Sex Can Wait: Masturbate!
To those of you who asked when the next chapter of Sleep Madness would be up, the answer is... NOW!
Title: Sex Can Wait: Masturbate! (Sleep Madness series: 7/?)
Author: Yours truly
Fandom: The Daily Show.
Pairing: Jon/Stephen
Rating: R or NC-17 (I don’t know, I suck at ratings) for language and, well, the touching of unmentionable man-bits.
Warning: This is still either AU or... the future! Also, the angst continues but it gets happy…er.
A/N: So this is longer (actually, it’s the longest chapter thus far) and, uh, yeah. As many of you know, writing anything remotely sexual is very difficult for me. I tried my best. Also: writing arguments seems to be difficult as well. This = lame but whatever. I just hope it’s convincing. Also also: I don’t know why I chose that title. I guess because of my undying love of Will Ferrell and Cheri Oteri? Yeah. We’ll blame them. And the fact that it’s late and I’m punchy.
Length: 5483
Feedback: Always welcome with open arms and loads of metaphorical cookies.
Previous Chapters:
Sleep Madness
Vanderbilts are Like the Jedi
Bachelorhood
Like Brokeback Mountain... Only Gayer
Friend is a Four-Letter Word
What Doesn't Kill You
Summary: Jon and Stephen’s newfound awkwardness comes to a breaking point when Jon gets some shocking news.*
*I would like the apologize for the lameness of this summary. Just read it, people.
SEX CAN WAIT: MASTURBATE!
“We’re getting married.”
I blink at the wall. “What?”
“Bill and I are getting married.”
“What?”
Tracey sighs. “Jon.”
I rub my eyes. “Sorry. Just… this is a little bit of a shocker. It’s been less than, what, a year?”
I can hear Tracey shift over the phone, fabric rubbing against fabric. “Yeah.”
“Well, uh, I guess congratulations?”
She makes a noise like she’s uncomfortable. Good. “Look, I’m so sorry to just spring this on you but I wanted you to know as soon as possible.”
“As soon as possible…. What, did he like just propose or something?”
There’s a pause. Oh God. “Yeah.”
“Wow.” I cough into my fist. “Uh, so, when’s the big day?”
“December.”
“December. That’s… soon.”
“It’s still a few months.”
“Right.”
We sit in awkward silence for a moment, my breath seeming to come out in loud harsh bursts into the phone. I angle it away from my mouth and rub my eyes again. “So, a winter wedding. That’ll be…” I let out a mirthless laugh, “pretty.”
She’s silent again. Should I say something? Is it my job to say something? I’m pretty sure she should be the one to talk next but I’m not sure how to say that without sounding like a total ass.
“There’s something else, Jon. That we need to talk about.”
“Oh?” I’m still pretty hung up on the first something.
“It’s about Bill.”
“Oh?”
“He’s got a job offer.”
The blood drains from my face, all feeling leaving my fingers as they grip the phone tighter. “Oh? Where?”
“…England. Back in England.”
“England?” My voice is hushed-barely a whisper-yet it burns in my ears.
“Yeah. He wants me to come with him.”
“England?” I say it again only this time my voice is raised, the heat of my words making my eyes water. “England? Why the fuck does he have to go to England?”
“Jon, calm down-"
“What the fuck, Tracey? You call me, what, two seconds after he proposes, not even a year after our divorce, and tell me you’re going to marry him and go to fucking England? What about the kids?”
“Jon, we would-we would work something out, it’s not-"
“What, are you going to take them to England?”
“That’s one option, but-"
“Holy shit, Tracey, I cannot believe this-"
“For the love of FUCK, Jon! Will you let me fucking finish?” We both fall silent, our breathing ragged on both ends. “I did not call you to rub this in your face, I did not call you to freak you out, I just wanted to-to tell you so that this wouldn’t come as a shock and-"
“Well, fuck that, because whether or not you intended to do any of those things you most certainly should have realized that I would feel that way. You should have fucking realized it, Tracey.”
She’s breathing harder now and I can hear she’s near tears. I used to hate to make her cry but now I’m getting some sick satisfaction out of it, her hitched breath making something hard and dark in me smile. “I’m sorry Jon, I’m sorry. I…” She trails off and I can hear it, that tightening noise in her throat, the sound that she would make when she would get mad. Like, really angry. “Look.” Her voice is stronger now, clipped, but still wavering in emotion. “Jon, I know you’re miserable right now but that’s no reason to fly off the handle at me.”
“I’m not fucking-"
Her harsh laugh cuts me off. “You fucking are. You and your goddamn temper. Just because I’ve found happiness and moved on-"
“Oh, so, sleeping around on me during our marriage is moving on?”
“Our marriage was a sham! You’ve sunk so far into yourself that you can’t even see that! You are such a selfish son of a bitch that you’re justifying locking yourself away, becoming a fucking hermit, with the fact that I hurt you. Sometimes people will hurt you, Jon. You can’t let it fucking cripple you and I’m not going to take your bullshit if you can’t see that so take your daddy issues someplace else because I am so fucking tired of it.”
“Daddy issues? Daddy issues?”
“Yeah, Jon. Just because you’re afraid of ending up miserable and alone like your father doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me.”
With that, I’m hurling the phone at the wall and watching with that same sick satisfaction as it explodes into a million little pieces. The air rushes around me, my vision black and my head dizzy and pounding. The room is pulses around me, my heart racing at a dangerous rate.
I wonder for a moment if I’m having a heart attack but decide that, no, it’s just panic. Full-blown panic. See, even after a divorce, the poor sucker that was still invested in the relationship until the very end never really gets un-invested in the relationship. There’s always that small, stupid hope that something will change, some perspective will shift, and that the person who had long since given up would love them again. And then that poor, dumbass sucker gets totally side blinded when the person they loved moves on. Gets over it.
See, I’m the sucker. I’m a fucking sucker.
I’m out the door before I can even process it, something like rage and maybe even tears blurring my vision as I bang my way through the apartment. I search blindly for another door, any door, and surprise myself when I find myself in the bathroom, not outside. Unthinking, I lock the door behind me and stand before the mirror above the sink.
A stranger stares back.
A sob mingled with a roar rips out of me and I punch blindly at the mirror, pulling my hand away as the broken glass cuts my knuckles and spreads red across the ceramic sink. Fingers trembling and knees shaking, I stumble to the shower-that place of solitude, my fucking refuge-and turn it on, nearly throwing myself inside. Once I’m there, the water turns warm, flowing over my shoulders and washing away my anger. All that’s left is a pathetic urge to cry.
So I sink to the floor of the shower and let my tears mingle with the spray, my whole body shuddering as I try to control myself.
