punditslash fic: Frame by Frame
Title: Frame by Frame
Author: whiterabbit1613
Series: AC360, CwKO
Rating: R for sexy time
Warnings: Very mildly kinky sex.
Disclaimer:
All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual. Anderson Cooper 360 and Countdown with Keith Olbermann are the creative property of their respective producers.
Summary: Anderson, Keith, and a pair of glasses end up on the kitchen counter. (Anderson/Keith) (~2000 words)
Author’s Note: Thanks to everyone who commented on my first story. I would have had this one up earlier, but there were many factors working against me, including this one memorable time where I got stranded overnight in Newark, New Jersey. Good times. At any rate, enjoy the fic!
Anderson knew, logically at least, that he was steadily getting older. But it was something he tried not to think about too often, much like how he chose to ignore the likelihood that he would go out on an assignment one day and not come back. Having an older boyfriend helped, as did the fact that his hair was already a sleek silver. It saved him the trouble (and, judging by Keith's reactions, pain) of having to acknowledge his age each and every morning by steadily going gray.
One day, when he was sitting at his desk at CNN, Anderson realized that he couldn't read the paper he held in his hands. He could make out the large 'CNN' in the header, and even the title of the memo, but unless he held it at arm’s length, nothing else was distinguishable. It was the same that night in bed when he was trying to read his book. He had to give up and go to sleep, because turning on the light would have woken Keith up.
Erica was the first one to notice, some two months later, when she walked into Anderson's office to ask him out to lunch, and found him looming over his desk, squinting at a preliminary copy of the evening's script that he had placed on the keyboard of his laptop.
"You know, Andy," she said when she had stopped laughing, "They have this great invention now, to fix little problems like yours. They're called glasses. Maybe you've heard of them?"
Anderson shook his head, fighting back his blush (and a grin). "Can't say I have, sorry. You know how I am, Erica. I'm not really up on the trends."
She laughed again, threw her hands up in the air. "Hey, just making sure you have the facts. Seriously, though, if nothing else, the glasses might fix those headaches you've been having." (Anderson's doctor, much to his chagrin, had said the same thing.)
He caved under the pressure, picked up the phone, and called Keith's optometrist to make an appointment.
"You should have come to see me when this started being an issue," was the doctor's gentle rebuke. He fiddled with the lenses some more, until Anderson could see everything in front of him perfectly clearly. Anderson read off the front page of the New York Times with a smile. "You, like ninety million other aging Americans, have presbyopia, or age-induced farsightedness, if you prefer. But you could also use a slight distance correction. I'm sure you barely notice your nearsightedness, but a mild correction would likely relieve all of your headaches."
"You're saying I need bifocals?" Jeez, he really was getting old. Bifocals were for crotchety old men and knobby old women, not handsome, forty-something news anchors. (Newsmen and pundits, maybe, but anchors?)
The doctor smiled. "Yes, Mr. Cooper. That's exactly what I'm saying." He scribbled on his pad for a moment, tore off the top sheet and handed it to Anderson. "Take this downstairs to the opticians, and they can set you up with a good pair. They even have seamless bifocals now, so you don't have the line across your vision."
They shook hands, and Anderson reluctantly followed the doctor's instructions. He spent a full hour at the optician's, dithering about everything from the frames to the lens coating.
"I'm just not sure I need glasses that badly," he told the optician, meekly.
She barely refrained from rolling her eyes, Anderson could tell. "Sir, the reading prescription is pretty strong. If nothing else, you should get those, or your eyesight will only continue to deteriorate."
"I know," he said miserably. He felt vaguely ashamed of himself, knew full well that he was acting like a spoiled child, or maybe just an aging diva. "I guess I'll take them."
Three days later, he was the not-so-proud owner of a very nice, sensible pair of bifocals. They had thin frames in a dark color, rectangular in shape. The transition lenses threw him off for the first few days, prompting a call to the optician to make sure the experience was normal.
