FIC.
Title: Where We Are Not Known (1/1)
Author: st-raoul
Rating: NC-17
Content: Gay hand jobs. Very gay.
Disclaimer: I am not making dime one from this.
Summary: Anderson and Rob go exploring the New York underground.
Notes: Last night, I found myself reseaching abandoned subway stations in Toronto, Lower Bay in particular, and then, I was looking up ones in New York. I thought it would be a great setting for a story, but I didn't know what, and then Rob was all manly with a flashlight strapped to his hip, as I imagine he is frequently.
And it's for dream_aloud, because no one else quite enjoys Anderson/Rob as much as he does, and he is oh-so indulgent of all my keyboard mashing whims of fic ideas.
Oh, and the Smiths song referenced within and from where I shamelessly stole the title is called These Things Take Time and it is fabulous, and miserable.
**
“I can't believe you've never done this,” Rob calls behind him, shining the flashlight down onto the ground. It's only a few feet down, but slippery and puddled.
“I can't believe you have,” Anderson yells forward, voice echoing a little strangely. He watches Rob drop effortlessly onto the ground, and grimaces. Now he has to do that, has to not fall on his face somehow, not drop the flashlight and his bag and not break his legs.
“Weren't you young and stupid once?”
“I was, but we didn't do dumb shit like this,” He tells Rob, sighs, and flings himself down. He stumbles a bit when he hits the ground, half on purpose because then Rob reaches out to steady him.
“Okay?” He asks lowly, one arm around Anderson's back, the other on his shoulder. Anderson nods and no one moves and it'd be sort of romantic if there wasn't the pervasive smell of mildew.
“Yeah,” Anderson responds finally, squinting to adjust his eyes. “I should have known there wouldn't be lights.”
“'Course not.” Rob says simply, moving away and grinning, then shining the flashlight above his head. “Look.”
Anderson does, and follows it with his own light. The ceiling is impossibly high, and he can see where they are now, gets his bearings a little. There's a platform just ahead of them, and Rob is already scrambling up. Old, rusted tracks run up and down and disappear around a curve on either side. He's seen it in pictures and postcards.
“This is so illegal,” Anderson remarks, climbing up onto the platform behind Rob. “You know, they closed this for a reason.”
But Rob isn't listening.
“Don't be so boring, it's still open for tours maybe once a year. It's safe.”
“Oh, so some unsuspecting tourists get to walk in on an anchor and a weatherman breaking into an old subway station?”
“I don't even know how they'd spin that story for publicity.”
“They wouldn't,” Anderson walks up beside Rob, shines his light on a leaded skylight, glass long gone. “I've seen pictures, it used to look gorgeous.”
“Yeah, when we used to sneak in here, it was a lot better,” Rob remarks, sighing a little. “You never crawled into a disused subway station?”
“No,” Anderson assures him, laughing, looping their arms together. “I did normal things.”
“Like alleys?”
“Exactly. You'd be surprised, there were some nice ones. There was one up on Clinton with a garden and all this old furniture. I wonder if it's still there.”
“So you'd take your boys to lush garden settings, and I'd just slam them into moldy tiles,” Rob remarked wistfully, smiling at Anderson's laugh, echoing in the tunnels and bouncing off the walls.
“The class system lives?”
“Clearly.”
“I can't believe you said 'disused subway station'.” Anderson shakes his head and breaks away from Rob again, tracing his fingers over a cracked mosaic on the wall.
“Why's that?”
“That Smiths song, the one with the...alcoholic afternoons, was it?”
“Oh yeah,” Rob remembers, leaning against the wall now, blocking Anderson's view of the tiles. “And that 'the most inept that ever slept' line. Such a weird rhyme.”
“My favourite part was 'the hills are alive with celibate cries.'”
“Jesus!” Rob laughs, grabbing for Anderson's arm and pulling him closer with a tug. “That was such miserable music.”
“And yet we can still quote it,” Anderson reminds him, “And don't tell me breaking into your old, smelly haunts is turning you on.”
“Well...”
“Ew, Rob,” Anderson chides him, even as he slips his arms around Rob's neck. “What if we get rabies or something?”
“Rabies.”
“Or typhoid. I remember seeing these old signs that said 'no spitting' on subway platforms when they first opened, because of - “
“Anderson, I'm not going to make you lick the floors.”
“Did we seriously just break into an old subway station to fuck?”
“Not entirely,” Rob starts, pouting, a little offended. “I wanted to see if we could still get down here, mostly. And we can, so..”
“So we might as well hump?”
Rob just nods, hands on Anderson's hips but that's all, no humping yet, no shoving and groping like he remembers from when he used to sneak in when he was downtown.
