Looking Glass Dreams
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zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] › Tucker Carlson
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Category:
zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] › Tucker Carlson
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,228
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the television series that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Looking Glass Dreams
Author's Note: This was based on the Crossfire interview between Tucker Carlson, Paul Begala, and Jon Stewart (host of Comedy Central's The Daily Show). You can read a transcript of it on CNN. The story takes place right after their feud, when thinks cool down...or do they? ^_~ Everything else is pure fiction. I just like to torment bowtie boy.
Disclaimer: I do not own Tucker Carlson, James Carville, or Crossfire. The first two are real people, and the latter is a cancelled program that once belonged to CNN. I make absolutely no profit off of this.
Symbols:
// = Flashback/Past Memories
() = Voice of Denial
Tucker Carlson was angry. Not raging-with-fury angry or storming-off-the-set angry, but angry nonetheless. The hard set of his jaw and tightly pursed lips were his way of politely telling everyone to fuck off.
Ignoring the make-up artist, who knew well enough to back away, Carlson marched with deliberate steps to his private dressing room and locked the door. It wouldn’t do to explode in front of them. He couldn’t risk ruining his image as the balanced, composed host. He wasn’t Carville, who could rain down fire upon his enemies and still be hailed as a hero by the audience.
Settling down in front of the dressing room table, Tucker began removing his stage makeup. It had seemed irritatingly unnecessary at first, but a few months in TV journalism quickly convinced him that appearances counted. In fact, it was one of his friends who told him this. Told him TV was all about personality and looks.
/You have the looks, Tucker. You’d be a fool not to use them./
So he had…and this is where it brought him. Sighing, Carlson finished washing off the last traces of makeup, then unclipped his bow tie. At least that was one thing that hadn’t changed. He insisted on wearing it in the very beginning, and after some resistance, the producer reluctantly let it go. Idly, Tucker twirled the piece of fabric in his hands. He knew what the hard-nosed liberals said behind his back. That he was too young for the job. That he was a blatant liar. That he was just another hack with the Bush administration. He could deal with all of this.
No, what disturbed him were the other snide remarks.
/Eager lapdog to the neoconservatives./
/Pretty boy of the right-wing pundits./
And then, today. Tucker rubbed his temples, trying to block out the scene to no avail.
/Now, this is theater. It's obvious. How old are you?/
”Thirty-five. I’m thirty-five, goddammit.”
/And you wear a bow tie./
“I can wear whatever the hell I want!” Carlson slammed a fist down on the table, and immediately winced. He hoped to God no one heard the outburst.
But of course it meant nothing. That trashy-mouthed little prick was just pulling his leg. Pandering to his liberal stoner audience. Stewart wouldn’t know the first thing about him…couldn’t know what happened 20 years ago. Nobody knew but himself.
/Lawrence./
/His name was Lawrence./
/Devilishly charming, with a quick wit to match. He could turn setbacks into successes, insults into flattery, probably water into wine if it served the occasion. And the teachers loved him. Every student adored him. The dean practically declared him a saint. When Lawrence walked into the room, people stopped what they were doing and paid attention./
/There was no one Tucker despised more./
/That boy flaunted his disregard for the rules. He skipped class, played pranks, peddled drugs...In short, he stood for everything wrong with the school system./
“…Wrong with the system…” And still they disrupted the system, all the meticulously laid out rules, in the world today.
/Friday evening. Tucker had been working late as usual, finishing up an article for the school newspaper. Contented after a final read-through, he gathered up his papers and headed to the dorms, stopping by the bathroom along the way. And running into Lawrence./
/“Well well, what are you doing this time of night?” The smell of alcohol permeated the room./
/“Work, unlike you,” Tucker brushed by with some disdain. The dean was going to hear about this./
/Lawrence shot him a playful, if slightly drunken glance./
/“Oh really? Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind a game?”/
/In a flash, the other boy had pinned him against the wall. Tucker struggled fiercely, but knew he was no match for the older, stronger Lawrence./
/“What the fuck do you want?” he spat angrily. Just his luck…this game was probably going to be another wonderful foray into the joys of alcohol. Not what he needed tonight./
/“You need to loosen up, Tuck,” Lawrence whispered in his ear. The hot breath brought shudders of revulsion…masking an underlying fear. Where was this going?/
(No, you don’t want to think about it.)