I can’t. I can’t control myself. I can’t just like I can’t control anything else.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I’m sinking lower, lower than the floor, into some black hole down the drain when a loud crash fills my ears. As I look up, I see that the door has been broken through, splinters flying with the lock ripped out of the wall. And then there he is. Standing there. He’s wild-eyed and looks panic-stricken; his eyes flit to where I am and then to the sink dotted with blood before going back to me, his chest rising and falling erratically. A detached part of me worries that he’ll give himself a heart attack. Of course, that part of me also wonders how much water I’m wasting and if blood can stain ceramic. So we just stare at each other for what seems like an eternity.
But then he jerks forward, his movements almost like a stop-motion cartoon as he halts and lurches and freezes - eyes uncertain and darting over my form as he looks unsure of what to do. Seeming to make a decision, he pushes himself into the shower and falls to his knees before me, joining me under the spray.
Our eyes lock for a second, his gaze scared, mine… who the fuck knows. All I can do is tilt my head a bit and murmur, “Hey.” It sounds like somebody else.
Stephen still looks like he’s having difficulty breathing. “Shit, Jon,” he finally says, his voice shaking. “I… I thought…”
“What,” I ask, my voice sounding cold and distant even to me. “That I killed myself?”
The look Stephen gives me stops me in my tracks; the way his eyes darken almost puts the fear of God himself in me. “Don’t.” I have to look away. “Just, just don’t. Don’t even fucking joke about that.” He’s silent for a moment and I steal a glance at him again. “You scared me.” My eyes drop to the drain, the water there swirling, swirling, swirling. “Jon… what the fuck? I heard you yelling on the phone. What happened?”
Oh, Goddammit. The tears are starting again. I swallow one, two, three times and can’t fight it as my eyes well, the tears spilling over. Maybe Stephen will just think my face is wet from the shower.
“Tracey… she’s getting married. To Bill. The fucking h-horse g-guy.” Okay, there’s no tricking him now since I’m openly sobbing.
He looks bewildered for a moment (I’ve never gone beyond dignified, manly tears with him before, not this wild weeping that I don’t think I’ve done since I was six) but then his face crumples into this sympathetic look that just makes me cry harder. “F-fuck,” I gasp, banging myself in the head. “I can’t…”
Stephen grabs the hand I’m hitting myself with and inspects it. His glasses are starting to fog now, the lenses dotted with drops of water and his hair looks damp. He’s not completely soaked like I am since he’s not under the main part of the spray.
“Oh, God,” he murmurs, looking at my cut and bleeding knuckles. “Well, this is gonna need some Neosporin.”
This makes me laugh only it’s still kind of like a sob so I hiccup which only makes me laugh/cry some more. Stephen smiles, something aching in his eyes. “Know what else?” I ask once I’ve calmed down a bit. “Know what fucking else? She wants to go to England! Fucking move there. With Bill. The horse guy. With my children.” I pound the side of the shower with my battered fist, feeling a satisfying pain as it stings. Stephen doesn’t stop me. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckitty fuck.”
He puts a hand over his forehead as his eyes slip closed. “Shit.” His voice is soft and disturbed. He looks my way again, eyes intense. I close mine in response. “This can be okay, Jon. You’ll… Tracey isn’t unreasonable, I’m sure things just got heated and you both got mad. This isn’t hopeless.”
I bounce my head against the wall. “Of course it is. It’s fucking hopeless because that’s-that’s how things work now. I fucking fail at everything-"
“God, you do not, Jon. You’re one of the best, most talented people I’ve ever met.”
Hollow fucking praise. “No, Stephen. I failed at my marriage, my kids barely see me anymore because I live in this shithole and you… you…” I start crying again, not even bothering to feel pathetic. “You hate me.”
Stephen gapes. “What the hell? What are you talking about?”
“I, I fucking jumped you and now you’re moving and it’s all my fault-"
“JON.” Stephen’s leaning forward now, letting himself get soaked, his wife beater clinging to his skin and his hair sticking to his forehead as he takes my shoulders in his hands. Their warmth soaks through to my wet skin and my breath hitches. “What? How is that your fault? I thought…” He trails off and a strange look passes over his face. He doesn’t remove his hands from me. I can’t decide if I’m glad.
“You thought what?”
“I had just assumed…”
“What?”
His expression shifts, like he’s trying not to smile and cry at the same time. “I thought it was, well, me. My fault.”
I shut my eyes and let the water continue to run over me. “God, you’re so selfless sometimes that it’s ridiculous. I know it’s my fault Stephen…”
His hands tighten and I resist the urge to reopen my eyes. “Shut up, Jon. You were the drunk one, I mean…”
“No, but, I-I pushed you against the door and-"
Stephen shakes me and I open my eyes to look at him. “Seriously. Shut up, Jon. This…” he almost starts to chuckle, looking baffled but sad yet almost happy all at once. It’s confusing just to look at; I can’t imagine what’s going on in his head right now. “This is the stupidest argument, like, ever.”
I nod but still feel responsible-it’s still my burden and I’m still the one who fucked up royally. Because I did, didn’t I? My eyes slip closed again and I feel a lump rising in my throat. My words are hushed as I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I hear air huff out of Stephen’s nose, the only other sounds being the fall of water and my own struggling breaths. But my breathing stops when I feel myself enveloped by warmth as Stephen’s arms wrap around me, pulling me against him. Our chests press together and both of us take an irregular breath; his pulse beats against my temple as I rest my head against shoulder, my forehead pressing into his neck. We don’t move for a moment-I revel in the touch, realizing just how long it’s been since we’ve done anything like this. That he’s let himself be affectionate towards me at all. No accidental brushing of the shoulders, no leaning into each other, no decidedly heterosexual hand-grabbing. Just us, floating around each other, afraid of contact in case it jostles something out of place and makes us combust.
God, I’ve missed it.
I can’t tell if I’m shaking or he’s shaking… maybe we both are-it doesn’t matter. His arm muscles jump and twitch where they touch me, his jaw moving against my hair as he clenches and unclenches it. But we just let ourselves hug; his breath cold where it lands on my wet neck and our bodies angled awkwardly. On the floor. In a shower. Completely soaked.
I feel something shift in me and my panic flares up anew, only this time it’s a different sort of panic as I feel my body react to our close proximity. Shit. Something might happen if I don’t-
My muscles are poised to pull away when he leans back, his hands sliding up to my biceps and then down to my elbows as he regards me. His fingers are long and slightly calloused, his face intense and within inches of mine. We’re close-almost uncomfortably so. We both take short, hasty breaths, eyes locked and something burns in my chest. His gaze flicks down-it’s just a fraction of a second-and I realize with a jolt that he’s looking at my lips. My lips. Then his eyes are back on mine and there’s that question, the one I thought I had imagined that night at the hotel…
Oh. Holy. Shit.
I can’t fucking move. I think I’ve been stupefied into paralysis. Deer in the headlights, if you will. My mouth is dry so I swallow, my eyes unable to shift from looking at him as I blink the water away. The fingers on my arms flex and he clenches his jaw as he lets out a stream of air from his nose.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs and, in one fell swoop, he puts his hands on the sides of my head to bring my face foreword and press his lips against mine.
