I'm On Fire
Title: I'm On Fire (???) (no, there is no title)
Pairing: Jon Stewart/Bruce Springsteen
Rating: R
Warnings: None (besides it being RPF)
Summary: I think this may be the first and the only Jon/Spruce fic on the Internet. All I can really say is that if that's what you're looking for, this is where you'll find it (and that it was SUPER FUN to write).
Disclaimer: Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
AN: Sorry about the weird text formatting; I could go back and edit the HTML, but it would be so obnoxiously tedious that I don't think it's worth it. So, enjoy the pretentious typewriter font!
It was late, the studio was empty, and Bruce Springsteen had just asked Jon to dance.
Upon Bruce’s prompting, Jon had gone through his embarrassingly large collection of Springsteen CDs to find something to listen to while they passed the time. He found his favorite mix: a slur of classics from his musical dependence in high school and college. He looked at the CD, joked, hesitated and procrastinated; Bruce insisted.
They spent a lazy half hour listening to it and discussing the music: the lyrics, the tone; anything that Jon loved about it. As he became more comfortable with the conversation and with Bruce’s warm reception of praise, Jon fell into explaining those teenage years to which he had desperately stapled Bruce’s music. He revealed his investment in as honest words as he could without too much blushing, and Bruce received it all with the least clamor and gentlest understanding that Jon could have asked for.
Towards the end of the hour, the CD reached its final track: I’m On Fire, off of the Born in the U.S.A. album. Instead of launching into a narrative on the lyrics, an indulgence he had gotten into the rhythm of that evening, Jon remained silent and let the track warm the room they sat in. Jon felt drowsy and aroused and slightly drunk with the way that the evening had gone, proud of how well he kept a rein on his nerves. They listened to the passionate, breathy serenade for under a minute, up to the line, “…I can take you higher,” at which Bruce stood up and asked Jon if he would restart it so that they could dance. Jon chuckled an, “Ok,” being in his nature to joke when he’s nervous, and skipped the player back to the beginning of the song. When he turned back to the chairs that they had spent the evening in, Bruce was standing in front of Jon’s. He locked eyes with him, coming off confident, but as gentle and genuine as Jon had drawn him while squirreled away in his dorm, escaping stress and fear as a douchey teen. Jon laughed some more, but quietly, and settled against his boyhood hero at, “…I’ve got a bad desire.”
Jon hadn’t known what to expect. Bruce kept their bodies close and their movements slow, leaving enough room between the sides of their heads to make every brush against one another a shiver, every breath against a neck or cheek or ear a heady shock. It was erotic; Jon was swimming. Bruce had deliberately crossed every transparent boundary that stood between them when he asked Jon for the dance, a fact that Jon was just coming to realize.
When Bruce began dusting kisses below Jon’s ear and dragging them dry and gentle down his neck, Jon was already far gone. His breath became heavy, his eyes nearly shut, and his voice replaced by intimate moans pulled gently from him with light, drawn-out licks. By the time Bruce drew their faces together, Jon’s knees were ready to collapse. Their first kiss was as sweet and erotic as the song that was fading out around them. They kissed slow and wet, open-mouthed as if they would need the oxygen. Bruce drew his younger dance partner closer with firm strokes across Jon’s lower back, open-palmed, loving, and possessive. He slowly walked them back towards the couches, stopping as Jon’s calves and the backs of his knees grazed the cheap red cushion. Bruce pulled his head back the length of a kiss to ask Jon where he preferred to go with this.
“Jon?” He cast out to the drowning man.
“Hm?” Jon nodded and spoke, almost silently, not ready to hold still and not ready to stop sinking.
Bruce slid one of his hands around from the small of Jon’s back to the sensitive front of his hip, holding the bone firmly, where his hand was close enough to feel the material heated by Jon’s cock.
Jon swayed to a stop at the change of direction. He stood quiet, listening.
“I don’t know if you want me to go any further. We can stop here.” A kiss fell on Jon’s cheek. “What do you want?”
A sober moment passed.
“Yeah, no, we shouldn’t,” Jon whispered, eyes again shut. “It would be too weird. I know that’s a lot coming after all this.” They both chuckled, albeit a little breathlessly. “Erotic slow-dancing is one thing,” he finished, trusting to leave the other “thing” unsaid.
“Okay,” Bruce agreed, swaying them slightly as they fell back into rhythm. “But,” he added, dropping his voice and planting words between heavy breaths and startling kisses against Jon’s ear. “You’re hard as a rock.”
Jon could have dropped a jibe along the No shit, Sherlock lines at this, but at this point smart-ass Jon had all but dissolved. He was hissing a pant into the heavy air, thick with the older man’s cologne, sensitive, eyes shut, and buffeted with shocks of arousal. Bruce kept just as close when he continued, riding Jon’s wave.
