Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2008-07-12 09:08 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2008-07-12 09:08 pm
Fake News: Kiss You Where It Hurts
Title: Kiss You Where It Hurts
Series: TDS/TCR
Rating: R
Warnings: Established (and unsavory) BDSM relationship; partial nudity; dubious consent issues; pain, suffering.
Disclaimer: Two.
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: This is the really really depressing version of how character!Stephen hurt his face. Or, rather, it's the story of what happens afterwards, when Jon figures it out.
There's even an illustration, just to break your hearts a bit more. (Here on DA.) See the index page for the sequels.
Kiss You Where It Hurts
He was so used to being stood up that, when the other man missed their lunch date (meeting. business meeting) on Monday, he didn't think anything of it. Then he saw that night's Report.
He almost picked up the phone that instant, but settled on sending a terse email: Stephen. Don't skip out on me Tuesday. Jon.
♦
Stephen was eight minutes late, well within his usual margin of error, when he skipped in with an overly cheerful grin perched on his face like a painting over a hole in the wall. "Hi, Jon! Did you order yet?"
"Yeah, sorry. This is the place that takes forever to deliver, remember?"
The smile gave way to a stern frown. "You told them to make mine well done, right? Last time it was practically raw. Disgusting."
"Stephen, it's sushi."
As his friend approached, Jon rose and leaned forward to inspect his face: the stitches between the eyebrows, the bruises trickling down the sides of his nose like tears.
"Ooh, that does look nasty. I hope it doesn't hurt too much."
"Nope! Not at all!" chirped Stephen as he flopped down into one of the ragged old armchairs, the faux grin back in full force.
"That's good." Jon headed for the chair across from him. "How'd it happen? Can I ask?"
"You can."
Anyone else might have taken that nonanswer as a coy bid for attention, or perhaps a particularly annoying method of teasing.
Jon knew better.
"It was him, wasn't it?"
Stephen's grin faded, but he said nothing.
"Did he order you not to tell anyone? Because you can't help it if I guess . . . ."
"It's not that." Stephen seemed to shrink a little, but he kept his tone carefully light. "You're not mad, are you? I mean, there's no telling how many viewers have abandoned the show for a host with a prettier face."
"It's not the ratings I'm worried about."
"Jon, we've been through this. It's safe, it's sane, it's consensual."
"You have stitches! How is that—"
"You promised you wouldn't judge!"
Stephen was on the edge of his cushion, eyes flashing, hands clenched around the arms of the chair.
Jon backed off immediately. "Didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry."
A few heartbeats passed while the tension dissipated.
It was Stephen, calmer now, who broke the silence. "Some people like it a lot worse, you know."
Jon did his best to swallow his distaste. "I know."
"And it's not random. There are rules."
Of course. With Stephen, there had to be rules for everything. "I know. You've said. It's just—well, I would have thought you'd put 'no leaving marks they can see on TV' on the rule list."
Stephen caught his breath and looked away.
A pang of suspicion shot through Jon. "Stephen," he murmured, "don't tell me it's on the list."
"It's not a big deal," insisted Stephen, not meeting Jon's eyes. "Nothing to make people suspicious. It just looks like I had a bad fall. And anyway, he's running out of other places to—"
He bit the phrase off, clamped his jaw shut.
Jon was already on his feet. "Show me."
". . . what?"
"I want to see what he's doing to you. Show me, Stephen."
At last Stephen looked at him, a little wary but mostly confused. "Jon, are you telling me to strip in your office?"
Put that way, the stupidity of the idea crashed down on Jon. "You're right. I'm an idiot. Ignore me . . . ."
"No, no, it's okay. I'm allowed."
It took Jon a moment to piece together the fact that Stephen was referring to his (boyfriend? Master? Owner?), to realize he didn't even think about his own boundaries, just what that man would want; and by then Stephen had shrugged off his jacket and tie and was halfway down his buttons, a couple of thin white scars poking up from beneath the collar of his undershirt.
"Stephen, you don't have to—"
"But I want to. Maybe it'll give you some perspective."
So Jon shut up and watched while Stephen lifted the dress shirt and undershirt over his head in one smooth motion.