We’re kissing. Holy fucking Christ. We’re actually kissing. His mouth is hot and he gasps against me, my own breath catching in my throat as we clutch each other closer. The water is getting colder now, the contrast between it and his scalding touch making something spark and fracture in my chest, the sensation causing me to shudder. His hands cup my head, carding through my wet hair, and mine drift up to fist his soaked shirt between my fingers. But it’s not like before-it’s not desperate and needy and, well, drunk. It’s something else. He’s slow and I’m slow as our mouths open against each other, allowing entrance-nothing’s numb and it’s like it’s some sort of build-up, like we’ve been waiting forever but now, now, we have all the time in the fucking world to see how this goes. I can’t think, I can’t breathe-all I can do is pour myself into him and hope it’s okay.
He pulls back again and we pant against each other. His eyes are closed and he has a small smile on his face. I can’t stop staring, however awkward it is to do so this close. “What…?”
He opens his eyes and chuckles, the puffs of air tickling my face. “I guess that-the other time I mean-was both of us then, huh? Both our faults.”
I rub a hand across my forehead. How fucking long has this been a reality I’ve ignored? For how long did I put this off just because I couldn’t see it right in from of my face? “I’m an idiot,” I breathe.
“No, I think we’re both idiots.” I giggle which in turn causes him to giggle and a giddiness fills me that makes me feel like I am in fact drunk.
I sober for a moment and shake my head. “No, just, seriously, sorry for-“
Stephen leans his forehead against mine, his glasses askew, lips red, and damp locks of hair hanging into his eyes. Seeing him like this, looking all wet and wanton and like nothing I would have thought I would ever find attractive, I realize just how fucking gay I am for this man. You know what’s more shocking? I’m completely fine with it. Then he smiles like a sunrise and warmth flows out of my heart to flood my whole body.
“Jonathan Stewart,” he says, his lips forming the words against mine, “please shut the fuck up.”
I’m not sure how we make it to the hallway-it’s all stumbles and murmured 'sorry's as we bang into every surface on the way, his hands pressing into my chest, my arms, my back, my ass. I do the same only less coherently; I’m over-stimulated and shaking all over from the cold of being so wet in my chilly apartment and from something else entirely, an emotion that’s making my heart race and my head swim. He stops us against yet another wall, lips at my neck, hands at my waist, chest, stomach, wrists-bracing me there and shoving his leg between mine as we moan as one. I’m overwhelmed with it, the smell and the feel of him rocking against me, half-hard, pushing me as I push back. He can’t seem to still his hands as they roam my body, my hands steady as they hang onto the sides of his head and anchor us by keeping our mouths connected, our tongues rubbing in heady strokes.
I push us off the wall, knowing I need to move unless I want to end up jerking him off against a wall-okay, so that’s not a bad thought, put that one away for later-but the bedroom is my goal. As I push us from the wall it sends us stumbling backwards, the backs of Stephen’s knees connecting with the edge of the sofa. He mutters a string of curses against my mouth but laughs, wincing as I pull away to make sure he’s all right. He just grins, his eyes looking at me through their lashes, his hair still sticking to his forehead. Oh shit, his glasses got lost in the scuffle somehow and his bare face looks younger than usual. But I decide that, really, we can find them later because while the fever-pitch has died down for the moment, his one hand has come to rest on my waist while the other is on my shoulder, his thumb making consecutive circles on the wet cloth. It drifts down and his palm glides over one of my nipples and I jump at the touch-I’ve forgotten that the cold has made them so, er, sensitive and I fight the embarrassment I feel as I gasp at it. Stephen notices, a wicked smile crossing his face as he flicks the sensitive spot with his thumb.
“Fuck,” I hiss, batting his hand away and sending him a (hopefully) admonishing look. He just grins all the more, his eyes twinkling in a way that sends a jolt right to my groin. He leans in to mouth my neck again. He finds a sensitive place right below my jawline where-Oh holy mother of God-my pulse races, his tongue massaging there as my hands spider-walk their way up his arms to grip his shoulders.
“Stephen,” I gasp, my fingers tensing. He growls in response against my neck and I can’t help but thrust against him. “Stephen. We… we need to-Jesus fuck, man, I always knew you had an oral fixation but this is-nnngh…”
He laughs against me, all throaty and deep and I try not to moan as I feel the vibrations roll over me. Lifting his head the slightest bit, I can feel his grin on my ear as he whispers, “I don’t think that’s a word, Jon.”
“You’re such an a-asshole.” I’m trying to sound indignant but it’s hard when he does that to my ear and I’m breaking off to groan his name. Shit, now I’ll just be jerking him off here instead of against the wall… again, not a bad idea but yeah. Not right now. Later. For now: bedroom. “Seriously, Stephen, if we don’t move this to the bedroom I’m going to fucking come on the back of the couch.”
He actually pulls back to laugh at that, fingers leaving my shoulders to pinch the bridge of his nose as he giggles. Our hips are still pressed together and I try to not shove against him any harder. “Jon Stewart: hopeless romantic.”
Heat rises to my cheeks and I roll my eyes. “Seriously, dude. I’m fucking freezing. Also, I’m pretty sure this is not a decent way for middle-aged men to behave.”
Stephen’s hands are then at the sides of my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones and his eyes dancing as he says, “Maybe that’s why it’s so fun.”
I bite back a groan and manage to look him in the eye as a feral heat burns in me. He looks surprised, taken off-guard even, but the way his breathing hitches makes me think that he just might like it.
“Bedroom,” I growl. “Now.”
Stephen’s face splits into a smile and fireworks explode in my brain.
Getting to the bedroom might be an even bigger mystery than getting into the hallway was. I try to remember who grabbed who first and dragged us there as I stand in the middle my room, still wet, Stephen’s hands cupping my neck as he kisses me deeply-possessively---my fingers digging into his sides as I hang on. His hands scrabble at the bottom of my shirt, his brow knit in concentration as he struggles to get the wet cloth off of me.
“Too many clothes,” he grunts, trying to pull the t-shirt over my head and getting it caught on my nose.
I can see he’s about to apologize when I wave it off. “Don’t worry, stupid thing gets in the way all the time. Curse of the Jews, you know?” My words are rushed and I wonder why I’m suddenly feeling so nervous.
That’s when I realize it… I haven’t had sex with anyone since Tracey and I certainly haven’t tried to have first-time sex with anyone since that time long ago when I was at least sort of attractive naked. Self-consciousness makes me fold my arms across my chest as Stephen removes his own wife beater.
He squints at me, his eyes looking a little unfocused due to his lack of glasses. It’s stupidly endearing and something in me tingles. “What’s wrong?” he asks, fingers brushing my shoulder.
“Nothing.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Seriously.” He arches an eyebrow and I roll my eyes, trying to cover how flustered I’m getting. “I… I’m flabby, okay? Love handles and that shit. So I’m just being, you know, me and getting weird about it and-“
Stephen cuts me off by stepping forward, hands gripping my wrists and unfolding my arms so that he can run his fingers down my chest. My breath catches and I have to avert my eyes as feelings-emotions-well up, becoming too intense to the point that I can’t look at him anymore. He takes another step forward, wrapping his arms loosely around me in a way that’s so familiar yet so different due to the circumstances. I feel myself relax in his embrace.
