I don't want to," added Stephen, the words starting to race. "But I can't. I still have the wrong parts and it hurts, Jon, it hurts to be seen like that, I know you would be sweet about it because you're sweet about everything but I can't!"
"Hey, hey, enough of that." Catching one of Stephen's hands, Jon untangled it from his hair and pulled it down to press a kiss to the wrist. "I said it was all right, and I meant it. I'm more worried about you — are you still going to get enough fun out of this with everything covered up?"
Stephen snorted. "If you ever paid a late-night visit to the truck stop just past exit 57 on the parkway going south, you wouldn't be asking that question."
"...Well, there you go." Jon tried to sound cheerful as he rubbed the heel of Stephen's hand with his thumb. "This should work along more or less the same lines, only with clean sheets and less venereal disease. So why all the fuss?"
"Because, Jon — much as it pains me to say this about someone whose idea of fancy dress is wearing a plain grey shirt with long sleeves instead of short ones — you're too classy for three-A.M. truck-stop-style sex!"
In the dark, Jon broke into a smile. "You love me, don't you?"
Stephen caught his breath. "D-didn't say that."
Rather than pressing further, Jon slid his palms up Stephen's sleeves, cupped the back of the other man's neck, and drew him down into a gentle, if awkwardly posed, kiss.
Stephen moaned as Jon continued pressing kisses to his jaw and neck, wriggling against Jon's bare stomach in a way that would have tickled if it hadn't been so tantalizing, soft plastic dick and all. Jon's heels dug into the sheets as he drew his knees up towards Stephen's back, thrusting for some much-needed friction on his own still-clothed erection; Stephen groaned more heartily, then broke off with an indignant squeak.
"You okay?" asked Jon quickly, as Stephen rolled onto the mattress and fumbled with fistfuls of his sweater.
"Fine," panted Stephen. "It's just — it got twisted, it pinches, it — Jon?"
"Yeah?"
Except for the rise and fall of his shoulders, Stephen had gone very still. "Turn over."
Jon rolled until he was on his side, facing the wall. No way was he going to pull off lying on his stomach at this point.
"And don't look," added Stephen. "Promise you won't look."
"I promise," echoed Jon. He didn't even complain when Stephen shoved a pillow over his head anyway.
Had there been championships for stripping, Stephen could have taken home the gold. Jon knew he was wearing at least three layers of clothing, but it took less than a minute of rustling fabric, including pauses to stretch and breathe, before the other side of the mattress creaked as he flopped back down beside Jon and brushed up to his back.
Jon let out a groan of anticipation as Stephen's tongue raked up his spine. "Ohhh. Welcome back."
"Mine," whispered Stephen, nibbling on his ear while arching cautiously against him. There was still a layer of cloth between Jon's shoulder blades and the swell of Stephen's chest, but it was a bare arm that wrapped around Jon's body and roamed downward. "Is this okay?"
"Fine," gasped Jon at the long-awaited undoing of his much-too-tight khakis. "Better than fine. It's — ooh. Uh. What was—?"
Stephen slipped into his sternest Newsman Voice. "That's called an erection, Jon," he announced, grinding once more against Jon's pelvis to drive the point home (as it were). "You run into them during gay sex. Try to keep up."
Jon's answering laugh turned into a squeak. Words seemed to be failing him; all he could manage was a ragged chant of Stephen's name, in time with the rhythm of the other man's pumping fist and thrusting hips.
At first Stephen was whispering something in his ear, but that soon trailed off in favor of mouthing Jon's neck, kissing and licking and running his teeth over the tender skin, until Jon's vision whited out with Stephen's name tearing itself from his throat.
As Jon came down, Stephen's hand moved to clutch at his chest. His mouth had gone still now, head pressed fiercely against Jon's neck, every ounce of energy poured into being wrapped around Jon as tightly as possible while his hips quickened their pace.
"Stephen—" stammered Jon, the sheets making a paltry substitute for Stephen's soft skin under his fingers. "Let me — do something for you — anything—"
"Love me," pleaded Stephen.
Before Jon could answer, Stephen's whole body shuddered, and with a cry he collapsed around Jon: limp as a popped balloon, if quite a bit heavier.
Tentatively, Jon cupped a hand over Stephen's, and was relieved when Stephen's trembling fingers laced through his.
"Love you," he whispered. "So much."
A sunbeam right across Stephen's eyes woke him up.
He started to stretch, then nearly jumped out of his skin (if only!) when he realized he wasn't alone. The mattress creaked with his startled bounce, rousing the man beside him, who stirred and blinked around the room in confusion. "Hnh?"
"Morning, Jon," breathed Stephen.
Jon squinted over at him, then broke into a sleepy smile. "You're wearing my shirt."
Instinctively Stephen crumpled the blanket over his chest, though he could only feel Jon's eyes running over the grey fabric, not stripping it off. "Grabbed the wrong one last night," he muttered.
"Mm." Jon closed his eyes again, still smiling.
I like him.
The thought drifted by so quietly that at first Stephen thought it was his own. A second later he sat bolt upright. "What's that, Sweetness?"
At the name, Jon too snapped awake. "Stephen! Where's the gun?"
"Oh, Jon, she was never the gun!" The blanket slid down into Stephen's lap as he scrambled forward. "Sweetness, please — I didn't catch that, please, say it again—"
Silence. Silence so profound that it seemed to eclipse the birdsong outside.
"You promised!" he shouted into the empty air. "You promised you wouldn't leave me alone!"
"She's dead, Stephen!"
Stephen turned so abruptly that the extra movement sent a chill through his skin. He finally made a grab for the blanket, and why wasn't she scolding him for taking so long?
"I'm sorry," added Jon softly. "She's been dead for a long time now."
"Shut up!" Stephen hunched into a protective ball, wrapping his arms around his chest. "You don't know anything about it!"
Jon's eyes glittered with one of those stupid unreadable expressions: more than sorrow, not quite pity, tinged with something too complicated to name.
"I know she loved you," he said. "I know you'll always love her, and no matter what happens, you're always going to miss her. And I know that nothing will ever replace what you two had."
Stephen blinked rapidly, swallowing around the lump in his throat.
"I also know that I love you," continued Jon after a beat. "And that if you want it — if you'll let me — I'll make sure you never have to be alone again."
He fell silent, waiting.
Outside the sun shone brighter than ever, and the birds began to sing.
And when Jon held open his arms, it suddenly seemed the easiest thing in the world for Stephen to fall into them, to nuzzle the other man's chest in an attempt to return the hug without actually letting go of himself, while Jon pulled him close and rubbed his shoulders and whispered soothing reassurances in his ear: Shh. It's okay. I love you.
I've got you.
It's checking his new mustache in the mirror one last time, just to enjoy how it looks when smoothed by his broader and rougher hands, before catching the bus downtown to the audition.
He signs in as Stephen Colbert and steps in front of the camera.
A week later he has the job, and a week after that WPTS News 7 at Noon gets a letter from his cousin Margo, who misses her long-lost baby brother. His first reply is brief. It won't be the last.
Stage presence doesn't translate into screen presence; his delivery is wooden at first, his relationship with the camera wide-eyed and standoffish. He knows there's an audience out there, but he hasn't figured out how to work them when he can't see them.
He'll get better.
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