The Pride of the Yankees
Title: The Pride of the Yankees
Pairing(s): Keith/Anderson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,099
Summary: Keith has a terrible, no good, very bad day. Anderson makes everything better.
Disclaimer: Keith and Andy belong to themselves and this never happened.
A/N: This is for dutchtulips who came up with original idea and encouraged me to run with it. She also came up with the title (from the movie of the same name). While I'm at it, this is the most graphic thing I've ever written, even though it's not all that graphic. It *is* porny, however. Quite porny. If you need a visual, this is basically what Andy is wearing.
Keith huffs down the sidewalk, clutching his briefcase to his chest. After the day he’d just had, it was only logical for the lock to smash after it fell to the floor when the handle broke.
Because, of course, it hadn’t been enough that he’d woken up late that morning (he swears he set that alarm), had to forgo his coffee (the stuff at the office is swill), nearly got clipped by a taxi trying to get to the subway, and then discovered on the subway that he’d left his cell phone at home, so he couldn’t call ahead to say he was running late. Then, inevitably, was nearly 30 minutes late to the morning meeting.
Normally he’d take his frustrations out on someone in the news, but no, it was a slow news day on top of it all. There wasn’t even anything to call O’Reilly out on. How often does that happen? What the hell did he do to deserve that?
By some miracle, he makes it to his apartment door without further incident. He leans against it as he fiddles the key into the lock, thinking he’ll just grab a beer and see what’s playing on YES. Order some pizza. Maybe call Anderson while he’s at it.
As the door swings open, it instantly becomes apparent that last one won’t be necessary.
Because Anderson is right there, a newspaper spread out on the counter in front of him, looking up at Keith with a smile. "Hey."
Keith opens his mouth to reply, but gets distracted by something out of place. With Anderson. His jaw snaps shut as he tries to figure it out. Did he get a haircut? No. Did he get glasses? No. Then…it hits him.
"You're wearing my shirt."
By this time, Anderson had an eyebrow raised that Colbert would have been proud of, but it eases away as Keith finally speaks. He glances down, face turning red. "Uh, yeah."
And it’s true. One of Keith's favorites, too: an exact replica of a Yankees jersey. Well, Keith doesn't actually wear it that much because it seems like he wears the suit and tie more often than not these days, and it's just not the kind of shirt you wear around the house with no where to go and he's got another shirt for the games, his lucky shirt that has a beer stain from when he got a little too excited over a grand slam once and -
Keith suddenly realizes that Anderson is talking.
"…washer is broken so I thought it would be okay if I came over to use yours. Figured I might as well wash what I was wearing too." He smirks, reaches over to grab Keith's cell phone from where it had been sitting all day and holds it up. "I did try calling first."
"Huh." Keith is finding it difficult to form words.
Anderson frowns, slowly putting the phone down. "If it's a problem, I can -"
"I don't mind." He doesn't really need his brain for small words, he finds.
Keith really can't focus properly, because when Anderson moved to grab the phone, he'd also revealed something very important: he isn't wearing any pants. Just that jersey, which kinda hangs off his shoulders because it was slightly big on Keith, which means it's huge on Anderson, so it shows off his neck and just enough of his chest to make Keith think that Anderson is a serious fucking tease and -
"Keith?" Anderson's voice puts a stop to his brain bouncing off the rails.
"Huh?" he asks intelligently, his mouth gone dry.
He can clearly see Anderson's legs now. He's standing, a barstool pushed aside so he could do just that. Probably because somewhere in the world there's boy who works nine hours a day in a mine to help his family because his dad is dead and his mom is sick and he has two little sisters who need to eat and he doesn't get to sit down, so it's really only fair that Anderson doesn't sit on the stool that Keith bought on impulse because it was 50% off and, yeah, it has an ugly plaid cover but he's never claimed to be an interior decorator -
“You’re staring.”
"You're standing." There's a brief pause in which Keith remembers he hates stating the obvious. "In my shirt." Well, so much for that.
"Are we still stuck on that detail? I thought you -"
"I'm not complaining."
"Okay…"
Keith finally tears his eyes away from Anderson, as if just realizing that he’s still standing in the doorway, clutching that damn briefcase to his chest. He shuts the door with his foot and carefully sets the briefcase down so it doesn’t fall open. He tries to remember what his plans were before he opened the door, but even when he’s facing the wall as he hangs his trench coat on its hook, he can still see Anderson. And he’s wearing a Yankee jersey.