“We should sneak into the 18th Street platform. I used to go there too.”
“What a whore.”
“Yeah, well. College,” Rob rolls his eyes and Anderson narrows his.
“You went to college upstate. You weren't still sneaking into abandoned stations when you were a stockbroker?” Rob blushes a little, a rarity, and Anderson grins in triumph. “You were! That's so seedy. I mean, I could see if you were some broke college kid, but you had money and everything.”
“So did you, and I'm sure you weren't taking those boys to the alleys to look at the flowers.” Rob shoots back, and Anderson smirks up at him, fairly mashing himself closer. “Oh, now you want to fuck around amongst the squalor?”
“Maybe. Wouldn't it be weird if...nevermind,” Anderson starts and stops with an idea that's ridiculous and alluring and arousing and impossible.
“What?”
“Well, I mean. What if we'd met back then, and you brought me back here?”
“I certainly would have. That would have been so weird though, working with you later.”
“Yeah. But sort of hot.”
“The weirdest things turn you on, Cooper.”
“Oh, you're the one who made me crawl into an old subway station so we could fuck.”
“And you're getting turned on by it, so who's to blame here?”
Anderson starts up again with a response but Rob clamps his hand over his mouth, eyes turning a little stern and dark. Anderson's eyebrows shoot up and he squeaks, a little unbecoming perhaps, but it's not his fault, really. Rob jams a leg in between Anderson's then, rocking himself forward.
“When I move my hand, you are going to shut up, right?”
Anderson nods and Rob moves his hand, twisting it in Anderson's shirt, tugging him up for a kiss. It's all mashing and impatience everywhere, both of them sort of surprised to find the other a little hard. Anderson is already pushing his hips forward insistently, suddenly overcome by a need he didn't know was there, didn't expect in this setting. Rob is tugging at Anderson's belt already, wasting no time and secretly hoping there isn't a tour group today, because he didn't check up on it.
“I think you're enjoying this more than I am,” Rob teases lowly, but his voices sound impossibly loud anyway. Still, Anderson's breathy intakes rival it for sound and years later, Rob will remember his first little moan clashing against the tiles. With his hand firmly in Anderson's pants, Anderson panting in his face, the cavern-like space seems to shrink down to nothing, down to the immediate area around them.
“God, I'm inconsiderate,” Anderson mumbles, groping Rob through his jeans at last. Rob laughs a little, what Anderson calls his fuck laugh, this throaty grumbled thing that he strives for sometimes, loves hearing over the phone too. Rob isn't as hard yet, but Anderson digs him out and works on stroking him a little roughly, just enough for him to notice.
And he does, breath hitching in his throat, one hand squeezing on Anderson's cock and the other on his hip, pulling him senselessly close. He tugs Anderson out as well, shifts his hips a little, adjusts the angles just right and they're rubbing against each other. It's a tad dark to see everything, and it's a shame because he's sure it would be pretty and memorable.
He can barely make out the pale corners of Anderson's face, close and blurred, eyes shut up tight, eyebrows low and serious. It's the same look he gets when he's writing, when he's concentrating so hard on something that he forgets everything else around him.
Anderson hasn't though; He knows where they are, can hear the drip-dripping of the water from the ceiling, smells the must when he inhales, but he doesn't care. It makes it better, somehow, in a way he's never really been able to figure out. He laces his hand around Rob's, moves them in unison, humps almost desperately at him. Rob was right, of course, he is enjoying this far more than he thought he would.
It's damp and cold and creepy, but Rob is white hot against him, they're dripping, sticking up their hands and each other. Anderson has one hand clutching at the back of Rob's shirt, trying to use it for leverage. He wants to say something but knows he won't get it out; his moans are the ones echoing. Whatever he'd say anyway, Rob knows it.
Rob knows, certainly, that Anderson isn't this easy to get off at home. Anderson's nails are digging into the hard flesh of his side now, his head rammed and pushing at his shoulder. It must be the setting, Rob thinks smugly, hand going from Anderson's hip to the back of his neck, fiercely grabbing at his head. Anderson makes a strangled noise into Rob's shoulder, bites him, grabs his side like a vice and comes, all at once. It's a lot for Rob to take in, but a lot more for Anderson.
He notices, somehow, that Rob's shirt is forfeit now, streaks of his come dripping down it near the bottom. His vision is a little blurred, his body buzzing and yet limp and spent at the same time. Rob is still clutching at the back of his head, big hand nearly engulfing it. Anderson concentrates on Rob's cock, letting his own hips fall back a little. Their hands are still twined together, sticky and covered with Anderson's come, and Rob is dripping more than before. Everything seems damp and warm and lovely.
