rivers_bend

Title: A Gala Affair
Pairing: George Clooney/Anderson Cooper
Rating: strong R (explicit sex)
Words: ~2,800
Warnings: RPS, giggling, a resounding lack of angst
A/N: This is written for karaokegal's birthday.
Disclaimer: What George Clooney and Anderson Cooper do in their free time is entirely up to them, and I neither know nor claim to know anything about it. What fic!George and fic!Anderson do in my head, is pretty much this.

Thank you to skyblue_reverie for beta and American English checking, in a totally unfamiliar fandom.




It’s a gala event; Veuve Clicquot, black tie and Vera Wang, Cartier and Tiffany's. Everyone who is anyone and in New York is there, liberal credentials shown at the door. Dinner is a thousand dollars a plate, all profits to this week’s charity. George is bored out of his mind.

Once the food is finished, the guests are free to mingle. George stays in his seat and lets everyone who wants to talk come to him. He shakes hands and smiles his ‘happy to see you’ smile. He is contemplating just going upstairs to his room when he sees Anderson Cooper talking to Stephen Colbert and a woman in an emerald colored dress that is cut low in the front and even lower in the back. Anderson clearly hasn’t had as much practice looking interested in the face of small talk as George. Or perhaps George is just good at recognizing the signs of social frustration.

He decides a rescue is in order.

“Stephen. Anderson.” George turns to the woman in the group. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“George. This is my wife, Evie.” Stephen puts an arm around the woman by his side.

George kisses the proffered hand. “Pleasure to meet you ma’am. Are you enjoying yourself tonight?”

“It’s a charity dinner George,” Stephen says in his Colbert Report voice, “They want us to pay, not have fun.”

“Don’t mind my husband. Bad food makes him grumpy.” Evie has a lovely smile.

Anderson reaches out his hand to be shaken. “I wanted to thank you for coming on air for that Darfur story.”

George shakes two-handed, lingering just a little bit longer than he needs to, stroking a finger across Anderson’s wrist before letting go. “No. Thank you for the opportunity. I appreciate it.” George catches Stephen’s eyes glittering in the edge of his vision.

“Evie, I think I see Jon over there. I need a word with him. Shall we go?” He nods at Anderson. “Good to see you again. Gentlemen, do enjoy your evening.” Stephen’s eyebrow really is very expressive. George is left in no doubt that the man noticed the handshake.

The noise level in the room rises as a band replaces the string quartet, affording George the excuse to lean in, putting a hand on Anderson’s shoulder. “Mr. Cooper, how is it that you are even more attractive in person than you are on TV? I think you should fire your make-up artists.”

“I'm not sure that’s true,” Anderson demurs. “Maybe it’s just the tuxedo.”

“They do say the clothes make the man.” George fingers Anderson’s lapels. “Though in your case I would argue that it’s the man that makes the clothes.” He’s rewarded with a hint of pink on Anderson’s cheeks.

“Well, you’re certainly looking very dashing this evening. Very multiple Oscar nominee.”

George steps back half a pace and holds out his arms, welcoming inspection. “They don’t call me ‘Gorgeous George’ for nothing. Though I think I might have had to hand that title over -- there was a letter, I think… I should pay more attention to these things.”

Anderson laughs. It’s a little goofy, and totally irresistible. George leans in again, closer this time, lips nearly brushing Anderson’s ear. “So. Do you want to fuck?”

Anderson jerks back, looking a little shocked. George smiles his ‘oh yes, I mean you’ smile. Anderson’s cheeks glow bright red. “What? Now?” His voice squeaks a little on the second word.

George pulls a keycard out of his pocket. “I’ve got a room right upstairs. No one will miss us.”

Anderson looks around the room. No one seems to be watching them. “I… Yes.”
**
There's a Grande Dame standing in the center of the elevator, wearing a mink coat and holding a Pekinese. The two men nod at her somberly, lips clamped tightly closed, eyes glittering, as they edge around her. The button for the twenty first floor is illuminated. George leans around her to press the button for nineteen. The whole elevator is lined with mirrors and George doesn’t dare look at Anderson so is forced to stare at the floor. It seems to take forever to get upstairs.