He still needs a drink.
His tongue feels thick in his mouth as he opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of beer. He can feel Anderson’s eyes on him, burning twin holes in his back. He’s got to clear his mind. He says the first thing he thinks of.
“There was a guy on the subway this morning.” He snaps the cap off the bottle and finally turns to face Anderson, leaning against the counter. “He had a mustache.”
“A mustache?”
“A mustache,” Keith confirms, taking a drink.
That damn smirk is back again, and Keith feels himself go a little weak in the knees. “Are we talking Adolf Hitler 1939, John Waters 1979, or Keith Olbermann 1989?”
“More like Larry Csonka 1969, and that was 1992, thank you very much.”
The smirk turns into a crooked grin that Keith wants to press his mouth into. Anderson abandons his newspaper, stepping away from the counter to move towards him. Keith suddenly has no idea where he was going with the guy on the subway, because Anderson’s wearing that goddamn shirt, black stripes reaching down to legs that Keith knows are strong as they look.
Also, Anderson is now directly in front of him, blue eyes clouded with something Keith can’t quite identify.
“You know what I think?” His voice is low and sends a chill down Keith’s spine. He absently sets his beer down behind him.
“What -” Keith tries to get a grasp on his verbal skills as Anderson presses up against him, half hard. “What do you think?”
Anderson reaches up to whisper in his ear. “I think you want to debauch me right now.”
Any other time, Keith might have laughed at the word ‘debauch,’ but Anderson says it like it’s a sin, and it’s one that Keith is only too happy to commit right now.
Before he can even think, he grabs fistfuls of Anderson’s (his) shirt, turns him around, and shoves him against the refrigerator with a growl. Then he’s kissing him, and judging by the noises Anderson is making and the way he puts his hands on the back of Keith’s head, he’s doing a damn good job.
Anderson’s mouth is nice, but this shirt is showing off a neck that would be a shame to waste. So he lets go of Anderson’s bottom lip with a slight pop and trails his way down his throat, down to the almost bare shoulder, where he bites lightly, causing Anderson to gasp.
“Keith.” He can tell Anderson is speaking through clenched teeth, head thrown back, eyes probably closed. “You should really let go of my shirt and do something.”
He presses a smile to Anderson’s shoulder and lifts his head back up to his ear. “My shirt.”
Part of him doesn’t want to do what Anderson says, but he just had the Day From Hell and his brain is finally making the transition to Night From Heaven. He lets go with left hand, dragging it down, feeling the muscles underneath the loose fabric.
“Jesus, Keith,” Anderson mutters as he tries to simultaneously remove Keith’s other hand and grab the edges of the jersey to pull it off.
Keith practically snarls as he grabs both of Anderson’s hands with both of his own and pins them above his head. “The shirt. Stays. On.” At that, a light of understanding appears in Anderson’s eyes and Keith can feel his full erection against his leg.
Anderson nods emphatically, too breathless for words.
Keith just gives a feral smile. He drops his right hand, leaving his left still pinning Anderson’s right hand above his head. He continues running it down Anderson’s body, watching as it goes over the Yankees logo and all the way down to the edge. He tugs the shirt up just enough so he can get to the skin underneath.
By this time his own dick is so hard he can feel it twitching, so he decides he’s done with being slow. In one swift motion, he pushes Anderson’s boxers down and takes his cock in his hand, swiping his thumb over the tip.
A moan escapes Anderson as he bangs his head back against the fridge. Keith can’t help himself, so he leans in to lick a stripe from Anderson’s shoulder to his ear as he strokes with his right hand, his left hand curling around Anderson’s fingers.
Anderson uses his free hand to grab the back of Keith’s head and tries his best to shove his tongue down Keith’s throat. Keith licks and sucks at whatever his lips touch - Anderson’s lips, the roof of his mouth, his tongue.
Then Anderson pulls back just slightly. “Faster,” he pants against Keith’s mouth, bucking his hips.
So Keith strokes faster, putting all his concentration into it. Anderson’s breathing becomes heavier and more erratic, and Keith can tell he’s close. All at once, he gives Anderson’s cock a slight squeeze and bites down on his shoulder.
“Fuck, I’m going to -“ That’s not much of a warning, because as he says that, Anderson gives one last thrust and Keith’s hand is sticky and wet.