“You’re beautiful, Jon.”
I snort into his shoulder. “You’re sweet. Full of shit, but sweet.”
He trails light kisses up my neck and into my hair, breathing into it. “I think I’m going to have to kick your ass for being so self-deprecating.”
“I can’t help it,” I mutter, voice low.
“I know. It’s just one more reason why I love you.”
We both still at that moment, Stephen’s body tensing. He pulls away a half-second, his eyes wary as he seems to be scared that he’s freaked me out. So I offer him a small smile, trying to say ‘thank you’ with my eyes and am relieved when he visibly relaxes. I lean forward and place my lips against his, opening my mouth immediately and letting him rub his tongue against mine again as we slowly back up in search of the bed. Without warning I hit the side, causing us to both fall with him landing on top of me.
I gasp as his full weight causes our erections to be pressed between us, pleasant sensations flashing through me. He whispers a breathless ‘sorry’ while attempting to brace himself on his elbows before I yank his head back down to kiss me again. The bed is uncomfortable in our wet boxers and I break away to pant against him.
“This underwear, the boxers, they-they need to go,” I mutter.
He nods and pulls his off before yanking mine down as I lift my hips to assist him. Stephen lets out a long stream of air from between his teeth as he presses back against me, our skin a mingled sensation of hot and cold where the wet clothing had been, the rubbing of our exposed bodies causing me to let out a strangled moan.
“Oh, God…” I mumble against his neck, too overwhelmed to continue kissing.
Then he’s rocking his hips and I’m rocking mine only it’s more like I’m jerking, my body tensing under him as I start to chant a steady mantra of, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He’s kissing my hair, my eyelids, my lips, the warmth and sparks from before melding together, making my knees shake and my back arch against him.
“Jon… Jon, what do you want? What do you want me to do?” His voice is scratchy and catches against my ear. I don’t know why he feels the need to take charge-he really doesn’t have to. But I realize that I’m shaking and overwhelmed and completely out of my depth. To my surprise, I kind of want to be taken care of. I need to be taken care of. Stephen… Stephen can do that.
“Just-just touch me, okay?” I manage to say. “Just please touch me. Please, Stephen.”
He nods and moves our bodies apart enough that he can reach between us, grabbing me and running his hand down my shaft. My body tenses, my head going back as I let out a stream of garbled curses. He does it again, only he leans in and kisses me deeply at the same time, my mind shorting out as I moan against him. Head leaning to the left, he leaves breathless kisses on my neck, mouthing that sensitive area under my jaw again as I twist against him. His mouth comes to rest by my ear.
“Jon,” he grunts, his throat sounding raw. “Jon, I could hear you. Every time I could hear you when you jerked off in the shower.” I’m beginning to see stars behind my eyelids, a groan grating out of me. “I could hear you and I’d listen, fuck, I’d listen every time and wish, just wish and fucking wonder if maybe you were thinking about me.” He squeezes harder and whispers, “Were you thinking of me? Did you think of me Jon?” I nod wordlessly. “Good, because every time I touch myself I think of you too.”
The stars explode and I’m coming, the orgasm rolling over me in waves as my toes curl and I chant, “Oh God,” over and over, my hands on Stephen’s shoulders flexing as I ride it out. All I see is the blackness of my eyelids as the inside of my mind roars, sensations crashing over me. Then I’m floating back again, my senses returning though I’m trembling all over-shaking like a leaf. He’s smoothing soothing hands all over me as he waits for me to recover. I don’t need to. Without thinking, I reach between us to where he’s still hard and hot against me.
“Holy shit,” he chokes, something like a laugh escaping him. “You-you bounce back-Oh God-fast…” He’s trying to retain some sort of composure but I know I’m a pro at this-hell, I know from personal experience that I’m a pro-and he’s soon not able to form coherent sentences. He says something about being impressed because usually he just falls asleep right after but, hey, you are an insomniac Jon, but-God, touch me there again-and I should have known you’d be good at this, you do it enough yourself and-shit, please don’t stop.
I wonder to myself if he ever shuts up (I mean, I really wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t) when his words cut off completely only to be replaced by groans and grunts and small needy noises that make my heart jump into my throat. I press my thumb at the base of the head before flicking the slit again when he tenses, his head dropping to his chest as he comes, eyes screwed shut and teeth biting his lower lip. He takes a halting breath and shudders again before falling onto one elbow to half lay on me and his side.
A moment passes before his eyes open slowly to look at me, still as unfocused as before. Feeling a little shy, I flash him a hesitant smile which he returns. Propping himself up, he inspects the mess we’ve made.
“Lovely,” he mutters, running his hand over his stomach and making a face. I mirror his expression.
“Well, glad we just ruined the comforter so we don’t have to change the sheets and can just go to bed,” I say, inspecting the rest of the damage.
“You…” Stephen trails off, his expression tentative. “You want me to sleep here?”
I try to look nonchalant. “Well, if you want to, then yeah. Of course.”
That grin blooms across his face again and he leans in to give me a searching kiss, leaving me breathless when he pulls away.
“Wait here one sec,” he whispers before hopping off the bed and disappearing out of the room.
My eyes droop and it seems like it’s only a moment later that something cold and wet touches my stomach. Eyes flying open, I almost sit up but a hand holds me to the bed. “What the fuck?” I gasp.
Stephen stands in front of me, washcloth in hand as he wipes me clean, an affectionate look on his face. “Figured I’d make it a less, uh, sticky situation in the morning.”
“Mmm hmm,” I mumble, my eyes slipping closed again as the washcloth becomes less cold and more soothing, Stephen caressing me to sleep.
I’m almost entirely gone when he shakes my shoulder a bit, murmuring something about needing to get into the bed itself. He guides me as he pulls back the covers, slipping inside after me and fitting tight against my back. He breathes into my hair, arms wrapping around my middle.
I’m drifting off when his drowsy voice whispers, “I like the lovehandles. You’re all squishy when I hug you.”
I snort. “You’re an asshole.” The accusation lacks any conviction.
“I know.” I’m almost asleep when he adds, “I like it cuz this way you have more cushion for the pushin’.”
The last thing I do is laugh, feeling his smile against my neck as I lose myself to sleep.
END.
*Endnote: So there you have it. Frankly, I’m exhausted because I worked on this for about 5 hours with finishing it and editing it. I hope it doesn’t blow because I wouldn’t be able to tell if it did. I also can't tell if the tone is all whacko and all over the place... I would just proofread it again and post it tomorrow but I think if I have to review this one more time I will actually shoot myself in the face. There will either be one final chapter and an epilogue or a fantastical mashing of a final chapter PLUS an epilogue all in one little bundle of joy.
As always, comment and friend if you want!