But the dam had been opened, and there was no stopping the torrent of memories from pouring out.
/Lawrence’s hands traced across his cheek, one going to unclasp the bow tie around his neck, while the other feathered down the curve of his neck, coming to rest over his breast./
/“Wha-What the hell are you doing?!” This charade was getting sicker by the moment./
/But there was no answer. Instead, Lawrence began unbuttoning his shirt, trailing butterfly kisses down the length of his chest…pausing to tease a nipple, which elicited a small gasp from Tucker. No, no, this wasn’t happening. He didn’t want these…these revolting caresses./
/“You know, you’re really quite pretty for a boy.”/
/Tucker swallowed, a dry click in his throat. What did Lawrence want?/
/“Well, maybe if you decided to dress appropriately one of these days…” His voice wavered pitifully in his own ears./
/Lawrence laughed softly./
/“And be a good boy for the establishment? Like all the rest of you, with your perfectly pressed cuffs, your carefully parted hair…your neat bow ties.” There was a hint of bitterness in that voice./
/“Never.”/
/Abruptly, Lawrence dropped down and began undoing Tucker’s belt, pulling down his pants, ignoring the wild, futile protests./
(No, stop stop stop these images.)
Slowly, Carlson realized with a sick horror that his body was betraying him. Beads of perspiration trickled through his hair, causing stray locks to cling to the back of his neck, as he tried desperately to ignore his growing arousal.
(It’s the heat. The heat in here is suffocating. Nothing else.)
He splashed cold water on his face repeatedly in a vain attempt to dispel this waking nightmare. Pacing the room, he cursed the lack of central cooling in this stuffy little hole. The air suddenly felt hot…humid…the jacket a lead weight about his shoulders. Why didn’t they ever install a shower? Cheap, useless bastards. And where…where was his bow tie?
(Bow tie? Why the fuck are you thinking about that now?!)
As the frantic search continued to no avail, his pants seemed to tighten their sadistic embrace around his shaft, forcing soft gasps of need past his lips.
“No…stop this…”
Tucker cast about wildly for some way to stem the tide. He bit his lip until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Yes, pain. Concentrate on that. Concentrate on the cut…on the salty wetness upon your lips.
/A sudden warm wetness enfolded him, causing stars to form, explode, and die in a flash of fireworks before his eyes. The boy worked slowly along the end of his shaft, tickling the underside with his tongue before moving upwards. Blood rushed in a scorching wave through Tucker’s body, weakening his struggles as a stronger force took over./
/“No…I-I shouldn’t be doing this…”/
/But he could no longer fight his instincts. All sanity fell away, leaving only lustful abandonment. With an almost detached horror, he realized that despite his words, his body was now moving of its own volition, thrusting ever deeper into Lawrence’s coaxing mouth. The hot tongue, the probing fingers…it was all too much. He teetered on the brink of release./
/At that moment, Tucker saw himself lucidly in the mirror. The flushed cheeks, the parted lips…the eyes clouded over with passion./
/“This…this can’t be me…” he mumbled weakly./
/But it was. Oh, it definitely was. Right down to the bow tie hanging crookedly where it caught on his jacket button./
(No, no, no, nonono.)
Stop fighting it.
(No! I can’t stop…there’s no other way!)
There is one other way.
Biting back hot tears of shame, Tucker quickly undid his belt and slid a hand between his legs to quell the throbbing need there. A current of raw carnality pulsed through him, its waves threatening to sweep away his self-control. The images inflamed every part of him with heated lust, even as he tried frantically to restrain the flood. His cheeks burned crimson, blood pounding fiercely below the skin at the thought of what he was about to do for this disgusting memory.
/A sudden jerk of the hips, followed by his own choked, pleading cry. Then, finally, blissful release. Weak-kneed, he crumpled down against the cold, hard tiles and wept. Shivering convulsively, Tucker looked up through sweat-soaked curls at the other boy. Why was he still there? What…what else did he want?/
/Lawrence leaned in teasingly one more time./
/“You know, you really do look much better without that bow tie.” Winking, he swaggered out the door, leaving Tucker still huddled in the corner, hands clutching his knees in a death grip. It was wrong, what they’d done. It was amoral… depraved… they would surely be punished for it./
/Then why did he regret seeing Lawrence leave?/
Eyes closed in painful humiliation, Tucker began rapidly stroking his member, praying for a swift release from the clutches of this nightmare. His body eagerly responded, growing warmer – harder – at the touch. Sweat ran in thin rivulets down the sides of his face… the steady movement brought his damp bangs down to caress his brow like a sensuous lover. With each beat, his breathing quickened, until he could no longer suppress the moans of pleasure that forced their way past his lips.