Scars—along with bruises, bites, a couple of nasty welts, and the occasional cigarette burn—decorated his torso like sprinkles on a cupcake.
He leaned over to pull off his shoes, revealing as he did so the larger marks on his back, some of which looked uncomfortably fresh. Jon remained mute, frozen to the spot, until Stephen stood up and dropped his trousers. "That's enough! You can stop now. I get the picture."
Now clad only in socks and flag-patterned boxers, Stephen displayed the rest of himself for Jon's gaze. Although his legs were less scarred than his upper body, the rug burns on his knees and calves were just as evocative, as were what looked like rope marks on his ankles. Stephen was remarkably patient, waiting silently for Jon to take it all in.
"It's a good thing you're a pundit," Jon said at last. "You're expected to wear three-piece suits all the time. If you were, like, an Olympic swimmer, this would be a lot harder to hide."
It was a feeble attempt at a joke, but Stephen favored it with an indulgent smile as he settled back into the armchair, not bothering to reach for his clothes.
"All that—" began Jon, and was stunned to hear his voice crack. He cleared his throat and tried again. "He's got all that, and he still felt the need to go for your face?"
Stephen pulled off his glasses and touched the bridge of his nose gingerly. "Jon, you can't tell me you've never accidentally hurt somebody during sex before."
Relief washed through Jon. "It was an accident, then? He apologized?"
"Well . . ."
"He didn't?"
"You're overthinking this. Stop it," ordered Stephen, fixing him with a stern look. "He doesn't need to apologize. I'm sure he's sorry. My gut tells me so."
But there was that edge to his voice, the one that most people took for obnoxious certainty. Jon knew better. "That's truthiness. But it's not the truth, and you know it."
Again, Stephen looked down.
"Listen, Stephen, this made sense when you had rules, but if you're not even sure whether he respects them and you're still letting him go this far—"
"Don't do this to me, Jon," pleaded Stephen. "I'm his. Please, don't make me start doubting that. I don't want to throw it all away just because there are a few problems. Don't take this away from me. I need to be somebody's."
Jon didn't realize he was going to say it until the words burst forth: "Then be mine!"
His own earnestness shocked them both into silence.
What response he had expected, Jon didn't know; but he felt his face grow hot as the corners of Stephen's mouth quirked, then broke into a grin. "You are adorable. Oh, God, you would be the worst Dom ever."
Jon balled his hands into fists. "I might not be!"
"Of course you would," giggled Stephen. "Jon, you're sweet, but—well, you're sweet. You barely order around your own employees. And you probably couldn't hurt a fly, much less me. I saw you flinch at these." With a sweep of his fingers he indicated the pattern of scars. "I mean, if you hadn't . . ."
He sobered again. "If you could pull it off, Jon, then I . . . but I just can't see it."
"Well, why does it have to be about hurting?" Unable to resist, Jon leaned down. "When I own things, Stephen," he murmured, placing a soft kiss on each tear-shaped bruise and one on the stitches between them, "I take care of them."
"It isn't that easy," protested Stephen . . .
. . . but when Jon tilted his head just a little, he found a hand curled around the back of his neck to pull him down, closing the short distance between their lips.
Stephen kept inching backward, but his hand remained steady, bringing Jon along after him. It wasn't long before Stephen's nearly naked body was pressed into the cushions with Jon almost on top of him, trying not to push too hard even as he savored the taste.
It wasn't until Stephen let out a moan that Jon pulled away, not sure whether he was hearing pain or pleasure or both. "If you want me to stop—"
"I don't," murmured Stephen against his chest. "But, Jon, it probably won't change anything . . ."
"I'll take that chance." You're worth that chance.
". . . and I'd have to tell him."
A shiver ran down Jon's spine. "You'd be punished?"
"No. I'm allowed to . . . sleep around. I just have to tell him about it. In detail."
Slowly, feeling ill, Jon rose. "I can't be part of that."
"Didn't think so."
Stephen looked so broken, crushed into the cushions with a history of masochism mapped out on his skin from head to toe, that Jon nearly reconsidered. He caught himself just in time. You can't save him that way, Stewart. Besides, he doesn't need another partner right now. Not as much as he needs a friend.