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Any mention of 'The Daily Show', 'The Colbert Report', 'Viacom', any associated entities, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.
Title: Sex Can Wait: Masturbate! (Sleep Madness series: 7/?)
Author: Yours truly
Fandom: The Daily Show.
Pairing: Jon/Stephen
Rating: R or NC-17 (I don’t know, I suck at ratings) for language and, well, the touching of unmentionable man-bits.
Warning: This is still either AU or... the future! Also, the angst continues but it gets happy…er.
A/N: So this is longer (actually, it’s the longest chapter thus far) and, uh, yeah. As many of you know, writing anything remotely sexual is very difficult for me. I tried my best. Also: writing arguments seems to be difficult as well. This = lame but whatever. I just hope it’s convincing. Also also: I don’t know why I chose that title. I guess because of my undying love of Will Ferrell and Cheri Oteri? Yeah. We’ll blame them. And the fact that it’s late and I’m punchy.
Length: 5483
Feedback: Always welcome with open arms and loads of metaphorical cookies.
Previous Chapters:
Sleep Madness
Vanderbilts are Like the Jedi
Bachelorhood
Like Brokeback Mountain... Only Gayer
Friend is a Four-Letter Word
What Doesn't Kill You
Summary: Jon and Stephen’s newfound awkwardness comes to a breaking point when Jon gets some shocking news.*
*I would like the apologize for the lameness of this summary. Just read it, people.
SEX CAN WAIT: MASTURBATE!
“We’re getting married.”
I blink at the wall. “What?”
“Bill and I are getting married.”
“What?”
Tracey sighs. “Jon.”
I rub my eyes. “Sorry. Just… this is a little bit of a shocker. It’s been less than, what, a year?”
I can hear Tracey shift over the phone, fabric rubbing against fabric. “Yeah.”
“Well, uh, I guess congratulations?”
She makes a noise like she’s uncomfortable. Good. “Look, I’m so sorry to just spring this on you but I wanted you to know as soon as possible.”
“As soon as possible…. What, did he like just propose or something?”
There’s a pause. Oh God. “Yeah.”
“Wow.” I cough into my fist. “Uh, so, when’s the big day?”
“December.”
“December. That’s… soon.”
“It’s still a few months.”
“Right.”
We sit in awkward silence for a moment, my breath seeming to come out in loud harsh bursts into the phone. I angle it away from my mouth and rub my eyes again. “So, a winter wedding. That’ll be…” I let out a mirthless laugh, “pretty.”
She’s silent again. Should I say something? Is it my job to say something? I’m pretty sure she should be the one to talk next but I’m not sure how to say that without sounding like a total ass.
“There’s something else, Jon. That we need to talk about.”
“Oh?” I’m still pretty hung up on the first something.
“It’s about Bill.”
“Oh?”
“He’s got a job offer.”
The blood drains from my face, all feeling leaving my fingers as they grip the phone tighter. “Oh? Where?”
“…England. Back in England.”
“England?” My voice is hushed-barely a whisper-yet it burns in my ears.
“Yeah. He wants me to come with him.”
“England?” I say it again only this time my voice is raised, the heat of my words making my eyes water. “England? Why the fuck does he have to go to England?”
“Jon, calm down-"
“What the fuck, Tracey? You call me, what, two seconds after he proposes, not even a year after our divorce, and tell me you’re going to marry him and go to fucking England? What about the kids?”
“Jon, we would-we would work something out, it’s not-"
“What, are you going to take them to England?”
“That’s one option, but-"
“Holy shit, Tracey, I cannot believe this-"
“For the love of FUCK, Jon! Will you let me fucking finish?” We both fall silent, our breathing ragged on both ends. “I did not call you to rub this in your face, I did not call you to freak you out, I just wanted to-to tell you so that this wouldn’t come as a shock and-"
“Well, fuck that, because whether or not you intended to do any of those things you most certainly should have realized that I would feel that way. You should have fucking realized it, Tracey.”
She’s breathing harder now and I can hear she’s near tears. I used to hate to make her cry but now I’m getting some sick satisfaction out of it, her hitched breath making something hard and dark in me smile. “I’m sorry Jon, I’m sorry. I…” She trails off and I can hear it, that tightening noise in her throat, the sound that she would make when she would get mad. Like, really angry. “Look.” Her voice is stronger now, clipped, but still wavering in emotion. “Jon, I know you’re miserable right now but that’s no reason to fly off the handle at me.”
“I’m not fucking-"
Her harsh laugh cuts me off. “You fucking are. You and your goddamn temper. Just because I’ve found happiness and moved on-"
“Oh, so, sleeping around on me during our marriage is moving on?”
“Our marriage was a sham! You’ve sunk so far into yourself that you can’t even see that! You are such a selfish son of a bitch that you’re justifying locking yourself away, becoming a fucking hermit, with the fact that I hurt you. Sometimes people will hurt you, Jon. You can’t let it fucking cripple you and I’m not going to take your bullshit if you can’t see that so take your daddy issues someplace else because I am so fucking tired of it.”
“Daddy issues? Daddy issues?”
“Yeah, Jon. Just because you’re afraid of ending up miserable and alone like your father doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me.”
With that, I’m hurling the phone at the wall and watching with that same sick satisfaction as it explodes into a million little pieces. The air rushes around me, my vision black and my head dizzy and pounding. The room is pulses around me, my heart racing at a dangerous rate.
I wonder for a moment if I’m having a heart attack but decide that, no, it’s just panic. Full-blown panic. See, even after a divorce, the poor sucker that was still invested in the relationship until the very end never really gets un-invested in the relationship. There’s always that small, stupid hope that something will change, some perspective will shift, and that the person who had long since given up would love them again. And then that poor, dumbass sucker gets totally side blinded when the person they loved moves on. Gets over it.
See, I’m the sucker. I’m a fucking sucker.
I’m out the door before I can even process it, something like rage and maybe even tears blurring my vision as I bang my way through the apartment. I search blindly for another door, any door, and surprise myself when I find myself in the bathroom, not outside. Unthinking, I lock the door behind me and stand before the mirror above the sink.
A stranger stares back.
A sob mingled with a roar rips out of me and I punch blindly at the mirror, pulling my hand away as the broken glass cuts my knuckles and spreads red across the ceramic sink. Fingers trembling and knees shaking, I stumble to the shower-that place of solitude, my fucking refuge-and turn it on, nearly throwing myself inside. Once I’m there, the water turns warm, flowing over my shoulders and washing away my anger. All that’s left is a pathetic urge to cry.
So I sink to the floor of the shower and let my tears mingle with the spray, my whole body shuddering as I try to control myself.
I can’t. I can’t control myself. I can’t just like I can’t control anything else.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I’m sinking lower, lower than the floor, into some black hole down the drain when a loud crash fills my ears. As I look up, I see that the door has been broken through, splinters flying with the lock ripped out of the wall. And then there he is. Standing there. He’s wild-eyed and looks panic-stricken; his eyes flit to where I am and then to the sink dotted with blood before going back to me, his chest rising and falling erratically. A detached part of me worries that he’ll give himself a heart attack. Of course, that part of me also wonders how much water I’m wasting and if blood can stain ceramic. So we just stare at each other for what seems like an eternity.