As soon as the elevator doors shut behind them, they look at each other and dissolve. Anderson giggles like a teenager, hand over his mouth, and George leans against the wall of the corridor, hands on his knees, almost doubled over. Anderson recovers first. “Have you ever seen Best in Show?”

George looks confused for a minute and then nods.

“I was so worried that you were going to start spouting Buck Laughlin’s lines at me for some reason.”

“Please tell me I don’t remind you of Fred Willard.”

“No.” Anderson cocks his head thoughtfully. “Well, maybe the hair a little.”

“Fuck off, Cooper.” George is grinning.

Anderson looks abashed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what made me say that.”

“And here I was thinking what it would look like kissing you with all those mirrors around.”

“Admit it. You just wanted to see me in that mink coat.”

George hadn’t expected the easy banter. He doesn't know a lot about the man, but Anderson Cooper has always struck him as more reserved. He is even more surprised by what the thought of Anderson in nothing but a mink coat does to his circulation. He heads for his room, desperate to get this man behind closed doors.

Once inside the hotel room, Anderson seems shy again, fiddling with the buttons on his jacket. George slides effortlessly into the roll of host. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Sure. I don’t like gin, but whatever else is in there sounds good. May I use the facilities?”

George tips his head in acquiescence, makes his way to the mini-bar and pours out two drinks. There are two chairs opposite a small sofa in the corner of the room. They are upright and rather uncomfortable looking, but he settles himself in one none-the-less, thinking it might put Anderson more at ease if there is no pressure to share furniture. He loosens his tie and collar, knowing very well that this is a good look for him.

When Anderson emerges, there is water beaded in the tips of his hair as though he’s splashed his face and then not dried it carefully enough. He too has loosened his tie, and George realizes that what is a good look on him is breathtaking on Anderson Cooper. The staring must be disconcerting because Anderson sounds concerned when he says, “George? Is everything ok?”

“Absolutely. You just, well, wow. You look pretty amazing.”

Anderson blushes and looks at his feet. “Is one of those for me?” He points at the drinks on the side table.

“Help yourself. Vodka or whiskey, your choice.”

Anderson picks up the whiskey and settles on the sofa, long limbs graceful. He lifts his glass. “Cheers.”

George watches Anderson’s lips as they curve around the glass. He catches his breath as a tip of pink tongue darts out to catch a stray drop of whiskey when Anderson lowers the drink. “Anderson, please come over here.“

Anderson stands and takes the three steps necessary to close the distance between the sofa and the chair. George reaches up and takes the ends of Anderson’s tie in his fist. He pulls the younger man slowly towards him until their lips meet. Anderson’s lips are much softer and more pliable than he’d expected. They seem to melt into his. Anderson’s hand drops to the high back of the chair so he can press forward without losing his balance. His lips move as though he were trying to tell George something important, and then their tongues are touching, sliding over one another, hungry.

Suddenly, lips aren’t enough and George tips Anderson sideways onto his lap. The man is ridiculously light, all sharp edges and narrow planes as he wriggles to get comfortable, his hip seeking out the erection that’s rising to meet it. His long slender fingers are tangled in the hair at the back of George’s neck, pulling and tilting George’s head until he’s fully satisfied he has the perfect angle for kissing. He kisses like it’s all he’s ever done and all he ever wants to do, until George starts to wonder if it’s a foreign language he could learn if that hip would only stop distracting him.

Though his head is held captive and immobile, his hands are free to roam, and George takes full advantage. His hands are inside Anderson’s jacket, pulling his shirt out of his waistband. His palms slide over a slender waist, running upwards to map muscle stretched over ribs. With bones so close to the surface Anderson seems insanely fragile, but George has seen him go places that would break larger men, without a backwards glance. He suspects that steel is not just in this Vanderbilt’s heritage, but in his makeup.

While George is distracted by these thoughts, Anderson somehow shifts and twists and suddenly is straddling George’s lap. He comes up for air and smiles down into the surprise in George’s wide eyes. It’s a wicked, evil, sexy smile, made more so by his actions. He reaches down and pulls George slightly forwards as he moves to meet him, bringing their cocks together between their bellies. Moving his hands to George’s shoulders, Anderson hooks his feet behind the back of the chair and shimmies, forcing George’s legs apart and bringing their bodies into even closer contact. His eyes are infeasibly blue and George realizes that everything he thinks about this man comes out in extremes. Not one thing about him is average.