“I-I won’t give in,” he gritted through clenched teeth.
Tucker bit down hard on his shirt collar to stifle the cries, punishing his body for its treachery with rough, angry strokes.
(Please, please let this be over.)
/He clutched frantically at anything in range – the cold tiles, the stall door, his belt buckle lying on the ground. Something firm to hold on to, something to ward off the sickening, confusing emotions. Almost accidentally, his hands found the bow tie. Yes, there was something of familiar solidarity…a constant reminder of the logical, everyday routine. A symbol Lawrence surely detested./
/Defiantly, he tightened it around his neck, tightened it with shaking fingers…one…two…three clasps... till it nearly suffocated him./
Ignoring the physical pain, he concentrated on blocking out that image of Lawrence. Lawrence pressing him against the wall…tongue tracing the curves of his body…swallowing him whole.
(No, goddammit, no!)
Think of your wife.
/Yes, this would be his ward…/
Think of your girlfriend.
/His sentinel to hold the pieces together…/
Think of a cheap one-night-stand hooker.
/His badge of shame… /
(Anyone but him!)
/Because in the end, he had given in./
When climax came, Lawrence was the one he cried out for.
Collapsing in defeat, Tucker finally let the tears fall with abandon down his flushed cheeks. Choked sobs wracked his weakened frame, running their course like a fever through his veins. He shut his eyes against the suddenly excruciating glare of artificial lights, only to see Lawrence grinning that same taunting grin at him from years ago.
The knowing grin.
(No more…)
Tucker shuddered violently, convulsively. When would it be over? Hadn’t he been humiliated enough?
A knock on the door broke through his haze of self-pity.
“Hey, Carlson!” It was Paul Begala. “Producer wants to see you.”
There was a long pause.
“Believe me, it isn’t pretty.” From the weary tone of voice, Tucker could only imagine the tongue-lashing that awaited him.
Looking back in the mirror, he realized his fist was still clenched tightly, knuckles white from the pressure. With a shaky breath, he slowly unfolded the hand.
Inside lay his crushed bow tie.
Disclaimer: I do not own Tucker Carlson, James Carville, or Crossfire. The first two are real people, and the latter is a cancelled program that once belonged to CNN. I make absolutely no profit off of this.
Symbols:
// = Flashback/Past Memories
() = Voice of Denial
Tucker Carlson was angry. Not raging-with-fury angry or storming-off-the-set angry, but angry nonetheless. The hard set of his jaw and tightly pursed lips were his way of politely telling everyone to fuck off.
Ignoring the make-up artist, who knew well enough to back away, Carlson marched with deliberate steps to his private dressing room and locked the door. It wouldn’t do to explode in front of them. He couldn’t risk ruining his image as the balanced, composed host. He wasn’t Carville, who could rain down fire upon his enemies and still be hailed as a hero by the audience.
Settling down in front of the dressing room table, Tucker began removing his stage makeup. It had seemed irritatingly unnecessary at first, but a few months in TV journalism quickly convinced him that appearances counted. In fact, it was one of his friends who told him this. Told him TV was all about personality and looks.
/You have the looks, Tucker. You’d be a fool not to use them./
So he had…and this is where it brought him. Sighing, Carlson finished washing off the last traces of makeup, then unclipped his bow tie. At least that was one thing that hadn’t changed. He insisted on wearing it in the very beginning, and after some resistance, the producer reluctantly let it go. Idly, Tucker twirled the piece of fabric in his hands. He knew what the hard-nosed liberals said behind his back. That he was too young for the job. That he was a blatant liar. That he was just another hack with the Bush administration. He could deal with all of this.
No, what disturbed him were the other snide remarks.
/Eager lapdog to the neoconservatives./
/Pretty boy of the right-wing pundits./
And then, today. Tucker rubbed his temples, trying to block out the scene to no avail.
/Now, this is theater. It's obvious. How old are you?/
”Thirty-five. I’m thirty-five, goddammit.”