Rob isn't loud, usually, just full of gasps and twitches and Anderson likes that. He likes even more when he's rewarded with noise, no matter how much; it makes him feel accomplished, in a way. And Rob is making noise, low grunts as Anderson's hand slides over him, grip changing with every stroke until he finally settles on hard and tight.
And that works just fine. Anderson's head is still mashed to Rob's shoulder, eyes down, trying to watch as much as he can in the darkness. Rob is twitching under his fist, and his hand closes tighter around Anderson's, shoving himself up hard and then just rocking his hips. Anderson feels his muscles clenching and his pulse racing when he shoots and grunts a little. His come falls back onto their hands, and everything is a very pleasant sort of mess.
Rob doesn't let Anderson's hand go, lets it get caught between the two of them when he hauls Anderson closer, panting on his neck for a few minutes, and trying to regain his breath.
“Do, uh, did you pack a towel?” Rob asks, after a while, and Anderson can't help but break into a laugh.
“I usually do.”
“That's right, weirdo.”
“I'm prepared, that's all.” He finally breaks away from Rob and digs into his bag with his dry hand, pulling out a towel and wiping off his other hand. He turns away from Rob to clean up his cock though, and Rob laughs a little, the low sex laugh he enjoys so, so much.
“It's not like I haven't seen you do that before.”
“Just clean up,” Anderson urges, tossing the towel at him and zipping himself back up, checking his shirt for any sort of stains. He watches Rob cleaning himself off without a hint of shame, dabbing at the stains on his own shirt, frowning at them.
“You didn't bring an extra shirt, did you?”
“Sorry,” Anderson leans towards him, assessing the damage. “Well, everyone will assume it's mayonnaise. You look like a big straight condiment spilling kind of guy.”
“Not walking next to you, I don't,” Rob tosses the towel back to Anderson, who misses it, and rolls his eyes. Rob also grabs his ass when he bends over to pick it up. “Let's get out of here, enough historical breaking and entering.”
“You said something about 18th Street?” Anderson follows him back to the narrow little hole they came down, and Rob flashes a grin before he hauls himself up into it.
“That's my boy. All adventure and danger.”
“And stupidity,” Anderson reminds him, following him up, and eventually, out.
Author: st-raoul
Rating: NC-17
Content: Gay hand jobs. Very gay.
Disclaimer: I am not making dime one from this.
Summary: Anderson and Rob go exploring the New York underground.
Notes: Last night, I found myself reseaching abandoned subway stations in Toronto, Lower Bay in particular, and then, I was looking up ones in New York. I thought it would be a great setting for a story, but I didn't know what, and then Rob was all manly with a flashlight strapped to his hip, as I imagine he is frequently.
And it's for dream_aloud, because no one else quite enjoys Anderson/Rob as much as he does, and he is oh-so indulgent of all my keyboard mashing whims of fic ideas.
Oh, and the Smiths song referenced within and from where I shamelessly stole the title is called These Things Take Time and it is fabulous, and miserable.
**
“I can't believe you've never done this,” Rob calls behind him, shining the flashlight down onto the ground. It's only a few feet down, but slippery and puddled.
“I can't believe you have,” Anderson yells forward, voice echoing a little strangely. He watches Rob drop effortlessly onto the ground, and grimaces. Now he has to do that, has to not fall on his face somehow, not drop the flashlight and his bag and not break his legs.
“Weren't you young and stupid once?”
“I was, but we didn't do dumb shit like this,” He tells Rob, sighs, and flings himself down. He stumbles a bit when he hits the ground, half on purpose because then Rob reaches out to steady him.
“Okay?” He asks lowly, one arm around Anderson's back, the other on his shoulder. Anderson nods and no one moves and it'd be sort of romantic if there wasn't the pervasive smell of mildew.
“Yeah,” Anderson responds finally, squinting to adjust his eyes. “I should have known there wouldn't be lights.”
“'Course not.” Rob says simply, moving away and grinning, then shining the flashlight above his head. “Look.”
Anderson does, and follows it with his own light. The ceiling is impossibly high, and he can see where they are now, gets his bearings a little. There's a platform just ahead of them, and Rob is already scrambling up. Old, rusted tracks run up and down and disappear around a curve on either side. He's seen it in pictures and postcards.
“This is so illegal,” Anderson remarks, climbing up onto the platform behind Rob. “You know, they closed this for a reason.”
But Rob isn't listening.
“Don't be so boring, it's still open for tours maybe once a year. It's safe.”