They’re quiet for a moment, Anderson bringing himself back down, Keith finally dropping his left hand and pressing their foreheads together. He gives it one last gentle stroke and then releases Anderson’s cock. He wipes his hand on the jersey. I think I have a new lucky shirt.
The thought is barely out of his head when Anderson pushes him back against the counter behind him, quickly removing his belt and unzipping his pants. He wastes no time in getting to his knees, bringing Keith’s pants down with him.
He takes Keith’s cock in his hand, giving it a couple of good strokes. Keith reaches down to clutch the black-striped cotton in a vice-grip, which is a good thing when Anderson drags his tongue from the base of his dick to the tip and he nearly jumps out of his skin. And again when he takes the whole length in his mouth.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Andy,” Keith moans. Anderson’s tongue is busy swirling around the head, then he’s bobbing up and down expertly, his hand just barely squeezing the base.
Keith knows he’s not going to last much longer. His eyes are squeezed shut, his breathing becoming more labored.
Then three things happen at once. Anderson gently rubs Keith’s balls with his free hand, scrapes his teeth just slightly against Keith’s cock, and there’s an image in Keith’s head of Anderson standing in front of him with nothing on but that goddamn Yankees jersey.
Stars explode behind his eyes as he comes hard, Anderson’s name on his lips. The man takes it all down his throat, then let’s Keith’s dick drop out of his mouth, giving it a parting lick.
He tugs Keith’s hand until he lets go of the shirt and pulls him down to the floor with him. Keith’s legs are like Jello at this point, so it’s easy to follow.
They lean against the cupboards in silence for a few minutes, Anderson’s fingers still entangled with Keith’s. Finally, he leans over to press a kiss to Keith’s cheek.
“Larry Csonka, huh?”
“It looked like a caterpillar growing on his lip!”
“Funny, I’d always thought that about yours.”
“Hey, I’ve been thinking about growing it back.”
“Not if you ever want what just happened to happen again.”
Keith chuckles softly as Anderson lays his head on his shoulder. He closes his eyes, not really caring if they fall asleep right here on his kitchen floor.
He decides it was a great day after all.
END.
Hope you enjoyed! :D
Pairing(s): Keith/Anderson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,099
Summary: Keith has a terrible, no good, very bad day. Anderson makes everything better.
Disclaimer: Keith and Andy belong to themselves and this never happened.
A/N: This is for dutchtulips who came up with original idea and encouraged me to run with it. She also came up with the title (from the movie of the same name). While I'm at it, this is the most graphic thing I've ever written, even though it's not all that graphic. It *is* porny, however. Quite porny. If you need a visual, this is basically what Andy is wearing.
Keith huffs down the sidewalk, clutching his briefcase to his chest. After the day he’d just had, it was only logical for the lock to smash after it fell to the floor when the handle broke.
Because, of course, it hadn’t been enough that he’d woken up late that morning (he swears he set that alarm), had to forgo his coffee (the stuff at the office is swill), nearly got clipped by a taxi trying to get to the subway, and then discovered on the subway that he’d left his cell phone at home, so he couldn’t call ahead to say he was running late. Then, inevitably, was nearly 30 minutes late to the morning meeting.
Normally he’d take his frustrations out on someone in the news, but no, it was a slow news day on top of it all. There wasn’t even anything to call O’Reilly out on. How often does that happen? What the hell did he do to deserve that?
By some miracle, he makes it to his apartment door without further incident. He leans against it as he fiddles the key into the lock, thinking he’ll just grab a beer and see what’s playing on YES. Order some pizza. Maybe call Anderson while he’s at it.
As the door swings open, it instantly becomes apparent that last one won’t be necessary.
Because Anderson is right there, a newspaper spread out on the counter in front of him, looking up at Keith with a smile. "Hey."
Keith opens his mouth to reply, but gets distracted by something out of place. With Anderson. His jaw snaps shut as he tries to figure it out. Did he get a haircut? No. Did he get glasses? No. Then…it hits him.
"You're wearing my shirt."
By this time, Anderson had an eyebrow raised that Colbert would have been proud of, but it eases away as Keith finally speaks. He glances down, face turning red. "Uh, yeah."