“I want to see you get off. If it’s too weird for me to touch you, I want to see you touch yourself.”
At this, Jon bit his nails into Bruce’s back and pressed obscenely close, impulsively rubbing his crotch against Bruce’s hip as he shuddered with the suggestion. Bruce had slow-danced Jon across another self-maintained boundary, coaxing out a choked “Fuck” as he did. The curse fell muffled on Bruce’s shoulder, but the restless, frantic energy pulsed off of the smaller man, giving a clear picture of his desperation.
Bruce took this cue and pushed Jon back onto the roomy armchair, slowly meeting the pressure of Jon’s clothed cock before parting entirely from the supine man with a sex-laden kiss. Jon leaned back, breathed heavily, and watched through half-lidded eyes as Bruce took Jon’s left hand in his right and pressed it along the zipper of Jon’s pants. Jon rubbed himself slowly and continued to watch as Bruce undid the button, slid down the zipper, and brought Jon’s hand along again to stroke his cock through the thin fabric of the boxers. After a few difficult, teasing strokes, Jon dropped all pretense and pulled his clothes half-way down his thighs and palmed the bare skin with bliss. Bruce kept his hand over Jon’s for the entire process, and now lightly stroked with tightly controlled pressure as Jon struggled to maintain a rhythm. Jon couldn’t help concentrating on the way that Bruce’s hand moved with his, sometimes threading its fingers through Jon’s of its own volition, grazing the hot, vulgar skin with the pad of his fingers for a moment before returning them safely to cupping Jon’s hand. The longer Jon watched the more daring the strokes became, and he felt ready to come when Bruce ventured to drag his thumb over the tip with heavy, maddening pressure.
“Oh, fuck,” Jon choked out, begging with what sounded embarrassingly like a whine. His toes felt hot and his head felt feverish and he decided, quite sensibly, Fuck “weird” the moment Bruce dropped his head to lick a stream of pre-cum off of the end of Jon’s dick.
Jon removed his hand and instead used both to anchor himself to the chair as Bruce took the reins, gripping tightly to its arms as his lifelong idol dragged him over the cliff, hard and fast. He came after a dozen strokes and twice as many “Fuck!”s and sunk against the cushions, absorbing deep breaths and slowly anchoring himself to shore.
Pairing: Jon Stewart/Bruce Springsteen
Rating: R
Warnings: None (besides it being RPF)
Summary: I think this may be the first and the only Jon/Spruce fic on the Internet. All I can really say is that if that's what you're looking for, this is where you'll find it (and that it was SUPER FUN to write).
Disclaimer: Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
AN: Sorry about the weird text formatting; I could go back and edit the HTML, but it would be so obnoxiously tedious that I don't think it's worth it. So, enjoy the pretentious typewriter font!
It was late, the studio was empty, and Bruce Springsteen had just asked Jon to dance.
Upon Bruce’s prompting, Jon had gone through his embarrassingly large collection of Springsteen CDs to find something to listen to while they passed the time. He found his favorite mix: a slur of classics from his musical dependence in high school and college. He looked at the CD, joked, hesitated and procrastinated; Bruce insisted.
They spent a lazy half hour listening to it and discussing the music: the lyrics, the tone; anything that Jon loved about it. As he became more comfortable with the conversation and with Bruce’s warm reception of praise, Jon fell into explaining those teenage years to which he had desperately stapled Bruce’s music. He revealed his investment in as honest words as he could without too much blushing, and Bruce received it all with the least clamor and gentlest understanding that Jon could have asked for.
Towards the end of the hour, the CD reached its final track: I’m On Fire, off of the Born in the U.S.A. album. Instead of launching into a narrative on the lyrics, an indulgence he had gotten into the rhythm of that evening, Jon remained silent and let the track warm the room they sat in. Jon felt drowsy and aroused and slightly drunk with the way that the evening had gone, proud of how well he kept a rein on his nerves. They listened to the passionate, breathy serenade for under a minute, up to the line, “…I can take you higher,” at which Bruce stood up and asked Jon if he would restart it so that they could dance. Jon chuckled an, “Ok,” being in his nature to joke when he’s nervous, and skipped the player back to the beginning of the song. When he turned back to the chairs that they had spent the evening in, Bruce was standing in front of Jon’s. He locked eyes with him, coming off confident, but as gentle and genuine as Jon had drawn him while squirreled away in his dorm, escaping stress and fear as a douchey teen. Jon laughed some more, but quietly, and settled against his boyhood hero at, “…I’ve got a bad desire.”