/And you wear a bow tie./
“I can wear whatever the hell I want!” Carlson slammed a fist down on the table, and immediately winced. He hoped to God no one heard the outburst.
But of course it meant nothing. That trashy-mouthed little prick was just pulling his leg. Pandering to his liberal stoner audience. Stewart wouldn’t know the first thing about him…couldn’t know what happened 20 years ago. Nobody knew but himself.
/Lawrence./
/His name was Lawrence./
/Devilishly charming, with a quick wit to match. He could turn setbacks into successes, insults into flattery, probably water into wine if it served the occasion. And the teachers loved him. Every student adored him. The dean practically declared him a saint. When Lawrence walked into the room, people stopped what they were doing and paid attention./
/There was no one Tucker despised more./
/That boy flaunted his disregard for the rules. He skipped class, played pranks, peddled drugs...In short, he stood for everything wrong with the school system./
“…Wrong with the system…” And still they disrupted the system, all the meticulously laid out rules, in the world today.
/Friday evening. Tucker had been working late as usual, finishing up an article for the school newspaper. Contented after a final read-through, he gathered up his papers and headed to the dorms, stopping by the bathroom along the way. And running into Lawrence./
/“Well well, what are you doing this time of night?” The smell of alcohol permeated the room./
/“Work, unlike you,” Tucker brushed by with some disdain. The dean was going to hear about this./
/Lawrence shot him a playful, if slightly drunken glance./
/“Oh really? Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind a game?”/
/In a flash, the other boy had pinned him against the wall. Tucker struggled fiercely, but knew he was no match for the older, stronger Lawrence./
/“What the fuck do you want?” he spat angrily. Just his luck…this game was probably going to be another wonderful foray into the joys of alcohol. Not what he needed tonight./
/“You need to loosen up, Tuck,” Lawrence whispered in his ear. The hot breath brought shudders of revulsion…masking an underlying fear. Where was this going?/
(No, you don’t want to think about it.)
But the dam had been opened, and there was no stopping the torrent of memories from pouring out.
/Lawrence’s hands traced across his cheek, one going to unclasp the bow tie around his neck, while the other feathered down the curve of his neck, coming to rest over his breast./
/“Wha-What the hell are you doing?!” This charade was getting sicker by the moment./
/But there was no answer. Instead, Lawrence began unbuttoning his shirt, trailing butterfly kisses down the length of his chest…pausing to tease a nipple, which elicited a small gasp from Tucker. No, no, this wasn’t happening. He didn’t want these…these revolting caresses./
/“You know, you’re really quite pretty for a boy.”/
/Tucker swallowed, a dry click in his throat. What did Lawrence want?/
/“Well, maybe if you decided to dress appropriately one of these days…” His voice wavered pitifully in his own ears./
/Lawrence laughed softly./
/“And be a good boy for the establishment? Like all the rest of you, with your perfectly pressed cuffs, your carefully parted hair…your neat bow ties.” There was a hint of bitterness in that voice./
/“Never.”/
/Abruptly, Lawrence dropped down and began undoing Tucker’s belt, pulling down his pants, ignoring the wild, futile protests./
(No, stop stop stop these images.)
Slowly, Carlson realized with a sick horror that his body was betraying him. Beads of perspiration trickled through his hair, causing stray locks to cling to the back of his neck, as he tried desperately to ignore his growing arousal.
(It’s the heat. The heat in here is suffocating. Nothing else.)
He splashed cold water on his face repeatedly in a vain attempt to dispel this waking nightmare. Pacing the room, he cursed the lack of central cooling in this stuffy little hole. The air suddenly felt hot…humid…the jacket a lead weight about his shoulders. Why didn’t they ever install a shower? Cheap, useless bastards. And where…where was his bow tie?
(Bow tie? Why the fuck are you thinking about that now?!)
As the frantic search continued to no avail, his pants seemed to tighten their sadistic embrace around his shaft, forcing soft gasps of need past his lips.
“No…stop this…”
Tucker cast about wildly for some way to stem the tide. He bit his lip until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Yes, pain. Concentrate on that. Concentrate on the cut…on the salty wetness upon your lips.