But then he jerks forward, his movements almost like a stop-motion cartoon as he halts and lurches and freezes - eyes uncertain and darting over my form as he looks unsure of what to do. Seeming to make a decision, he pushes himself into the shower and falls to his knees before me, joining me under the spray.
Our eyes lock for a second, his gaze scared, mine… who the fuck knows. All I can do is tilt my head a bit and murmur, “Hey.” It sounds like somebody else.
Stephen still looks like he’s having difficulty breathing. “Shit, Jon,” he finally says, his voice shaking. “I… I thought…”
“What,” I ask, my voice sounding cold and distant even to me. “That I killed myself?”
The look Stephen gives me stops me in my tracks; the way his eyes darken almost puts the fear of God himself in me. “Don’t.” I have to look away. “Just, just don’t. Don’t even fucking joke about that.” He’s silent for a moment and I steal a glance at him again. “You scared me.” My eyes drop to the drain, the water there swirling, swirling, swirling. “Jon… what the fuck? I heard you yelling on the phone. What happened?”
Oh, Goddammit. The tears are starting again. I swallow one, two, three times and can’t fight it as my eyes well, the tears spilling over. Maybe Stephen will just think my face is wet from the shower.
“Tracey… she’s getting married. To Bill. The fucking h-horse g-guy.” Okay, there’s no tricking him now since I’m openly sobbing.
He looks bewildered for a moment (I’ve never gone beyond dignified, manly tears with him before, not this wild weeping that I don’t think I’ve done since I was six) but then his face crumples into this sympathetic look that just makes me cry harder. “F-fuck,” I gasp, banging myself in the head. “I can’t…”
Stephen grabs the hand I’m hitting myself with and inspects it. His glasses are starting to fog now, the lenses dotted with drops of water and his hair looks damp. He’s not completely soaked like I am since he’s not under the main part of the spray.
“Oh, God,” he murmurs, looking at my cut and bleeding knuckles. “Well, this is gonna need some Neosporin.”
This makes me laugh only it’s still kind of like a sob so I hiccup which only makes me laugh/cry some more. Stephen smiles, something aching in his eyes. “Know what else?” I ask once I’ve calmed down a bit. “Know what fucking else? She wants to go to England! Fucking move there. With Bill. The horse guy. With my children.” I pound the side of the shower with my battered fist, feeling a satisfying pain as it stings. Stephen doesn’t stop me. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckitty fuck.”
He puts a hand over his forehead as his eyes slip closed. “Shit.” His voice is soft and disturbed. He looks my way again, eyes intense. I close mine in response. “This can be okay, Jon. You’ll… Tracey isn’t unreasonable, I’m sure things just got heated and you both got mad. This isn’t hopeless.”
I bounce my head against the wall. “Of course it is. It’s fucking hopeless because that’s-that’s how things work now. I fucking fail at everything-"
“God, you do not, Jon. You’re one of the best, most talented people I’ve ever met.”
Hollow fucking praise. “No, Stephen. I failed at my marriage, my kids barely see me anymore because I live in this shithole and you… you…” I start crying again, not even bothering to feel pathetic. “You hate me.”
Stephen gapes. “What the hell? What are you talking about?”
“I, I fucking jumped you and now you’re moving and it’s all my fault-"
“JON.” Stephen’s leaning forward now, letting himself get soaked, his wife beater clinging to his skin and his hair sticking to his forehead as he takes my shoulders in his hands. Their warmth soaks through to my wet skin and my breath hitches. “What? How is that your fault? I thought…” He trails off and a strange look passes over his face. He doesn’t remove his hands from me. I can’t decide if I’m glad.
“You thought what?”
“I had just assumed…”
“What?”
His expression shifts, like he’s trying not to smile and cry at the same time. “I thought it was, well, me. My fault.”
I shut my eyes and let the water continue to run over me. “God, you’re so selfless sometimes that it’s ridiculous. I know it’s my fault Stephen…”
His hands tighten and I resist the urge to reopen my eyes. “Shut up, Jon. You were the drunk one, I mean…”
“No, but, I-I pushed you against the door and-"
Stephen shakes me and I open my eyes to look at him. “Seriously. Shut up, Jon. This…” he almost starts to chuckle, looking baffled but sad yet almost happy all at once. It’s confusing just to look at; I can’t imagine what’s going on in his head right now. “This is the stupidest argument, like, ever.”
I nod but still feel responsible-it’s still my burden and I’m still the one who fucked up royally. Because I did, didn’t I? My eyes slip closed again and I feel a lump rising in my throat. My words are hushed as I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I hear air huff out of Stephen’s nose, the only other sounds being the fall of water and my own struggling breaths. But my breathing stops when I feel myself enveloped by warmth as Stephen’s arms wrap around me, pulling me against him. Our chests press together and both of us take an irregular breath; his pulse beats against my temple as I rest my head against shoulder, my forehead pressing into his neck. We don’t move for a moment-I revel in the touch, realizing just how long it’s been since we’ve done anything like this. That he’s let himself be affectionate towards me at all. No accidental brushing of the shoulders, no leaning into each other, no decidedly heterosexual hand-grabbing. Just us, floating around each other, afraid of contact in case it jostles something out of place and makes us combust.
God, I’ve missed it.
I can’t tell if I’m shaking or he’s shaking… maybe we both are-it doesn’t matter. His arm muscles jump and twitch where they touch me, his jaw moving against my hair as he clenches and unclenches it. But we just let ourselves hug; his breath cold where it lands on my wet neck and our bodies angled awkwardly. On the floor. In a shower. Completely soaked.
I feel something shift in me and my panic flares up anew, only this time it’s a different sort of panic as I feel my body react to our close proximity. Shit. Something might happen if I don’t-
My muscles are poised to pull away when he leans back, his hands sliding up to my biceps and then down to my elbows as he regards me. His fingers are long and slightly calloused, his face intense and within inches of mine. We’re close-almost uncomfortably so. We both take short, hasty breaths, eyes locked and something burns in my chest. His gaze flicks down-it’s just a fraction of a second-and I realize with a jolt that he’s looking at my lips. My lips. Then his eyes are back on mine and there’s that question, the one I thought I had imagined that night at the hotel…
Oh. Holy. Shit.
I can’t fucking move. I think I’ve been stupefied into paralysis. Deer in the headlights, if you will. My mouth is dry so I swallow, my eyes unable to shift from looking at him as I blink the water away. The fingers on my arms flex and he clenches his jaw as he lets out a stream of air from his nose.
“Fuck it,” he murmurs and, in one fell swoop, he puts his hands on the sides of my head to bring my face foreword and press his lips against mine.