Jon hadn’t known what to expect. Bruce kept their bodies close and their movements slow, leaving enough room between the sides of their heads to make every brush against one another a shiver, every breath against a neck or cheek or ear a heady shock. It was erotic; Jon was swimming. Bruce had deliberately crossed every transparent boundary that stood between them when he asked Jon for the dance, a fact that Jon was just coming to realize.
When Bruce began dusting kisses below Jon’s ear and dragging them dry and gentle down his neck, Jon was already far gone. His breath became heavy, his eyes nearly shut, and his voice replaced by intimate moans pulled gently from him with light, drawn-out licks. By the time Bruce drew their faces together, Jon’s knees were ready to collapse. Their first kiss was as sweet and erotic as the song that was fading out around them. They kissed slow and wet, open-mouthed as if they would need the oxygen. Bruce drew his younger dance partner closer with firm strokes across Jon’s lower back, open-palmed, loving, and possessive. He slowly walked them back towards the couches, stopping as Jon’s calves and the backs of his knees grazed the cheap red cushion. Bruce pulled his head back the length of a kiss to ask Jon where he preferred to go with this.
“Jon?” He cast out to the drowning man.
“Hm?” Jon nodded and spoke, almost silently, not ready to hold still and not ready to stop sinking.
Bruce slid one of his hands around from the small of Jon’s back to the sensitive front of his hip, holding the bone firmly, where his hand was close enough to feel the material heated by Jon’s cock.
Jon swayed to a stop at the change of direction. He stood quiet, listening.
“I don’t know if you want me to go any further. We can stop here.” A kiss fell on Jon’s cheek. “What do you want?”
A sober moment passed.
“Yeah, no, we shouldn’t,” Jon whispered, eyes again shut. “It would be too weird. I know that’s a lot coming after all this.” They both chuckled, albeit a little breathlessly. “Erotic slow-dancing is one thing,” he finished, trusting to leave the other “thing” unsaid.
“Okay,” Bruce agreed, swaying them slightly as they fell back into rhythm. “But,” he added, dropping his voice and planting words between heavy breaths and startling kisses against Jon’s ear. “You’re hard as a rock.”
Jon could have dropped a jibe along the No shit, Sherlock lines at this, but at this point smart-ass Jon had all but dissolved. He was hissing a pant into the heavy air, thick with the older man’s cologne, sensitive, eyes shut, and buffeted with shocks of arousal. Bruce kept just as close when he continued, riding Jon’s wave.
“I want to see you get off. If it’s too weird for me to touch you, I want to see you touch yourself.”
At this, Jon bit his nails into Bruce’s back and pressed obscenely close, impulsively rubbing his crotch against Bruce’s hip as he shuddered with the suggestion. Bruce had slow-danced Jon across another self-maintained boundary, coaxing out a choked “Fuck” as he did. The curse fell muffled on Bruce’s shoulder, but the restless, frantic energy pulsed off of the smaller man, giving a clear picture of his desperation.
Bruce took this cue and pushed Jon back onto the roomy armchair, slowly meeting the pressure of Jon’s clothed cock before parting entirely from the supine man with a sex-laden kiss. Jon leaned back, breathed heavily, and watched through half-lidded eyes as Bruce took Jon’s left hand in his right and pressed it along the zipper of Jon’s pants. Jon rubbed himself slowly and continued to watch as Bruce undid the button, slid down the zipper, and brought Jon’s hand along again to stroke his cock through the thin fabric of the boxers. After a few difficult, teasing strokes, Jon dropped all pretense and pulled his clothes half-way down his thighs and palmed the bare skin with bliss. Bruce kept his hand over Jon’s for the entire process, and now lightly stroked with tightly controlled pressure as Jon struggled to maintain a rhythm. Jon couldn’t help concentrating on the way that Bruce’s hand moved with his, sometimes threading its fingers through Jon’s of its own volition, grazing the hot, vulgar skin with the pad of his fingers for a moment before returning them safely to cupping Jon’s hand. The longer Jon watched the more daring the strokes became, and he felt ready to come when Bruce ventured to drag his thumb over the tip with heavy, maddening pressure.
“Oh, fuck,” Jon choked out, begging with what sounded embarrassingly like a whine. His toes felt hot and his head felt feverish and he decided, quite sensibly, Fuck “weird” the moment Bruce dropped his head to lick a stream of pre-cum off of the end of Jon’s dick.
Jon removed his hand and instead used both to anchor himself to the chair as Bruce took the reins, gripping tightly to its arms as his lifelong idol dragged him over the cliff, hard and fast. He came after a dozen strokes and twice as many “Fuck!”s and sunk against the cushions, absorbing deep breaths and slowly anchoring himself to shore.