ptahrrific: Jon and Stephen, "Believe in the me who believes in you" (fake news)
Erin Ptah ([personal profile] ptahrrific) wrote2013-09-10 03:33 am

Fake News | Jon/"Stephen" | R | Or Perhaps Pleasure

Title: Or Perhaps Pleasure
Rating: R
Contents: Canon-typical (cartoony) violence, weird sexual situations
Characters/pairings: 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.

Jon's back from the Middle East!...and he came back wrong. As the embodiment of all that is American, it's up to Stephen to come to the rescue. The sexy, sexy rescue.

(On top of all the other innuendo in that clip, one of the things Stephen yells while behind the door actually is "Say you love me!" Ah, romance.)

Mirror on the AO3.

And no matter what you hear, no matter what moans of agony, or perhaps pleasure, you hear, I need you to promise me that you will not go in that door.

The Stewartettes, the two Stephen privately refers to as Not My Real Jon and Are You Even Old Enough To Drink Yet, make the promise. Wrapped safely in a hazmat suit, Stephen strides past them and into Jon's dressing room.

They really could have warned him their ineptitude had bounced Jon into Nazi mode.

Stephen shouts in horror and slugs Jon across the face. It's not the most finesse he could have used, but whatever it snaps the man into has got to be better than...

...oh, great, now Jon's a boxer, and he's trying to slug back. He's even got the gloves. Not fair!

They trade punches until Stephen manages to whip out his lightsaber. Good thing he'd remembered to bring that along. The neon blade sizzles through the air, slicing Jon's punching hand off at the wrist — again, not ideal, but Stephen can fix it later. Once he deals with the fact that Jon is now in Jedi robes, complete with a new mechanical hand wielding a lightsaber of its own.

"A Jedi is calm, cool, and undistracted by baser emotions," Jon says with a slight British accent, the blade humming as he moves it through the air in the traditional form of a space-kata.

Well, Stephen should be a natural at canceling out this mess. "Which isn't you!" he hisses. "Snap out of it! You love me, remember?"

Jon swings the lightsaber at him.

Stephen parries a couple of times, then launches himself forward. The hazmat suit sizzles where the lightsaber clips him in the side, but doesn't let it through. American engineering at its finest!

Both of their lightsabers go flying as he tackles Jon to the ground, slicing up wall decorations and burning holes in the plaster on their way. Necessary casualties. "Say you love me!" shouts Stephen, smacking Jon across the face.

The Jon who turns back to him with a smile is...a drag queen. Heavy makeup, long gloves (over two human hands), and so many sequins and feathers on his outfit that Stephen is terribly jealous. "Aw, sugar," he purrs. "You sure do know how to make a girl feel wanted."

Incongruous as it seems, they're getting closer. Stephen unzips and shoves down the headpiece of his suit, cups drag-Jon's face in both plastic-encased hands, and crushes him into a kiss. He isn't ashamed to be needy about it. Jon's been out of the country for months. Stephen was out of the country for a couple weeks too, but it was a different country, and apparently the nations outside of America aren't all right next to each other! Who knew?

When he lets Jon's mouth go, it is lipstick-free (so Stephen's mouth should be too) and surrounded by stubble. There's a small silver hoop in one of his ears, and a spiked leather collar around his neck, and, okay, there's a general leather theme going on here. "Eager little puppy, aren't you?" he says fondly, chucking Stephen under the chin.

Stephen punches the nearest wall in frustration. Apparently they're just cycling through gay stereotypes now. He has no problem with that in general, but this particular stereotype is hot, and Stephen kind of hates that he's too honorable to give up here and leave Jon as-is.

The leather-clad, bare-chested, incredibly hairy (that, at least, is back to normal) version of Jon is strong enough to flip Stephen over, pinning him down and caressing his chest through the crinkling plastic. "Yeah, I love you. Now give Daddy another kiss."

Forget everything Stephen just thought. He's thrilled he won't have to leave Jon as-is. "Not on your life," he snarls, and, from the holster opposite the one that held the lightsaber, draws a thick blue vibrator.

The toy gets switched on as they grapple over it, buzzing loudly in their hands.

Stephen can feel himself losing, which spells disaster. How is he supposed to bring Jon's aggressive toppiness back down to its natural levels if he can't get the upper hand? He scans the other objects within reach, then deliberately throws the struggle. While Jon is distracted gloating over his victory, Stephen snags a nearby baseball bat (memorial from some game or another) and punches the end of it into leather-Jon's stomach.

It knocks Jon off of him. It sends the vibrator flying off to buzz in another corner of the office. And when Stephen sits up, he finds himself face-to-face with a Jon who is...cringing?