"Do me a favor?" he asked. "Talk to him about it. The injury, I mean. Find a time when you're not doing . . . whatever it is you do . . . and make sure he knows that it wasn't okay."
"I'll try."
"And—you can always come to me if things go to hell. Any time. You know that."
"I know."
There didn't seem to be much more Jon could say. "You should get dressed," he finished quietly, waving a hand to indicate the articles of clothing strewn in a loose circle around them. "I'm just gonna go dunk my head in cold water for a while."
Stephen smiled a little as he reached for his pants. "Me next."
Series: TDS/TCR
Rating: R
Warnings: Established (and unsavory) BDSM relationship; partial nudity; dubious consent issues; pain, suffering.
Disclaimer: Two.
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: This is the really really depressing version of how character!Stephen hurt his face. Or, rather, it's the story of what happens afterwards, when Jon figures it out.
There's even an illustration, just to break your hearts a bit more. (Here on DA.) See the index page for the sequels.
Kiss You Where It Hurts
He was so used to being stood up that, when the other man missed their lunch date (meeting. business meeting) on Monday, he didn't think anything of it. Then he saw that night's Report.
He almost picked up the phone that instant, but settled on sending a terse email: Stephen. Don't skip out on me Tuesday. Jon.
Stephen was eight minutes late, well within his usual margin of error, when he skipped in with an overly cheerful grin perched on his face like a painting over a hole in the wall. "Hi, Jon! Did you order yet?"
"Yeah, sorry. This is the place that takes forever to deliver, remember?"
The smile gave way to a stern frown. "You told them to make mine well done, right? Last time it was practically raw. Disgusting."
"Stephen, it's sushi."
As his friend approached, Jon rose and leaned forward to inspect his face: the stitches between the eyebrows, the bruises trickling down the sides of his nose like tears.
"Ooh, that does look nasty. I hope it doesn't hurt too much."
"Nope! Not at all!" chirped Stephen as he flopped down into one of the ragged old armchairs, the faux grin back in full force.
"That's good." Jon headed for the chair across from him. "How'd it happen? Can I ask?"
"You can."
Anyone else might have taken that nonanswer as a coy bid for attention, or perhaps a particularly annoying method of teasing.
Jon knew better.
"It was him, wasn't it?"
Stephen's grin faded, but he said nothing.
"Did he order you not to tell anyone? Because you can't help it if I guess . . . ."
"It's not that." Stephen seemed to shrink a little, but he kept his tone carefully light. "You're not mad, are you? I mean, there's no telling how many viewers have abandoned the show for a host with a prettier face."
"It's not the ratings I'm worried about."
"Jon, we've been through this. It's safe, it's sane, it's consensual."
"You have stitches! How is that—"
"You promised you wouldn't judge!"
Stephen was on the edge of his cushion, eyes flashing, hands clenched around the arms of the chair.
Jon backed off immediately. "Didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry."
A few heartbeats passed while the tension dissipated.
It was Stephen, calmer now, who broke the silence. "Some people like it a lot worse, you know."
Jon did his best to swallow his distaste. "I know."
"And it's not random. There are rules."
Of course. With Stephen, there had to be rules for everything. "I know. You've said. It's just—well, I would have thought you'd put 'no leaving marks they can see on TV' on the rule list."
Stephen caught his breath and looked away.
A pang of suspicion shot through Jon. "Stephen," he murmured, "don't tell me it's on the list."
"It's not a big deal," insisted Stephen, not meeting Jon's eyes. "Nothing to make people suspicious. It just looks like I had a bad fall. And anyway, he's running out of other places to—"
He bit the phrase off, clamped his jaw shut.
Jon was already on his feet. "Show me."
". . . what?"
"I want to see what he's doing to you. Show me, Stephen."
At last Stephen looked at him, a little wary but mostly confused. "Jon, are you telling me to strip in your office?"
Put that way, the stupidity of the idea crashed down on Jon. "You're right. I'm an idiot. Ignore me . . . ."
"No, no, it's okay. I'm allowed."
It took Jon a moment to piece together the fact that Stephen was referring to his (boyfriend? Master? Owner?), to realize he didn't even think about his own boundaries, just what that man would want; and by then Stephen had shrugged off his jacket and tie and was halfway down his buttons, a couple of thin white scars poking up from beneath the collar of his undershirt.