"You would acclimate more quickly if you wore them all the time," she said. But Anderson was still trying to pretend, and even managed to convince himself that it would be a bad idea to come to rely on the glasses. Some part of him still believed that exercising his eyes would make them stronger, the way it had always worked for the rest of his body.
A month later, only one person had ever seen him wear them, and that was Erica. The first time, she had spent several minutes cooing about how distinguished and serious they made him look. (Sometimes, he'd catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror and secretly agree, but then he would remind himself firmly that "distinguished" was not necessarily a quality his audience was looking for.)
Each night, when he went home, the glasses stayed behind, nestled in their case in the top drawer of Anderson's desk. Anderson started reading less and less at home, because he couldn't read normally unless he had the light shining just right across the page. If Keith noticed, he didn't say anything.
The charade went on for several months.
It might have continued indefinitely, or at least to the point where Anderson was almost blind. But one Saturday morning, Keith arrived home at ten o'clock, an hour early from his meeting, and Anderson had clearly just woken up, because the whole apartment smelled like coffee, brewed strong and dark in an effort to convince Anderson to get the hell out of bed. Keith set down his briefcase and toed off his shoes, before padding into the kitchen to bid his lover "good morning".
But the greeting never made it past his lips. Anderson was standing at the kitchen island, one hand leaning against the counter, one hand holding a cup of coffee inches from his lips, the New York Times spread out before him, hair still mussed, wearing one of Keith's shirts, the glasses, and nothing else. Keith needed a moment to just stare. "Hey," he finally managed to croak out.
Anderson spun around, clearly startled. It seemed like his hands couldn't decide what to do first -- get rid of the coffee (after six months of drinking it, he still insisted he hated it), button the shirt up (it hung open except for the last two buttons, skimmed his thighs, and was very distracting), or rip off the glasses and throw them across the room. "No," Keith said forcefully, preemptively, which caused Anderson to still. "I've seen you now, Anderson. It's too late to change that, so don't even try."
Anderson's face was still red. He clasped his hands together, the too-long fabric of Keith's shirtsleeves crumpling and creasing in his grip. "I didn't intentionally hide them, you know."
"You unintentionally hide a lot of things. I knew that when we started this, and if I were unable to deal with it, I wouldn't be here."
They stared at each other. The morning sun glinted off the corner of Anderson's glasses. They both crossed their arms, and then Keith uncrossed his and took the three long strides that stood between them, took Anderson in his arms and used his whole body to press him against the counter.
He pushed his lips forcefully against Anderson's. Their glasses clacked together, which seemed to throw Anderson for a loop at first, but after a moment, his brain started responding to the pleasure signals, and he kissed back. Keith took his glasses off and set them to the side. When Anderson went to do the same, Keith stopped him by pinning his hands to the counter, pulled at a slightly awkward angle, just enough to register low on Anderson's pain scale.
"Leave them on," he ordered, to answer Anderson's questioning look. "They make me want to do unmentionable things to your body."
Anderson blushed, then seemed to think for a minute, and finally smiled shyly. "Is that a threat, or a promise?"
Keith slid his arms lower, and his hands settled on Anderson's ass. When he lifted, Anderson bent his legs, so the shirt rode up and Keith was left with two handfuls of warm flesh, the delightful crease that defined the round shape of Anderson's bottom. He set Anderson on the counter, on top of the New York Times, took a moment to move the coffee out of the way, and then unbuttoned the bottom of the shirt, so that Anderson was naked except for his arms, his cock showing interest in the proceedings, flushed and damp-looking, like its owner. Keith stroked it once, bent over to kiss it, fondled Anderson's balls and pushed two fingers into his hole, still a little loose from the night before. Anderson moaned.
Keith pulled himself back to appreciate his immensely aesthetic boyfriend for a moment. He was sweaty and excited, but it was the presence of the glasses, now slightly cock-eyed, that made Anderson look so thoroughly debauched.
"You gonna fuck me on the counter?" said the kiss-red lips, heatedly.
"That's what I was thinking."