And it’s true. One of Keith's favorites, too: an exact replica of a Yankees jersey. Well, Keith doesn't actually wear it that much because it seems like he wears the suit and tie more often than not these days, and it's just not the kind of shirt you wear around the house with no where to go and he's got another shirt for the games, his lucky shirt that has a beer stain from when he got a little too excited over a grand slam once and -
Keith suddenly realizes that Anderson is talking.
"…washer is broken so I thought it would be okay if I came over to use yours. Figured I might as well wash what I was wearing too." He smirks, reaches over to grab Keith's cell phone from where it had been sitting all day and holds it up. "I did try calling first."
"Huh." Keith is finding it difficult to form words.
Anderson frowns, slowly putting the phone down. "If it's a problem, I can -"
"I don't mind." He doesn't really need his brain for small words, he finds.
Keith really can't focus properly, because when Anderson moved to grab the phone, he'd also revealed something very important: he isn't wearing any pants. Just that jersey, which kinda hangs off his shoulders because it was slightly big on Keith, which means it's huge on Anderson, so it shows off his neck and just enough of his chest to make Keith think that Anderson is a serious fucking tease and -
"Keith?" Anderson's voice puts a stop to his brain bouncing off the rails.
"Huh?" he asks intelligently, his mouth gone dry.
He can clearly see Anderson's legs now. He's standing, a barstool pushed aside so he could do just that. Probably because somewhere in the world there's boy who works nine hours a day in a mine to help his family because his dad is dead and his mom is sick and he has two little sisters who need to eat and he doesn't get to sit down, so it's really only fair that Anderson doesn't sit on the stool that Keith bought on impulse because it was 50% off and, yeah, it has an ugly plaid cover but he's never claimed to be an interior decorator -
“You’re staring.”
"You're standing." There's a brief pause in which Keith remembers he hates stating the obvious. "In my shirt." Well, so much for that.
"Are we still stuck on that detail? I thought you -"
"I'm not complaining."
"Okay…"
Keith finally tears his eyes away from Anderson, as if just realizing that he’s still standing in the doorway, clutching that damn briefcase to his chest. He shuts the door with his foot and carefully sets the briefcase down so it doesn’t fall open. He tries to remember what his plans were before he opened the door, but even when he’s facing the wall as he hangs his trench coat on its hook, he can still see Anderson. And he’s wearing a Yankee jersey.
He still needs a drink.
His tongue feels thick in his mouth as he opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of beer. He can feel Anderson’s eyes on him, burning twin holes in his back. He’s got to clear his mind. He says the first thing he thinks of.
“There was a guy on the subway this morning.” He snaps the cap off the bottle and finally turns to face Anderson, leaning against the counter. “He had a mustache.”
“A mustache?”
“A mustache,” Keith confirms, taking a drink.
That damn smirk is back again, and Keith feels himself go a little weak in the knees. “Are we talking Adolf Hitler 1939, John Waters 1979, or Keith Olbermann 1989?”
“More like Larry Csonka 1969, and that was 1992, thank you very much.”
The smirk turns into a crooked grin that Keith wants to press his mouth into. Anderson abandons his newspaper, stepping away from the counter to move towards him. Keith suddenly has no idea where he was going with the guy on the subway, because Anderson’s wearing that goddamn shirt, black stripes reaching down to legs that Keith knows are strong as they look.
Also, Anderson is now directly in front of him, blue eyes clouded with something Keith can’t quite identify.
“You know what I think?” His voice is low and sends a chill down Keith’s spine. He absently sets his beer down behind him.
“What -” Keith tries to get a grasp on his verbal skills as Anderson presses up against him, half hard. “What do you think?”
Anderson reaches up to whisper in his ear. “I think you want to debauch me right now.”
Any other time, Keith might have laughed at the word ‘debauch,’ but Anderson says it like it’s a sin, and it’s one that Keith is only too happy to commit right now.
Before he can even think, he grabs fistfuls of Anderson’s (his) shirt, turns him around, and shoves him against the refrigerator with a growl. Then he’s kissing him, and judging by the noises Anderson is making and the way he puts his hands on the back of Keith’s head, he’s doing a damn good job.
Anderson’s mouth is nice, but this shirt is showing off a neck that would be a shame to waste. So he lets go of Anderson’s bottom lip with a slight pop and trails his way down his throat, down to the almost bare shoulder, where he bites lightly, causing Anderson to gasp.