"Stephen, you don't have to—"
"But I want to. Maybe it'll give you some perspective."
So Jon shut up and watched while Stephen lifted the dress shirt and undershirt over his head in one smooth motion.
Scars—along with bruises, bites, a couple of nasty welts, and the occasional cigarette burn—decorated his torso like sprinkles on a cupcake.
He leaned over to pull off his shoes, revealing as he did so the larger marks on his back, some of which looked uncomfortably fresh. Jon remained mute, frozen to the spot, until Stephen stood up and dropped his trousers. "That's enough! You can stop now. I get the picture."
Now clad only in socks and flag-patterned boxers, Stephen displayed the rest of himself for Jon's gaze. Although his legs were less scarred than his upper body, the rug burns on his knees and calves were just as evocative, as were what looked like rope marks on his ankles. Stephen was remarkably patient, waiting silently for Jon to take it all in.
"It's a good thing you're a pundit," Jon said at last. "You're expected to wear three-piece suits all the time. If you were, like, an Olympic swimmer, this would be a lot harder to hide."
It was a feeble attempt at a joke, but Stephen favored it with an indulgent smile as he settled back into the armchair, not bothering to reach for his clothes.
"All that—" began Jon, and was stunned to hear his voice crack. He cleared his throat and tried again. "He's got all that, and he still felt the need to go for your face?"
Stephen pulled off his glasses and touched the bridge of his nose gingerly. "Jon, you can't tell me you've never accidentally hurt somebody during sex before."
Relief washed through Jon. "It was an accident, then? He apologized?"
"Well . . ."
"He didn't?"
"You're overthinking this. Stop it," ordered Stephen, fixing him with a stern look. "He doesn't need to apologize. I'm sure he's sorry. My gut tells me so."
But there was that edge to his voice, the one that most people took for obnoxious certainty. Jon knew better. "That's truthiness. But it's not the truth, and you know it."
Again, Stephen looked down.
"Listen, Stephen, this made sense when you had rules, but if you're not even sure whether he respects them and you're still letting him go this far—"
"Don't do this to me, Jon," pleaded Stephen. "I'm his. Please, don't make me start doubting that. I don't want to throw it all away just because there are a few problems. Don't take this away from me. I need to be somebody's."
Jon didn't realize he was going to say it until the words burst forth: "Then be mine!"
His own earnestness shocked them both into silence.
What response he had expected, Jon didn't know; but he felt his face grow hot as the corners of Stephen's mouth quirked, then broke into a grin. "You are adorable. Oh, God, you would be the worst Dom ever."
Jon balled his hands into fists. "I might not be!"
"Of course you would," giggled Stephen. "Jon, you're sweet, but—well, you're sweet. You barely order around your own employees. And you probably couldn't hurt a fly, much less me. I saw you flinch at these." With a sweep of his fingers he indicated the pattern of scars. "I mean, if you hadn't . . ."
He sobered again. "If you could pull it off, Jon, then I . . . but I just can't see it."
"Well, why does it have to be about hurting?" Unable to resist, Jon leaned down. "When I own things, Stephen," he murmured, placing a soft kiss on each tear-shaped bruise and one on the stitches between them, "I take care of them."
"It isn't that easy," protested Stephen . . .
. . . but when Jon tilted his head just a little, he found a hand curled around the back of his neck to pull him down, closing the short distance between their lips.
Stephen kept inching backward, but his hand remained steady, bringing Jon along after him. It wasn't long before Stephen's nearly naked body was pressed into the cushions with Jon almost on top of him, trying not to push too hard even as he savored the taste.
It wasn't until Stephen let out a moan that Jon pulled away, not sure whether he was hearing pain or pleasure or both. "If you want me to stop—"
"I don't," murmured Stephen against his chest. "But, Jon, it probably won't change anything . . ."
"I'll take that chance." You're worth that chance.
". . . and I'd have to tell him."
A shiver ran down Jon's spine. "You'd be punished?"
"No. I'm allowed to . . . sleep around. I just have to tell him about it. In detail."