They had taken to keeping a stash of condoms in every room of the house, just in case. Keith grabbed one from the drawer, unzipped his pants, pulled his dick out through his boxers, ripped the packet open with his teeth and slicked the condom on. When he pushed into Anderson's willing body, the cool metal of his belt buckle and the weave of his shirt rubbed the length of Anderson's cock, and Anderson cried out, his hands scrabbling for purchase against the shoulders of Keith's suit coat. The stroke of Keith's cock into Anderson's ass dragged his tie along the smaller man’s chest, until one of Anderson's hands grabbed it and used it to pull their faces closer together. Their lips met again. Anderson's glasses pressed lightly against Keith's cheeks. Keith had forgotten what it felt like to make out with someone with that barrier between them, had forgotten what it did to him.
Anderson hooked his ankles together behind Keith's back, pulling him deeper, until he stroked Anderson's prostate on every pass, and Anderson was reduced to a writhing, moaning wreck. He bore down one last time, hard, and came with a strangled sob, clenching his ass tightly around Keith and squeezing his orgasm out of him.
They collapsed together, breathing heavily. After a moment, Keith slipped out, tied off the condom and threw it out. Anderson, on his back and staring up at the ceiling, still looked somewhat like he had been hit by a train, his legs crooked at the knees, revealing the rosy pucker that had welcomed Keith in. He finally peeled his way off the counter. When he turned around, Keith had to bite back an undignified giggle, because the day's headlines were printed on Anderson's ass and lower back. Anderson threw a glance over his shoulder that was calculated-careless. "So, the glasses really do it for you."
"You do it for me," Keith said, though he had to be on his way out of the room, out of eye contact, to do it. But if that was the cost of one sentimental moment, then at least it was a price he could pay.
On Monday morning, Anderson wore the glasses to work. He talked to the producers. He talked to wardrobe, and make-up, and they all agreed with Erica. So that night, he sat down at the anchor desk with the glasses on.
"Nice frames," Erica said with a grin when she was on screen.
"Yeah," he joked, "they make it much easier to read the teleprompter."
The optician had been right -- by the end of the day, Anderson barely noticed them.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Comments/criticism are always appreciated!
Author: whiterabbit1613
Series: AC360, CwKO
Rating: R for sexy time
Warnings: Very mildly kinky sex.
Disclaimer:
All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual. Anderson Cooper 360 and Countdown with Keith Olbermann are the creative property of their respective producers.
Summary: Anderson, Keith, and a pair of glasses end up on the kitchen counter. (Anderson/Keith) (~2000 words)
Author’s Note: Thanks to everyone who commented on my first story. I would have had this one up earlier, but there were many factors working against me, including this one memorable time where I got stranded overnight in Newark, New Jersey. Good times. At any rate, enjoy the fic!
Anderson knew, logically at least, that he was steadily getting older. But it was something he tried not to think about too often, much like how he chose to ignore the likelihood that he would go out on an assignment one day and not come back. Having an older boyfriend helped, as did the fact that his hair was already a sleek silver. It saved him the trouble (and, judging by Keith's reactions, pain) of having to acknowledge his age each and every morning by steadily going gray.
One day, when he was sitting at his desk at CNN, Anderson realized that he couldn't read the paper he held in his hands. He could make out the large 'CNN' in the header, and even the title of the memo, but unless he held it at arm’s length, nothing else was distinguishable. It was the same that night in bed when he was trying to read his book. He had to give up and go to sleep, because turning on the light would have woken Keith up.
Erica was the first one to notice, some two months later, when she walked into Anderson's office to ask him out to lunch, and found him looming over his desk, squinting at a preliminary copy of the evening's script that he had placed on the keyboard of his laptop.
"You know, Andy," she said when she had stopped laughing, "They have this great invention now, to fix little problems like yours. They're called glasses. Maybe you've heard of them?"
Anderson shook his head, fighting back his blush (and a grin). "Can't say I have, sorry. You know how I am, Erica. I'm not really up on the trends."
She laughed again, threw her hands up in the air. "Hey, just making sure you have the facts. Seriously, though, if nothing else, the glasses might fix those headaches you've been having." (Anderson's doctor, much to his chagrin, had said the same thing.)
