Fandom-Daily Show/Colbert Report/PunditSlash
Pairing-Stephen Colbert/Keith Olbermann
Warnings: Smut. Angst-a-rooni! RPS including mention of spouses and family members. If that's a problem, you don't want to read this.
Disclaimer: This didn't happen and I'm not making any money for saying it did.
Summary: Special Comments have a strange effect on Stephen.
My first ever attempt at TDS/TCR/Punditslash, so comments and concrit are appreciated.
We’ve Got Tonight
Olbermann was driving him crazy.
Stephen didn’t think Keith was doing it on purpose; wasn’t sure that the guy really thought about him at all, which made it worse.
It hadn’t been so bad when it was just the usual “Countdown” smirking and snark. That had been Olbermann’s schtick going back to the ESPN days and he did it brilliantly. During the worst of impeachment, Keith’s MSNBC show had been one of the few places where any of the coverage was remotely tolerable, mostly because he stood in for the teeming millions whose disgust at the self-righteous pricks arraying themselves against Clinton completely overwhelmed any sins the guy had actually committed.
Stephen could watch Keith and Michael Musto rip into the latest celebrity shenanigans or any of the revolving cast of journalists take another well-deserved bite out of the administration, with appreciation for a job well done.
The Special Comments killed him. When Keith looked right into the camera and spoke for himself, telling Bush and his minions exactly what kind of scumbags they were, it made Stephen’s legs shake and his fists clench. He told himself it was the intensity of Keith’s unfiltered anger and passion, but it was more than that. He was jealous.
Stephen got to mock the Commander-in-Asshole, but he had to do it while hiding behind “Stephen.” Even at the White House Correspondents Dinner where it was widely acknowledged he had “ripped the piss out of them” as John Oliver had told him in the flurry of post-show accolades, he was still in character. Still only able to say what “Stephen” in all his stupidity would say. He’d been a cause celebre in the blogosphere for a few weeks, but it didn’t mean anything. He’d been a sleazy judge, letting the bad guys off with a slap on the wrist. How could any conservative listen to Keith on the September 11 anniversary and not bleed? Stephen felt his breath catch somewhere between his throat and his chest every time he watched it on YouTube, which was probably too often.
He always tried to get home in time to watch “Countdown” with Evie and she’d get a strange look on her face whenever it was Special Comment night. He’d gotten her to admit that she had a little crush on Keith and they’d laughed when he joked that maybe she should give him a call. Keith was known as a bit of a hound in pundit circles. It wasn’t that she thought he was hot or cute or even that funny most of the time. Stephen was reassured because he needed to be number one in her hot, cute and funny department. It was just something about his fury that could be a weird turn-on and well…she couldn’t articulate it better than that and she didn’t have to. Stephen understood perfectly.
That was the other reason he found his face flushed and his lower lip swollen even though he hadn’t realized he was biting it, whenever he watched the clips. Keith on the rampage was hot as fuck, even to a mostly straight, totally married Catholic, who didn’t even like using that kind of language to himself.
Some of the fans had strange ideas about him and Jon, which of course they shamelessly played up, but it meant nothing. Either Jon was straighter than he was, or way more closeted. Stephen’s own escapades were usually furtive, extremely rare and never with anybody high profile.
Being “Stephen” gave him a lot of leeway. He felt like he got away with even more than Jon did playing “himself”. On the other hand there were nights when Stephen came across the set to do the interview and couldn’t be sure if the audience was really in on the joke. Sometimes he thought the screaming baboons were more in sympathy with “Stephen” than the “Word.” Never so much as when he had to defend his “Papa Bear” O’Reilly, against the attacks of the “elitist, east-coast, liberal media.” As in Bill O’s Public Enemy # 1, Keith Olbermann.
In his more self-centered moments, Stephen wondered if Keith wasn’t piling on the Worst Person awards for O’Reilly, just to get “Stephen’s” hackles up, or get himself back on the show. Stephen would have liked another shot, because he’d totally muffed the first one. The minute Keith took off this glasses and gave him that look it was all over. He barely managed to stay in character and Keith had walked all over him.
There’d been traffic on the bridge so he got home later than usual.