“Oh, so some unsuspecting tourists get to walk in on an anchor and a weatherman breaking into an old subway station?”
“I don't even know how they'd spin that story for publicity.”
“They wouldn't,” Anderson walks up beside Rob, shines his light on a leaded skylight, glass long gone. “I've seen pictures, it used to look gorgeous.”
“Yeah, when we used to sneak in here, it was a lot better,” Rob remarks, sighing a little. “You never crawled into a disused subway station?”
“No,” Anderson assures him, laughing, looping their arms together. “I did normal things.”
“Like alleys?”
“Exactly. You'd be surprised, there were some nice ones. There was one up on Clinton with a garden and all this old furniture. I wonder if it's still there.”
“So you'd take your boys to lush garden settings, and I'd just slam them into moldy tiles,” Rob remarked wistfully, smiling at Anderson's laugh, echoing in the tunnels and bouncing off the walls.
“The class system lives?”
“Clearly.”
“I can't believe you said 'disused subway station'.” Anderson shakes his head and breaks away from Rob again, tracing his fingers over a cracked mosaic on the wall.
“Why's that?”
“That Smiths song, the one with the...alcoholic afternoons, was it?”
“Oh yeah,” Rob remembers, leaning against the wall now, blocking Anderson's view of the tiles. “And that 'the most inept that ever slept' line. Such a weird rhyme.”
“My favourite part was 'the hills are alive with celibate cries.'”
“Jesus!” Rob laughs, grabbing for Anderson's arm and pulling him closer with a tug. “That was such miserable music.”
“And yet we can still quote it,” Anderson reminds him, “And don't tell me breaking into your old, smelly haunts is turning you on.”
“Well...”
“Ew, Rob,” Anderson chides him, even as he slips his arms around Rob's neck. “What if we get rabies or something?”
“Rabies.”
“Or typhoid. I remember seeing these old signs that said 'no spitting' on subway platforms when they first opened, because of - “
“Anderson, I'm not going to make you lick the floors.”
“Did we seriously just break into an old subway station to fuck?”
“Not entirely,” Rob starts, pouting, a little offended. “I wanted to see if we could still get down here, mostly. And we can, so..”
“So we might as well hump?”
Rob just nods, hands on Anderson's hips but that's all, no humping yet, no shoving and groping like he remembers from when he used to sneak in when he was downtown.
“We should sneak into the 18th Street platform. I used to go there too.”
“What a whore.”
“Yeah, well. College,” Rob rolls his eyes and Anderson narrows his.
“You went to college upstate. You weren't still sneaking into abandoned stations when you were a stockbroker?” Rob blushes a little, a rarity, and Anderson grins in triumph. “You were! That's so seedy. I mean, I could see if you were some broke college kid, but you had money and everything.”
“So did you, and I'm sure you weren't taking those boys to the alleys to look at the flowers.” Rob shoots back, and Anderson smirks up at him, fairly mashing himself closer. “Oh, now you want to fuck around amongst the squalor?”
“Maybe. Wouldn't it be weird if...nevermind,” Anderson starts and stops with an idea that's ridiculous and alluring and arousing and impossible.
“What?”
“Well, I mean. What if we'd met back then, and you brought me back here?”
“I certainly would have. That would have been so weird though, working with you later.”
“Yeah. But sort of hot.”
“The weirdest things turn you on, Cooper.”
“Oh, you're the one who made me crawl into an old subway station so we could fuck.”
“And you're getting turned on by it, so who's to blame here?”
Anderson starts up again with a response but Rob clamps his hand over his mouth, eyes turning a little stern and dark. Anderson's eyebrows shoot up and he squeaks, a little unbecoming perhaps, but it's not his fault, really. Rob jams a leg in between Anderson's then, rocking himself forward.
“When I move my hand, you are going to shut up, right?”
Anderson nods and Rob moves his hand, twisting it in Anderson's shirt, tugging him up for a kiss. It's all mashing and impatience everywhere, both of them sort of surprised to find the other a little hard. Anderson is already pushing his hips forward insistently, suddenly overcome by a need he didn't know was there, didn't expect in this setting. Rob is tugging at Anderson's belt already, wasting no time and secretly hoping there isn't a tour group today, because he didn't check up on it.
“I think you're enjoying this more than I am,” Rob teases lowly, but his voices sound impossibly loud anyway. Still, Anderson's breathy intakes rival it for sound and years later, Rob will remember his first little moan clashing against the tiles. With his hand firmly in Anderson's pants, Anderson panting in his face, the cavern-like space seems to shrink down to nothing, down to the immediate area around them.