He caved under the pressure, picked up the phone, and called Keith's optometrist to make an appointment.
"You should have come to see me when this started being an issue," was the doctor's gentle rebuke. He fiddled with the lenses some more, until Anderson could see everything in front of him perfectly clearly. Anderson read off the front page of the New York Times with a smile. "You, like ninety million other aging Americans, have presbyopia, or age-induced farsightedness, if you prefer. But you could also use a slight distance correction. I'm sure you barely notice your nearsightedness, but a mild correction would likely relieve all of your headaches."
"You're saying I need bifocals?" Jeez, he really was getting old. Bifocals were for crotchety old men and knobby old women, not handsome, forty-something news anchors. (Newsmen and pundits, maybe, but anchors?)
The doctor smiled. "Yes, Mr. Cooper. That's exactly what I'm saying." He scribbled on his pad for a moment, tore off the top sheet and handed it to Anderson. "Take this downstairs to the opticians, and they can set you up with a good pair. They even have seamless bifocals now, so you don't have the line across your vision."
They shook hands, and Anderson reluctantly followed the doctor's instructions. He spent a full hour at the optician's, dithering about everything from the frames to the lens coating.
"I'm just not sure I need glasses that badly," he told the optician, meekly.
She barely refrained from rolling her eyes, Anderson could tell. "Sir, the reading prescription is pretty strong. If nothing else, you should get those, or your eyesight will only continue to deteriorate."
"I know," he said miserably. He felt vaguely ashamed of himself, knew full well that he was acting like a spoiled child, or maybe just an aging diva. "I guess I'll take them."
Three days later, he was the not-so-proud owner of a very nice, sensible pair of bifocals. They had thin frames in a dark color, rectangular in shape. The transition lenses threw him off for the first few days, prompting a call to the optician to make sure the experience was normal.
"You would acclimate more quickly if you wore them all the time," she said. But Anderson was still trying to pretend, and even managed to convince himself that it would be a bad idea to come to rely on the glasses. Some part of him still believed that exercising his eyes would make them stronger, the way it had always worked for the rest of his body.
A month later, only one person had ever seen him wear them, and that was Erica. The first time, she had spent several minutes cooing about how distinguished and serious they made him look. (Sometimes, he'd catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror and secretly agree, but then he would remind himself firmly that "distinguished" was not necessarily a quality his audience was looking for.)
Each night, when he went home, the glasses stayed behind, nestled in their case in the top drawer of Anderson's desk. Anderson started reading less and less at home, because he couldn't read normally unless he had the light shining just right across the page. If Keith noticed, he didn't say anything.
The charade went on for several months.
It might have continued indefinitely, or at least to the point where Anderson was almost blind. But one Saturday morning, Keith arrived home at ten o'clock, an hour early from his meeting, and Anderson had clearly just woken up, because the whole apartment smelled like coffee, brewed strong and dark in an effort to convince Anderson to get the hell out of bed. Keith set down his briefcase and toed off his shoes, before padding into the kitchen to bid his lover "good morning".
But the greeting never made it past his lips. Anderson was standing at the kitchen island, one hand leaning against the counter, one hand holding a cup of coffee inches from his lips, the New York Times spread out before him, hair still mussed, wearing one of Keith's shirts, the glasses, and nothing else. Keith needed a moment to just stare. "Hey," he finally managed to croak out.
Anderson spun around, clearly startled. It seemed like his hands couldn't decide what to do first -- get rid of the coffee (after six months of drinking it, he still insisted he hated it), button the shirt up (it hung open except for the last two buttons, skimmed his thighs, and was very distracting), or rip off the glasses and throw them across the room. "No," Keith said forcefully, preemptively, which caused Anderson to still. "I've seen you now, Anderson. It's too late to change that, so don't even try."
Anderson's face was still red. He clasped his hands together, the too-long fabric of Keith's shirtsleeves crumpling and creasing in his grip. "I didn't intentionally hide them, you know."