/A sudden warm wetness enfolded him, causing stars to form, explode, and die in a flash of fireworks before his eyes. The boy worked slowly along the end of his shaft, tickling the underside with his tongue before moving upwards. Blood rushed in a scorching wave through Tucker’s body, weakening his struggles as a stronger force took over./
/“No…I-I shouldn’t be doing this…”/
/But he could no longer fight his instincts. All sanity fell away, leaving only lustful abandonment. With an almost detached horror, he realized that despite his words, his body was now moving of its own volition, thrusting ever deeper into Lawrence’s coaxing mouth. The hot tongue, the probing fingers…it was all too much. He teetered on the brink of release./
/At that moment, Tucker saw himself lucidly in the mirror. The flushed cheeks, the parted lips…the eyes clouded over with passion./
/“This…this can’t be me…” he mumbled weakly./
/But it was. Oh, it definitely was. Right down to the bow tie hanging crookedly where it caught on his jacket button./
(No, no, no, nonono.)
Stop fighting it.
(No! I can’t stop…there’s no other way!)
There is one other way.
Biting back hot tears of shame, Tucker quickly undid his belt and slid a hand between his legs to quell the throbbing need there. A current of raw carnality pulsed through him, its waves threatening to sweep away his self-control. The images inflamed every part of him with heated lust, even as he tried frantically to restrain the flood. His cheeks burned crimson, blood pounding fiercely below the skin at the thought of what he was about to do for this disgusting memory.
/A sudden jerk of the hips, followed by his own choked, pleading cry. Then, finally, blissful release. Weak-kneed, he crumpled down against the cold, hard tiles and wept. Shivering convulsively, Tucker looked up through sweat-soaked curls at the other boy. Why was he still there? What…what else did he want?/
/Lawrence leaned in teasingly one more time./
/“You know, you really do look much better without that bow tie.” Winking, he swaggered out the door, leaving Tucker still huddled in the corner, hands clutching his knees in a death grip. It was wrong, what they’d done. It was amoral… depraved… they would surely be punished for it./
/Then why did he regret seeing Lawrence leave?/
Eyes closed in painful humiliation, Tucker began rapidly stroking his member, praying for a swift release from the clutches of this nightmare. His body eagerly responded, growing warmer – harder – at the touch. Sweat ran in thin rivulets down the sides of his face… the steady movement brought his damp bangs down to caress his brow like a sensuous lover. With each beat, his breathing quickened, until he could no longer suppress the moans of pleasure that forced their way past his lips.
“I-I won’t give in,” he gritted through clenched teeth.
Tucker bit down hard on his shirt collar to stifle the cries, punishing his body for its treachery with rough, angry strokes.
(Please, please let this be over.)
/He clutched frantically at anything in range – the cold tiles, the stall door, his belt buckle lying on the ground. Something firm to hold on to, something to ward off the sickening, confusing emotions. Almost accidentally, his hands found the bow tie. Yes, there was something of familiar solidarity…a constant reminder of the logical, everyday routine. A symbol Lawrence surely detested./
/Defiantly, he tightened it around his neck, tightened it with shaking fingers…one…two…three clasps... till it nearly suffocated him./
Ignoring the physical pain, he concentrated on blocking out that image of Lawrence. Lawrence pressing him against the wall…tongue tracing the curves of his body…swallowing him whole.
(No, goddammit, no!)
Think of your wife.
/Yes, this would be his ward…/
Think of your girlfriend.
/His sentinel to hold the pieces together…/
Think of a cheap one-night-stand hooker.
/His badge of shame… /
(Anyone but him!)
/Because in the end, he had given in./
When climax came, Lawrence was the one he cried out for.
Collapsing in defeat, Tucker finally let the tears fall with abandon down his flushed cheeks. Choked sobs wracked his weakened frame, running their course like a fever through his veins. He shut his eyes against the suddenly excruciating glare of artificial lights, only to see Lawrence grinning that same taunting grin at him from years ago.
The knowing grin.
(No more…)
Tucker shuddered violently, convulsively. When would it be over? Hadn’t he been humiliated enough?
A knock on the door broke through his haze of self-pity.
“Hey, Carlson!” It was Paul Begala. “Producer wants to see you.”
There was a long pause.
“Believe me, it isn’t pretty.” From the weary tone of voice, Tucker could only imagine the tongue-lashing that awaited him.
Looking back in the mirror, he realized his fist was still clenched tightly, knuckles white from the pressure. With a shaky breath, he slowly unfolded the hand.
Inside lay his crushed bow tie.