We’re kissing. Holy fucking Christ. We’re actually kissing. His mouth is hot and he gasps against me, my own breath catching in my throat as we clutch each other closer. The water is getting colder now, the contrast between it and his scalding touch making something spark and fracture in my chest, the sensation causing me to shudder. His hands cup my head, carding through my wet hair, and mine drift up to fist his soaked shirt between my fingers. But it’s not like before-it’s not desperate and needy and, well, drunk. It’s something else. He’s slow and I’m slow as our mouths open against each other, allowing entrance-nothing’s numb and it’s like it’s some sort of build-up, like we’ve been waiting forever but now, now, we have all the time in the fucking world to see how this goes. I can’t think, I can’t breathe-all I can do is pour myself into him and hope it’s okay.
He pulls back again and we pant against each other. His eyes are closed and he has a small smile on his face. I can’t stop staring, however awkward it is to do so this close. “What…?”
He opens his eyes and chuckles, the puffs of air tickling my face. “I guess that-the other time I mean-was both of us then, huh? Both our faults.”
I rub a hand across my forehead. How fucking long has this been a reality I’ve ignored? For how long did I put this off just because I couldn’t see it right in from of my face? “I’m an idiot,” I breathe.
“No, I think we’re both idiots.” I giggle which in turn causes him to giggle and a giddiness fills me that makes me feel like I am in fact drunk.
I sober for a moment and shake my head. “No, just, seriously, sorry for-“
Stephen leans his forehead against mine, his glasses askew, lips red, and damp locks of hair hanging into his eyes. Seeing him like this, looking all wet and wanton and like nothing I would have thought I would ever find attractive, I realize just how fucking gay I am for this man. You know what’s more shocking? I’m completely fine with it. Then he smiles like a sunrise and warmth flows out of my heart to flood my whole body.
“Jonathan Stewart,” he says, his lips forming the words against mine, “please shut the fuck up.”
I’m not sure how we make it to the hallway-it’s all stumbles and murmured 'sorry's as we bang into every surface on the way, his hands pressing into my chest, my arms, my back, my ass. I do the same only less coherently; I’m over-stimulated and shaking all over from the cold of being so wet in my chilly apartment and from something else entirely, an emotion that’s making my heart race and my head swim. He stops us against yet another wall, lips at my neck, hands at my waist, chest, stomach, wrists-bracing me there and shoving his leg between mine as we moan as one. I’m overwhelmed with it, the smell and the feel of him rocking against me, half-hard, pushing me as I push back. He can’t seem to still his hands as they roam my body, my hands steady as they hang onto the sides of his head and anchor us by keeping our mouths connected, our tongues rubbing in heady strokes.
I push us off the wall, knowing I need to move unless I want to end up jerking him off against a wall-okay, so that’s not a bad thought, put that one away for later-but the bedroom is my goal. As I push us from the wall it sends us stumbling backwards, the backs of Stephen’s knees connecting with the edge of the sofa. He mutters a string of curses against my mouth but laughs, wincing as I pull away to make sure he’s all right. He just grins, his eyes looking at me through their lashes, his hair still sticking to his forehead. Oh shit, his glasses got lost in the scuffle somehow and his bare face looks younger than usual. But I decide that, really, we can find them later because while the fever-pitch has died down for the moment, his one hand has come to rest on my waist while the other is on my shoulder, his thumb making consecutive circles on the wet cloth. It drifts down and his palm glides over one of my nipples and I jump at the touch-I’ve forgotten that the cold has made them so, er, sensitive and I fight the embarrassment I feel as I gasp at it. Stephen notices, a wicked smile crossing his face as he flicks the sensitive spot with his thumb.
“Fuck,” I hiss, batting his hand away and sending him a (hopefully) admonishing look. He just grins all the more, his eyes twinkling in a way that sends a jolt right to my groin. He leans in to mouth my neck again. He finds a sensitive place right below my jawline where-Oh holy mother of God-my pulse races, his tongue massaging there as my hands spider-walk their way up his arms to grip his shoulders.
“Stephen,” I gasp, my fingers tensing. He growls in response against my neck and I can’t help but thrust against him. “Stephen. We… we need to-Jesus fuck, man, I always knew you had an oral fixation but this is-nnngh…”
He laughs against me, all throaty and deep and I try not to moan as I feel the vibrations roll over me. Lifting his head the slightest bit, I can feel his grin on my ear as he whispers, “I don’t think that’s a word, Jon.”
“You’re such an a-asshole.” I’m trying to sound indignant but it’s hard when he does that to my ear and I’m breaking off to groan his name. Shit, now I’ll just be jerking him off here instead of against the wall… again, not a bad idea but yeah. Not right now. Later. For now: bedroom. “Seriously, Stephen, if we don’t move this to the bedroom I’m going to fucking come on the back of the couch.”
He actually pulls back to laugh at that, fingers leaving my shoulders to pinch the bridge of his nose as he giggles. Our hips are still pressed together and I try to not shove against him any harder. “Jon Stewart: hopeless romantic.”
Heat rises to my cheeks and I roll my eyes. “Seriously, dude. I’m fucking freezing. Also, I’m pretty sure this is not a decent way for middle-aged men to behave.”
Stephen’s hands are then at the sides of my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones and his eyes dancing as he says, “Maybe that’s why it’s so fun.”
I bite back a groan and manage to look him in the eye as a feral heat burns in me. He looks surprised, taken off-guard even, but the way his breathing hitches makes me think that he just might like it.
“Bedroom,” I growl. “Now.”
Stephen’s face splits into a smile and fireworks explode in my brain.
Getting to the bedroom might be an even bigger mystery than getting into the hallway was. I try to remember who grabbed who first and dragged us there as I stand in the middle my room, still wet, Stephen’s hands cupping my neck as he kisses me deeply-possessively---my fingers digging into his sides as I hang on. His hands scrabble at the bottom of my shirt, his brow knit in concentration as he struggles to get the wet cloth off of me.
“Too many clothes,” he grunts, trying to pull the t-shirt over my head and getting it caught on my nose.
I can see he’s about to apologize when I wave it off. “Don’t worry, stupid thing gets in the way all the time. Curse of the Jews, you know?” My words are rushed and I wonder why I’m suddenly feeling so nervous.
That’s when I realize it… I haven’t had sex with anyone since Tracey and I certainly haven’t tried to have first-time sex with anyone since that time long ago when I was at least sort of attractive naked. Self-consciousness makes me fold my arms across my chest as Stephen removes his own wife beater.
He squints at me, his eyes looking a little unfocused due to his lack of glasses. It’s stupidly endearing and something in me tingles. “What’s wrong?” he asks, fingers brushing my shoulder.
“Nothing.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Seriously.” He arches an eyebrow and I roll my eyes, trying to cover how flustered I’m getting. “I… I’m flabby, okay? Love handles and that shit. So I’m just being, you know, me and getting weird about it and-“
Stephen cuts me off by stepping forward, hands gripping my wrists and unfolding my arms so that he can run his fingers down my chest. My breath catches and I have to avert my eyes as feelings-emotions-well up, becoming too intense to the point that I can’t look at him anymore. He takes another step forward, wrapping his arms loosely around me in a way that’s so familiar yet so different due to the circumstances. I feel myself relax in his embrace.