The houses of Montclair were covered in Christmas light displays ranging from the merely ostentatious to the completely offensive. He’d had to put up a few lights around the windows of Chez Colbert, just to fit in. Besides, Stephen liked Christmas lights. He liked Christmas. The big Colbert holiday do was happening in DC this year, and the family were flying down on the shuttle later in the week. He’d spent the day looking over the lists of possible guests for the next few months, and hiding his disappointment at not seeing Keith’s name on it.
He’d feigned enthusiasm for the guests that the staff had been extremely psyched about scoring, Wow! Cokie Roberts. Ooh! Kimberly Guilfoyle.
The kids were sequestered in Maddie’s room, probably up to something he should be worried about but didn’t have the energy. He found his usual plate of leftovers in the kitchen before heading up to the bedroom. Evie was in bed, clutching a pillow.
“They’re doing a whole show of just the Special Comments.”
“On the VCR downstairs and the Tivo in here.”
He was married to a remarkable lady. He sat down to watch Keith go off on Rumsfeld. It was ferocious enough when he was squinting at YouTube on his office computer. Watching it on the big plasma screen made his face flush as though Keith were in the room with him and Evie was far, far away. He tried not to think about what her Keith fantasies might be like because if they were anything like his, she was being ravished, and aside from being mostly straight, he was also uptight about letting his wife see his kinkier side.
He’d grabbed the chicken legs without getting anything to drink, so he went back down to the kitchen. It took a while to notice that he was staring at the contents of the refrigerator. Since he didn’t find any answers next to the mayonnaise in there, he switched to gazing at his cell phone for a while, as though that might solve anything. No, all it would do was make him wonder how quickly he could get Keith’s number and what he would do if he had it.
Peter came in for some cokes and Stephen was too distracted to tell him it was too late for them to be up, much less drinking caffeine. He did notice that Peter was taking the last of a six-pack.
“Tell mom I went out for more soda.”
What a good, suburban mensch he was. Or would have been if he weren’t heading toward Route 46 and Route 4 and the bridge and the City. Was there anything more beautiful than the George Washington Bridge on a cold, clear night? It turned out it was pretty easy for Stephen Colbert to call up MSNBC and get Keith Olberman’s phone number and address even before he got to Fort Lee. Scary. Could someone get his personal information that easily or were they convinced by his “Stephen” voice. Would Keith’s voice ever call trying to find him on a winter night? What the hell was he doing?
Eventually, he was looking for parking in mid-town, circling West 55th and West 56th and West 57th and making deals with God as though he were Kate Bush and this was 1985.
“OK, if I don’t find one on this block, I promise I’m going back to Montclair, getting the soda and I’ll never even watch his show again and this time I really mean it. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
He found parking on Amsterdam and trudged back on his mission of madness.
The doorman didn’t recognize him, or had the New York gift of pretending not to. Either way, Stephen had to stand there while the call was made in typically muffled tones. Who even know if Keith was home? Or home alone. Or wanted to his face. Or any other part of him.
“Go on up. Twenty-third floor.”
Elevators over ten stories made him dizzy. Maybe this was some bizarre role-playing game. Some fifteen year old had cast a spell on him. He wasn’t here and none of this was happening.
Then why was Keith Olbermann standing there? Wearing jeans and a long sleeved shirt with a green check pattern and his glasses and a look of…Stephen couldn’t read the look. He couldn’t talk either. Embarrassing. He could blink and swallow, but as far as producing words? Nothing.
Keith didn’t seem particularly surprised or annoyed, but he wasn’t inclined to do anything to make it easier. Stephen wondered if one of Keith’s many rumored liaisons were on the premises. Maybe he was interrupting some hot action with Rita Crosby. Ewwwwww. The revolting thought knocked him out of his trance long enough to say something and then desperately wish he hadn’t.
“I know it’s late.” Oh god no. Not song lyrics. Not that song. Stop, stop, stop! I know you're weary. I know your plans don’t include me.”
What was that on Keith’s face? A smile? Did Keith ever smile like that on the air? Did anyone in the history of the world ever smile like that? OK, Stephen, please control yourself. You’re making me sick. No, you can’t blame it on the elevator.
Keith looked at him over the glasses and then took the glasses off and looked right through him, the way he did on television.