The gestalt take a moment to identify. It's no archetype. Just a guy in a soccer jersey over gym shorts, with a clean-shaven face and piles of curly dark-brown hair, poised to duck away the instant the taller, meaner guy swings the bat.

Stephen drops the makeshift weapon and holds up his hands. "Hey, buddy. Nothing to be scared of."

At the side of the room, the one real lightsaber, which has been quietly sizzling against the base of a wooden shelf for some time now, finally slices past the tipping point. It starts to list to one side.

"This isn't you either, okay?" says Stephen, in his most soothing voice. "You are a professional, relatively well-adjusted adult with a stupid excess of money and lots of slavish cronies who hang on to your every word. Also a smart wife, two adorable kids, and a smoking hot piece on the side. If I do say so myself."

One of the photos on the wall finally succumbs to a hit it took earlier and crashes to the floor. Glass shatters in the frame. Over on the shelf, a Rubik's cube and two Star Wars action figures topple from their perches.

Ignoring all of this — Jon is more important than mere possessions, and besides, it isn't like they're Stephen's possessions — Stephen inches closer to the edgy-young-Jon. "And did I mention you have a healthy sex life? Especially with the aforementioned piece on the side, who is very robust for his age?"

"Um," says Jon. He's starting to relax, peering at Stephen in slow recognition. "Wow. Hi."

"Hi," says Stephen, positioning himself between Jon's legs and letting Jon caress his face in wonder.

A couple of well-worn paperbacks take a dive off the leaning shelf.

Most of Stephen's technique is hamstrung with so much of his body encased in the hazmat suit, but his best feature has always been his mouth, and Jon in any form is perfectly capable of undoing his own pants. He makes the exact kinds of noises Stephen knows so well, unaltered by language or accent or Smurfification, as Stephen swallows him down and does things with his tongue that would make the angels weep.

Somewhere in there, the gym shorts are replaced with pressed slacks, and the sleeves of a suit jacket and cuffed shirt appear on the wrist next to Stephen's face. Confident fingers get a tight grip in his hair. The haphazardly jerking hips below him start thrusting in earnest.

A moan of unmistakeable pleasure escapes from Stephen's throat. The Stewartettes outside probably can't hear it anyway, over the falling of boxes and the snapping of wood at the other end of the room.

It's wonderful until Jon ruins it all by crooning, in a thoroughly un-Jon-like voice, "Yeah, that's right, take it. You like it like this, don't you, slut?"

He holds Stephen roughly in place while he comes a second later, which is totally unnecessary. Stephen is no cut-and-runner; he doesn't start a thing without seeing it through.

Once let go, Stephen pulls back, swallowing, to see just what kind of Jon he's gotten himself into (or vice versa) this time.

"God, you look good when you're hanging off my dick," sighs not-quite-right Jon. Most of the details are right. That's Jon's hair if you ignore the way it's dyed dark, and the ensemble has the general outlines of Jon-on-air. But the suit is jet black, the cut is so stylish that the real Jon has probably never heard of it, and the way he's smirking is all wrong. Jon doesn't smirk mean.

Stephen mentally replays the description he gave to the last version of Jon. "Goddammit," he says out loud. "You're some asshole Wall Street guy, aren't you."

Smug business jerk Jon only smirks harder. "You don't like it, baby, I got girls lined up around the block waiting to take your place."

"Okay, that does it." Stephen gets to his feet. He's out of breath, hair is plastered down with sweat from the extended fight, and he's all out of strategies, too. "This is the best I can do. You're just going to have to live with it."

He looks around for his weapons. The lightsaber has burned out and is trailing smoke from under the smashed cabinet; the vibrator is still buzzing around here somewhere, but he can only hear it, not see it. Since the baseball bat abandoned near his feet is one of the few undamaged things left in the room, he grabs that as a replacement.

"I love you, you know," he adds testily. "Fine job you're showing of appreciating it."

With that, he and the bat and the hazmat suit crinkles out of the room to let the Stewartettes know the bad news.

I did what I could.


Jon comes to, dizzy and disheveled and sore in unexpected places, sitting on his office floor.

The room is a wreck, objects both whole and broken strewn around the place, and he gets the feeling something in here is on fire. But from his slowly-returning memories of the old routines at The Daily Show, that seems normal.

He's already wearing a show suit, a nice slate-y grey with a dull green tie. The pants are undone — and, for some reason, his dick is smeared with lipstick — but all he has to do to fix the first is button up, and as for the second, who's gonna know?

John Oliver and Jessica, both waiting, light up as he steps out of the office. "All right," he says, straightening his lapels and grinning back at them. "Let's do this."

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