“You’re beautiful, Jon.”
I snort into his shoulder. “You’re sweet. Full of shit, but sweet.”
He trails light kisses up my neck and into my hair, breathing into it. “I think I’m going to have to kick your ass for being so self-deprecating.”
“I can’t help it,” I mutter, voice low.
“I know. It’s just one more reason why I love you.”
We both still at that moment, Stephen’s body tensing. He pulls away a half-second, his eyes wary as he seems to be scared that he’s freaked me out. So I offer him a small smile, trying to say ‘thank you’ with my eyes and am relieved when he visibly relaxes. I lean forward and place my lips against his, opening my mouth immediately and letting him rub his tongue against mine again as we slowly back up in search of the bed. Without warning I hit the side, causing us to both fall with him landing on top of me.
I gasp as his full weight causes our erections to be pressed between us, pleasant sensations flashing through me. He whispers a breathless ‘sorry’ while attempting to brace himself on his elbows before I yank his head back down to kiss me again. The bed is uncomfortable in our wet boxers and I break away to pant against him.
“This underwear, the boxers, they-they need to go,” I mutter.
He nods and pulls his off before yanking mine down as I lift my hips to assist him. Stephen lets out a long stream of air from between his teeth as he presses back against me, our skin a mingled sensation of hot and cold where the wet clothing had been, the rubbing of our exposed bodies causing me to let out a strangled moan.
“Oh, God…” I mumble against his neck, too overwhelmed to continue kissing.
Then he’s rocking his hips and I’m rocking mine only it’s more like I’m jerking, my body tensing under him as I start to chant a steady mantra of, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He’s kissing my hair, my eyelids, my lips, the warmth and sparks from before melding together, making my knees shake and my back arch against him.
“Jon… Jon, what do you want? What do you want me to do?” His voice is scratchy and catches against my ear. I don’t know why he feels the need to take charge-he really doesn’t have to. But I realize that I’m shaking and overwhelmed and completely out of my depth. To my surprise, I kind of want to be taken care of. I need to be taken care of. Stephen… Stephen can do that.
“Just-just touch me, okay?” I manage to say. “Just please touch me. Please, Stephen.”
He nods and moves our bodies apart enough that he can reach between us, grabbing me and running his hand down my shaft. My body tenses, my head going back as I let out a stream of garbled curses. He does it again, only he leans in and kisses me deeply at the same time, my mind shorting out as I moan against him. Head leaning to the left, he leaves breathless kisses on my neck, mouthing that sensitive area under my jaw again as I twist against him. His mouth comes to rest by my ear.
“Jon,” he grunts, his throat sounding raw. “Jon, I could hear you. Every time I could hear you when you jerked off in the shower.” I’m beginning to see stars behind my eyelids, a groan grating out of me. “I could hear you and I’d listen, fuck, I’d listen every time and wish, just wish and fucking wonder if maybe you were thinking about me.” He squeezes harder and whispers, “Were you thinking of me? Did you think of me Jon?” I nod wordlessly. “Good, because every time I touch myself I think of you too.”
The stars explode and I’m coming, the orgasm rolling over me in waves as my toes curl and I chant, “Oh God,” over and over, my hands on Stephen’s shoulders flexing as I ride it out. All I see is the blackness of my eyelids as the inside of my mind roars, sensations crashing over me. Then I’m floating back again, my senses returning though I’m trembling all over-shaking like a leaf. He’s smoothing soothing hands all over me as he waits for me to recover. I don’t need to. Without thinking, I reach between us to where he’s still hard and hot against me.
“Holy shit,” he chokes, something like a laugh escaping him. “You-you bounce back-Oh God-fast…” He’s trying to retain some sort of composure but I know I’m a pro at this-hell, I know from personal experience that I’m a pro-and he’s soon not able to form coherent sentences. He says something about being impressed because usually he just falls asleep right after but, hey, you are an insomniac Jon, but-God, touch me there again-and I should have known you’d be good at this, you do it enough yourself and-shit, please don’t stop.
I wonder to myself if he ever shuts up (I mean, I really wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t) when his words cut off completely only to be replaced by groans and grunts and small needy noises that make my heart jump into my throat. I press my thumb at the base of the head before flicking the slit again when he tenses, his head dropping to his chest as he comes, eyes screwed shut and teeth biting his lower lip. He takes a halting breath and shudders again before falling onto one elbow to half lay on me and his side.
A moment passes before his eyes open slowly to look at me, still as unfocused as before. Feeling a little shy, I flash him a hesitant smile which he returns. Propping himself up, he inspects the mess we’ve made.
“Lovely,” he mutters, running his hand over his stomach and making a face. I mirror his expression.
“Well, glad we just ruined the comforter so we don’t have to change the sheets and can just go to bed,” I say, inspecting the rest of the damage.
“You…” Stephen trails off, his expression tentative. “You want me to sleep here?”
I try to look nonchalant. “Well, if you want to, then yeah. Of course.”
That grin blooms across his face again and he leans in to give me a searching kiss, leaving me breathless when he pulls away.
“Wait here one sec,” he whispers before hopping off the bed and disappearing out of the room.
My eyes droop and it seems like it’s only a moment later that something cold and wet touches my stomach. Eyes flying open, I almost sit up but a hand holds me to the bed. “What the fuck?” I gasp.
Stephen stands in front of me, washcloth in hand as he wipes me clean, an affectionate look on his face. “Figured I’d make it a less, uh, sticky situation in the morning.”
“Mmm hmm,” I mumble, my eyes slipping closed again as the washcloth becomes less cold and more soothing, Stephen caressing me to sleep.
I’m almost entirely gone when he shakes my shoulder a bit, murmuring something about needing to get into the bed itself. He guides me as he pulls back the covers, slipping inside after me and fitting tight against my back. He breathes into my hair, arms wrapping around my middle.
I’m drifting off when his drowsy voice whispers, “I like the lovehandles. You’re all squishy when I hug you.”
I snort. “You’re an asshole.” The accusation lacks any conviction.
“I know.” I’m almost asleep when he adds, “I like it cuz this way you have more cushion for the pushin’.”
The last thing I do is laugh, feeling his smile against my neck as I lose myself to sleep.
END.
*Endnote: So there you have it. Frankly, I’m exhausted because I worked on this for about 5 hours with finishing it and editing it. I hope it doesn’t blow because I wouldn’t be able to tell if it did. I also can't tell if the tone is all whacko and all over the place... I would just proofread it again and post it tomorrow but I think if I have to review this one more time I will actually shoot myself in the face. There will either be one final chapter and an epilogue or a fantastical mashing of a final chapter PLUS an epilogue all in one little bundle of joy.
As always, comment and friend if you want!
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