“So you’re here to tell me to lay off O’Reilly?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I’m here to defend Papa Bear. You’ve been piling on lately.”
Stephen could barely talk without breaking into bad seventies songs, but “Stephen” could still hold up his end. Thank god for creative schizophrenia.
And now Keith was going to notice his legs shaking and wonder if he was epileptic, aside from whatever he was choosing to assume about Stephen’s appearance at his door.
“Come on in.”
Definitely a spell. One where you lose control of your body and follow the tall man into his penthouse and find yourself being pushed up against the door that’s just closed behind you and the tall man is holding you there with his height and weight, but really just his presence. You could leave anytime you want but you don’t want to and you don’t want to be given the chance and there he is closer, closer and impossibly, improbably, kissing you.
Keith kissed the way Stephen had always suspected. Like a Special Comment. Harsh. Intense. Focused. Lips on lips pushing inexorably to open mouth and an invading tongue, with the taste of scotch. Stephen was vaguely aware that his glasses might be getting crushed and were certainly causing him pain, but a little pain and destruction wouldn’t be out of line. Keith’s hands, even bigger than they looked on television, had moved to his face, one thumb firmly pressing against his cheek bone the other breaking the connection between their mouths, letting him suck on something more substantial than tongue, and yeah, he wanted to.
If he’d gone crazy, or been bewitched, he might as well go all the way before he got sane.
“Why now?” Keith’s hand was still pressing into his face, but he’d moved away enough to look into Stephen’s eyes. The hand could crush his bones, but those green eyes would destroy his soul.
It was either honesty or another bad song lyric.
“I want to be you.”
“Trust me. You don’t.”
Stephen let his head fall back against the door, assuming he was being dismissed. He should have gone with REO Speedwagon. He couldn’t fight the feeling anymore. Honestly.
He opened his eyes and found Keith methodically unbuttoning his cuffs and starting on his shirt, while keeping him pinned to the door just by looking at him. Keith was taking off his shirt. Stephen was intrigued to see him wearing an undershirt. White cotton. Soft, he thought. His mind was trying to distract him with colors and textures. The man he’d been lusting for was standing in front of him, removing his clothes and he was standing there like a lummox.
Keith was tugging gently at his tie, and then not so gently, knocking him out of his stupor.
“You wear these like you actually like them.”
It had never occurred to Stephen to wonder if he liked them or not. “Stephen” did of course, but he wasn’t being “Stephen”, didn’t want Keith to think of him that way. He couldn’t get the damn thing off fast enough. If he had scissors, he would have used them to speed up the process. He finally handed Keith the offending object as a token and got the smile again.
So much for up-against-the-door, appealing as it was to that kinky part of his imagination that he kept very tightly locked up. Keith had a perfectly nice bedroom, with a very comfortable bed and whatever Stephen was going to end up doing for him, they might as well be comfortable. Or at least Keith was going to be comfortable. And smug. Lying on his back naked, hands behind his head. Waiting. Watching.
Stephen had never been that comfortable with his body. OK. Fine, he did like the ties. He loved the suits. In the clothes, he could strut with “Stephen’s” patented arrogance. Now he was trying not to feel ridiculous taking off his clothes in front of a man who seemed completely at peace with his own girth and whose erection was taking a great interest in every garment that Stephen dropped to the floor.
It wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. His “Special Comment” fantasies always had Keith pushing him down on the bed, growling into his ear as though he were Cheney or Condi Rice, pouring out sizzling contempt while fucking him as though the fate of the nation depended on it.
There was no doubt who was in control, but Keith wasn’t giving him the “victim” role. Whatever happened here, it was going to be because he wanted it. He wanted to get on the bed and position himself between Keith’s long legs and introduce himself to Keith’s cock. Hi, I’m Stephen Colbert. I’m sure you’ve heard about me. With the first squeeze it seemed to mold itself to his hand and the moan he heard, deep and gutteral, sent a wake-up call to his own crotch.
“Should I ask…?”