“Keith.” He can tell Anderson is speaking through clenched teeth, head thrown back, eyes probably closed. “You should really let go of my shirt and do something.”
He presses a smile to Anderson’s shoulder and lifts his head back up to his ear. “My shirt.”
Part of him doesn’t want to do what Anderson says, but he just had the Day From Hell and his brain is finally making the transition to Night From Heaven. He lets go with left hand, dragging it down, feeling the muscles underneath the loose fabric.
“Jesus, Keith,” Anderson mutters as he tries to simultaneously remove Keith’s other hand and grab the edges of the jersey to pull it off.
Keith practically snarls as he grabs both of Anderson’s hands with both of his own and pins them above his head. “The shirt. Stays. On.” At that, a light of understanding appears in Anderson’s eyes and Keith can feel his full erection against his leg.
Anderson nods emphatically, too breathless for words.
Keith just gives a feral smile. He drops his right hand, leaving his left still pinning Anderson’s right hand above his head. He continues running it down Anderson’s body, watching as it goes over the Yankees logo and all the way down to the edge. He tugs the shirt up just enough so he can get to the skin underneath.
By this time his own dick is so hard he can feel it twitching, so he decides he’s done with being slow. In one swift motion, he pushes Anderson’s boxers down and takes his cock in his hand, swiping his thumb over the tip.
A moan escapes Anderson as he bangs his head back against the fridge. Keith can’t help himself, so he leans in to lick a stripe from Anderson’s shoulder to his ear as he strokes with his right hand, his left hand curling around Anderson’s fingers.
Anderson uses his free hand to grab the back of Keith’s head and tries his best to shove his tongue down Keith’s throat. Keith licks and sucks at whatever his lips touch - Anderson’s lips, the roof of his mouth, his tongue.
Then Anderson pulls back just slightly. “Faster,” he pants against Keith’s mouth, bucking his hips.
So Keith strokes faster, putting all his concentration into it. Anderson’s breathing becomes heavier and more erratic, and Keith can tell he’s close. All at once, he gives Anderson’s cock a slight squeeze and bites down on his shoulder.
“Fuck, I’m going to -“ That’s not much of a warning, because as he says that, Anderson gives one last thrust and Keith’s hand is sticky and wet.
They’re quiet for a moment, Anderson bringing himself back down, Keith finally dropping his left hand and pressing their foreheads together. He gives it one last gentle stroke and then releases Anderson’s cock. He wipes his hand on the jersey. I think I have a new lucky shirt.
The thought is barely out of his head when Anderson pushes him back against the counter behind him, quickly removing his belt and unzipping his pants. He wastes no time in getting to his knees, bringing Keith’s pants down with him.
He takes Keith’s cock in his hand, giving it a couple of good strokes. Keith reaches down to clutch the black-striped cotton in a vice-grip, which is a good thing when Anderson drags his tongue from the base of his dick to the tip and he nearly jumps out of his skin. And again when he takes the whole length in his mouth.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Andy,” Keith moans. Anderson’s tongue is busy swirling around the head, then he’s bobbing up and down expertly, his hand just barely squeezing the base.
Keith knows he’s not going to last much longer. His eyes are squeezed shut, his breathing becoming more labored.
Then three things happen at once. Anderson gently rubs Keith’s balls with his free hand, scrapes his teeth just slightly against Keith’s cock, and there’s an image in Keith’s head of Anderson standing in front of him with nothing on but that goddamn Yankees jersey.
Stars explode behind his eyes as he comes hard, Anderson’s name on his lips. The man takes it all down his throat, then let’s Keith’s dick drop out of his mouth, giving it a parting lick.
He tugs Keith’s hand until he lets go of the shirt and pulls him down to the floor with him. Keith’s legs are like Jello at this point, so it’s easy to follow.
They lean against the cupboards in silence for a few minutes, Anderson’s fingers still entangled with Keith’s. Finally, he leans over to press a kiss to Keith’s cheek.
“Larry Csonka, huh?”
“It looked like a caterpillar growing on his lip!”
“Funny, I’d always thought that about yours.”
“Hey, I’ve been thinking about growing it back.”
“Not if you ever want what just happened to happen again.”
Keith chuckles softly as Anderson lays his head on his shoulder. He closes his eyes, not really caring if they fall asleep right here on his kitchen floor.
He decides it was a great day after all.
END.
Hope you enjoyed! :D