Slowly, feeling ill, Jon rose. "I can't be part of that."
"Didn't think so."
Stephen looked so broken, crushed into the cushions with a history of masochism mapped out on his skin from head to toe, that Jon nearly reconsidered. He caught himself just in time. You can't save him that way, Stewart. Besides, he doesn't need another partner right now. Not as much as he needs a friend.
"Do me a favor?" he asked. "Talk to him about it. The injury, I mean. Find a time when you're not doing . . . whatever it is you do . . . and make sure he knows that it wasn't okay."
"I'll try."
"And—you can always come to me if things go to hell. Any time. You know that."
"I know."
There didn't seem to be much more Jon could say. "You should get dressed," he finished quietly, waving a hand to indicate the articles of clothing strewn in a loose circle around them. "I'm just gonna go dunk my head in cold water for a while."
Stephen smiled a little as he reached for his pants. "Me next."
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I bet Jon could be a different kind of Dom if he really wanted to, Stephen needs him in any case. Can't they see their own chemistry srsly?
wonderfully written Erin <3
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Thank you ♥
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I'm with Jon. Like, I get the whole D/s thing, but still. DO NOT WANT.
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(But Jon has promised to be there for him when it all goes to hell. There's a glimmer of hope, at least.)
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Unfortunately, it seems like it'd be really, really easy for Stephen to get involved in this sort of relationship, and have it get out of control. He definitely wouldn't know how to stop it, or would think it was okay. Poor Stephen.
At least he has Jon to help him and be there for him when things go bad. I still want to hug him, though.
Excellent work!
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Someone needs to write an epic h/c fic about this. (Someone was writing one, once upon a time, but it seems to have dissolved into the ether.)
Jon will be on hand with hugs when necessary, never fear. (Silver lining.)
Thanks!
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What response he had expected, Jon didn't know; but he felt his face grow hot as the corners of Stephen's mouth quirked, then broke into a grin. "You are adorable. Oh, God, you would be the worst Dom ever."
Jon balled his hands into fists. "I might not be!"
This was unbearably sweet in the best way. Because Jon is so gentle.
And then, the part where Jon says that he can't be a part of that, just realizing it... That's near-perfect.
And so true is when he decides to be Stephen's friend, instead. That there won't be a magical resolution.
Damn, it really was heartbreaking.
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This was not the easiest story to write, so I'm very glad it worked well for you. Thank you ♥
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I have a sinking feeling that by the time that realization hits, Stephen will be too hurt to move. Here's hoping...
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I have a sinking feeling that by the time that realization hits, Stephen will be too hurt to move.
*wibbles* That's an awful thought. I hope he's still alive and not...concussed...so he doesn't forget that realization that this isn't fun anymore.
ETA: WTF homophones.
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"When I own things, Stephen," he murmured, placing a soft kiss on each tear-shaped bruise and one on the stitches between them, "I take care of them." Nothing = better than this.
You have made me a huge fan of stories about why Jon and Stephen actually can't get together, but still showing a combination of love, affection and/or attraction between them.
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This is such a weird narrative kink, but now that you mention it, I guess I do it a lot, don't I?
Thanks ^_^
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(Anonymous) 2010-07-24 07:25 am (UTC)(link)tl;dr you make me feel better about myself.
(Hi, by the way! I'm Em and I've lurked your stories for approximately forever, and finally felt the need to comment.)
- sparkletropolis
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Thanks for coming out of lurkdom! If you ever want a DW account so you can get at my locked fics (which include a couple of follow-ups to this one), just let me know where to PM/email the invite code =)
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(Anonymous) 2011-07-24 12:40 am (UTC)(link)no subject
If you want to create an account so you can read the rest, there are invite codes here.
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(Anonymous) 2011-07-24 11:06 pm (UTC)(link)And your artwork is hot.
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Very glad you like this first part. Stephen's relationship here has a lot of issues, but I wanted to make it clear that that wasn't the fault of the BDSM.
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... WOW. I'm a sucker for hurt/comfort fics of any kind, but this is so complicated and tense and amazing and ugh. Enjoyed this to the point that I bookmarked it as "Glorious PAIN"
Also: Jealous. Of your writing skills.
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