He could have meant any of 100 things that Stephen didn’t want to discuss at moment, so he closed off any possible dialogue by taking Keith into his mouth. He closed his eyes to appreciate all the sensations, and avoid the fact that Keith was probably staring at him. Hardness against his tongue. The taste of salt and sweat. The sense of power as Keith grunted and groaned and thank you Jesus didn’t try to ask any more questions. He was too big for Stephen to take deep without gagging and that’s no way to make a good impression, so he concentrated on keeping the head in his mouth, while stroking the shaft with one hand and fondling a pair of balls that “Stephen” would admire as much as Stephen did.
“God that’s good.”
Keith’s hips were bucking upwards slowly, driving him deeper. One hand was on the back of Stephen’s head, pushing, but not forcing. He was still in control, both of Stephen and himself. If Stephen thought he could change that with a blow-job, no matter how good, he was just kidding himself.
He pushed his head back against Keith’s hand. Keith stroked his hair and then moved his hand away, leaving Stephen to continue or not.
What did he have to do to make Keith as crazy as he was?
Stephen let Keith’s cock out of his mouth, slowly, realizing that his jaw was already tired and Keith would have let him go on indefinitely.
He turned his body around to face Keith and slowly started stroking his own cock. Hi there. Nice to finally get some attention. He had Keith’s attention too. Not just the smug smile, but actual interest. He put two fingers into his own mouth, sucking on them as lewdly as he’d sucked Keith’s dick and used the saliva to smooth things up.
Keith’s hand moved between his own legs as well. Their eyes locked. Stephen thought of his best Keith fantasy. The one where Keith bent “Stephen” over his own anchor desk and took him hard and fast, spewing venom the whole time. Faster. Keith’s tempo was picking up as well. He’d never know what was going on in Olbermann’s mind, but it must be good. Sweat was beading the other man’s lip and Stephen felt his tongue coming out as if he could lick it from the other side of the bed.
His legs were shaking again. Toes curling. Whole body getting ready to lose control, every nerve ending screaming, “stop! too much!”, but he wasn't going to keep going until Keith lost it first. Keith’s hand was flying up and down his cock with a grip so tight, it looked like he could tear the whole thing off, and his eyes were finally losing focus, whole body arching back and oh yeah, baby the son of a bitch closed his eyes, put his head back on the pillow and screamed out Stephen’s name as though he were dying. Stephen felt himself spilling out onto his own hand and Keith’s bed, falling into nothingness.
“So, about your wife.”
“I went out for soda.”
Stephen had barely gotten his eyes open and Keith wanted to interview him about all the reasons he shouldn’t be here? Especially when he couldn’t take his eyes off Keith’s naked body and the grayish hair on his chest, marked with a sticky trail that Stephen desperately wanted to touch, maybe even lick. Taste proof that he’d pushed Keith over the edge.
“I thought you only played a bastard on TV.”
“Are we back to O’Reilly again?” Stephen managed to quip back, not up to verbal ping-pong.
“Enough Bill O. for one night. If you went for soda, you should get soda.”
“As in so long, farewell, auf wiedershen, goodbye?”
“Pretty much. You don’t want this.”
“I’m not sorry,” Stephen was getting defensive, never a good thing when you’re in bed with a naked man. It was time to get dressed.
“You will be. Especially when she figures out that it took you three hours to get a six-pack.”
That was for sure.
Stephen was on his feet, stumbling, finding clothes, trying to act normal. As if it might actually happen again, if he didn’t screw this part up, not wanting to admit it had been screwed up from the start.
Keith hadn’t even gotten up, but had pulled a blanket over himself, cutting Stephen off from the possibility of further contact.
Stephen was out of clothes to put on or witty things say.
“Evie thinks you’re hot when you do Special Comments. That’s how this all got started.”
“Next time, send her over.”
Stephen had another nauseating elevator ride to consider whether that was a joke or not and whether Evie might be more pissed off for the disappearing act or him getting in Keith’s bed first, if she ever found out.
He tried writing a sketch in his head about a guy coming home three hours late with a six-pack of soda. Maybe “Stephen” had been out stalking “Charlene” again.
Sure, he thought, relieved to find the Fiat where he’d left it, completely unmolested. His alter-ego had gone away for three hours in search of his fictional lady-love, taking Stephen hostage for the ride. Although that wasn’t so different from what had actually happened, was it?
Or he could just tell her that Special Comments weren’t so special after all.