"You unintentionally hide a lot of things. I knew that when we started this, and if I were unable to deal with it, I wouldn't be here."
They stared at each other. The morning sun glinted off the corner of Anderson's glasses. They both crossed their arms, and then Keith uncrossed his and took the three long strides that stood between them, took Anderson in his arms and used his whole body to press him against the counter.
He pushed his lips forcefully against Anderson's. Their glasses clacked together, which seemed to throw Anderson for a loop at first, but after a moment, his brain started responding to the pleasure signals, and he kissed back. Keith took his glasses off and set them to the side. When Anderson went to do the same, Keith stopped him by pinning his hands to the counter, pulled at a slightly awkward angle, just enough to register low on Anderson's pain scale.
"Leave them on," he ordered, to answer Anderson's questioning look. "They make me want to do unmentionable things to your body."
Anderson blushed, then seemed to think for a minute, and finally smiled shyly. "Is that a threat, or a promise?"
Keith slid his arms lower, and his hands settled on Anderson's ass. When he lifted, Anderson bent his legs, so the shirt rode up and Keith was left with two handfuls of warm flesh, the delightful crease that defined the round shape of Anderson's bottom. He set Anderson on the counter, on top of the New York Times, took a moment to move the coffee out of the way, and then unbuttoned the bottom of the shirt, so that Anderson was naked except for his arms, his cock showing interest in the proceedings, flushed and damp-looking, like its owner. Keith stroked it once, bent over to kiss it, fondled Anderson's balls and pushed two fingers into his hole, still a little loose from the night before. Anderson moaned.
Keith pulled himself back to appreciate his immensely aesthetic boyfriend for a moment. He was sweaty and excited, but it was the presence of the glasses, now slightly cock-eyed, that made Anderson look so thoroughly debauched.
"You gonna fuck me on the counter?" said the kiss-red lips, heatedly.
"That's what I was thinking."
They had taken to keeping a stash of condoms in every room of the house, just in case. Keith grabbed one from the drawer, unzipped his pants, pulled his dick out through his boxers, ripped the packet open with his teeth and slicked the condom on. When he pushed into Anderson's willing body, the cool metal of his belt buckle and the weave of his shirt rubbed the length of Anderson's cock, and Anderson cried out, his hands scrabbling for purchase against the shoulders of Keith's suit coat. The stroke of Keith's cock into Anderson's ass dragged his tie along the smaller man’s chest, until one of Anderson's hands grabbed it and used it to pull their faces closer together. Their lips met again. Anderson's glasses pressed lightly against Keith's cheeks. Keith had forgotten what it felt like to make out with someone with that barrier between them, had forgotten what it did to him.
Anderson hooked his ankles together behind Keith's back, pulling him deeper, until he stroked Anderson's prostate on every pass, and Anderson was reduced to a writhing, moaning wreck. He bore down one last time, hard, and came with a strangled sob, clenching his ass tightly around Keith and squeezing his orgasm out of him.
They collapsed together, breathing heavily. After a moment, Keith slipped out, tied off the condom and threw it out. Anderson, on his back and staring up at the ceiling, still looked somewhat like he had been hit by a train, his legs crooked at the knees, revealing the rosy pucker that had welcomed Keith in. He finally peeled his way off the counter. When he turned around, Keith had to bite back an undignified giggle, because the day's headlines were printed on Anderson's ass and lower back. Anderson threw a glance over his shoulder that was calculated-careless. "So, the glasses really do it for you."
"You do it for me," Keith said, though he had to be on his way out of the room, out of eye contact, to do it. But if that was the cost of one sentimental moment, then at least it was a price he could pay.
On Monday morning, Anderson wore the glasses to work. He talked to the producers. He talked to wardrobe, and make-up, and they all agreed with Erica. So that night, he sat down at the anchor desk with the glasses on.
"Nice frames," Erica said with a grin when she was on screen.
"Yeah," he joked, "they make it much easier to read the teleprompter."
The optician had been right -- by the end of the day, Anderson barely noticed them.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Comments/criticism are always appreciated!