“God, I'm inconsiderate,” Anderson mumbles, groping Rob through his jeans at last. Rob laughs a little, what Anderson calls his fuck laugh, this throaty grumbled thing that he strives for sometimes, loves hearing over the phone too. Rob isn't as hard yet, but Anderson digs him out and works on stroking him a little roughly, just enough for him to notice.
And he does, breath hitching in his throat, one hand squeezing on Anderson's cock and the other on his hip, pulling him senselessly close. He tugs Anderson out as well, shifts his hips a little, adjusts the angles just right and they're rubbing against each other. It's a tad dark to see everything, and it's a shame because he's sure it would be pretty and memorable.
He can barely make out the pale corners of Anderson's face, close and blurred, eyes shut up tight, eyebrows low and serious. It's the same look he gets when he's writing, when he's concentrating so hard on something that he forgets everything else around him.
Anderson hasn't though; He knows where they are, can hear the drip-dripping of the water from the ceiling, smells the must when he inhales, but he doesn't care. It makes it better, somehow, in a way he's never really been able to figure out. He laces his hand around Rob's, moves them in unison, humps almost desperately at him. Rob was right, of course, he is enjoying this far more than he thought he would.
It's damp and cold and creepy, but Rob is white hot against him, they're dripping, sticking up their hands and each other. Anderson has one hand clutching at the back of Rob's shirt, trying to use it for leverage. He wants to say something but knows he won't get it out; his moans are the ones echoing. Whatever he'd say anyway, Rob knows it.
Rob knows, certainly, that Anderson isn't this easy to get off at home. Anderson's nails are digging into the hard flesh of his side now, his head rammed and pushing at his shoulder. It must be the setting, Rob thinks smugly, hand going from Anderson's hip to the back of his neck, fiercely grabbing at his head. Anderson makes a strangled noise into Rob's shoulder, bites him, grabs his side like a vice and comes, all at once. It's a lot for Rob to take in, but a lot more for Anderson.
He notices, somehow, that Rob's shirt is forfeit now, streaks of his come dripping down it near the bottom. His vision is a little blurred, his body buzzing and yet limp and spent at the same time. Rob is still clutching at the back of his head, big hand nearly engulfing it. Anderson concentrates on Rob's cock, letting his own hips fall back a little. Their hands are still twined together, sticky and covered with Anderson's come, and Rob is dripping more than before. Everything seems damp and warm and lovely.
Rob isn't loud, usually, just full of gasps and twitches and Anderson likes that. He likes even more when he's rewarded with noise, no matter how much; it makes him feel accomplished, in a way. And Rob is making noise, low grunts as Anderson's hand slides over him, grip changing with every stroke until he finally settles on hard and tight.
And that works just fine. Anderson's head is still mashed to Rob's shoulder, eyes down, trying to watch as much as he can in the darkness. Rob is twitching under his fist, and his hand closes tighter around Anderson's, shoving himself up hard and then just rocking his hips. Anderson feels his muscles clenching and his pulse racing when he shoots and grunts a little. His come falls back onto their hands, and everything is a very pleasant sort of mess.
Rob doesn't let Anderson's hand go, lets it get caught between the two of them when he hauls Anderson closer, panting on his neck for a few minutes, and trying to regain his breath.
“Do, uh, did you pack a towel?” Rob asks, after a while, and Anderson can't help but break into a laugh.
“I usually do.”
“That's right, weirdo.”
“I'm prepared, that's all.” He finally breaks away from Rob and digs into his bag with his dry hand, pulling out a towel and wiping off his other hand. He turns away from Rob to clean up his cock though, and Rob laughs a little, the low sex laugh he enjoys so, so much.
“It's not like I haven't seen you do that before.”
“Just clean up,” Anderson urges, tossing the towel at him and zipping himself back up, checking his shirt for any sort of stains. He watches Rob cleaning himself off without a hint of shame, dabbing at the stains on his own shirt, frowning at them.
“You didn't bring an extra shirt, did you?”
“Sorry,” Anderson leans towards him, assessing the damage. “Well, everyone will assume it's mayonnaise. You look like a big straight condiment spilling kind of guy.”
“Not walking next to you, I don't,” Rob tosses the towel back to Anderson, who misses it, and rolls his eyes. Rob also grabs his ass when he bends over to pick it up. “Let's get out of here, enough historical breaking and entering.”
“You said something about 18th Street?” Anderson follows him back to the narrow little hole they came down, and Rob flashes a grin before he hauls himself up into it.
“That's my boy. All adventure and danger.”
“And stupidity,” Anderson reminds him, following him up, and eventually, out.