Anderson leans forwards and whispers in George’s ear. “I need to tell you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“I used to masturbate to a long-running fantasy in which I sucked Doug Ross off in every room of that hospital.”

George laughs nervously, not sure if Anderson is being serious.

“You’d come in the room and introduce yourself, ‘Hello,’ you’d say, ‘I’m Dr. Ross, what can I do for you today?’ Then you’d stitch up my wound and say something reassuring and I’d ask how I could repay you and you’d smile.” Anderson looks at him. “Just like that-- god, you’re sexy when you smile like that -- and I’d sink to my knees in front of you and unzip your pants and pull you out. Sometimes you’d be hard for me already, but sometimes you were so surprised that you were still soft and I could take all of you in at once, lips right up against you, and I’d feel you swelling in the heat of my mouth, jerking a little as I sucked and licked and swallowed around you.”

George can hear himself making ragged, undignified noises as he tries to breathe and listen at the same time. Anderson is seemingly oblivious to the effect his words are having, as he carries on talking, lips brushing George’s ear.

“Sometimes it wasn’t a cut that I’d come in with and you’d have to bend me over the exam table, pull on a latex glove and stick a finger up my ass. You were always so professional, cold, detached, but I’d push back against you, I’d beg, and you would slide out and then in again, with two fingers or three, and you’d press into me again and again until I came. I always wanted you to fuck me properly, but you said it was too dangerous; that you couldn’t risk being caught fucking a patient.” He pulls back again to look George in the eye. “There's no one here to catch us. Will you fuck me now, George?”

George can’t speak. All the blood has left his brain and is straining towards the man on his lap. He manages to nod when Anderson puts a quizzical finger on his cheek.

“I assume you have some condoms around here somewhere?”

George knows this part is important -- that a nod won't be enough -- and wills his mouth to work. “Bathroom counter. Shaving kit.” Anderson slips off his lap and is gone in a flash.

When he returns he’s wearing nothing but his open dress shirt and tie. His cock is tight against his belly. He has a strip of three condoms in one hand, and a hand towel and a bottle of lube in the other. “Fucking hell.” It’s a whispered benediction, and George doesn’t even notice the sound of his own voice.

Anderson puts the items on the table next to their half empty glasses. He lowers himself to his knees between George’s spread legs and moves his hands to the fastenings of George’s slacks. His sigh when he sees George’s cock, when he pulls it out and licks it, is heady. Anderson traces its shape with inquisitive fingers, tastes it, teases his tongue around its end. “I wish I didn’t have to wrap you up,” he whispers, and reaches for a condom.

George is hit with the realization that there is nothing shy about Anderson anymore, as the slender fingers smooth a condom over his length. “I didn’t ask-” Anderson interrupts his actions to say, “do you want to take these off? I’d hate to have you ruin your only pair of pants.”

George pushes his pants down over his hips. Anderson smiles at the sharp intake of breath resulting from his fisting George’s erection with a lube coated hand. Standing, he straddles George’s lap again, wiping his hand on the towel. He lifts George’s hands and puts them on his hips. “Are you ready?”

“Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that?” George searches Anderson’s gaze for any sign of doubt.

“I’ve been ready since you kissed me.” Anderson moves closer until hips are hovering over George’s sheathed erection. Reaching down, he guides the blunt tip to where he wants it. George feels muscles twitching around the head and then hot, slick, all-encompassing heat as Anderson slides down to the base of his cock in one smooth movement.

“Ohgodohgodohgod,” George breathes and feels himself sink a fraction deeper. He thinks he’s going to come already, before they even get going. Anderson has his hands on George’s shoulders. He uses them to balance as he lifts up an inch, and then two, and then slides back down. His eyes are locked on George’s face.

“This feels so much better than I ever imagined. And I like this get-up even more than that white coat.” He continues moving, slow rise and fall chasing all thoughts other than friction from George’s head.

“How… god that’s amazing… how can you talk and do that at the same time?”

“I like to see you struggle to answer me.” Anderson is rocking now, his words growing rough around the edges as he speeds up his movements. “Help me… out… fuck me.”

George tightens his grip on Anderson’s hips. Working together they lift and thrust until they are slack-jawed with sensation. Anderson leans forwards to grind his lips roughly over George’s mouth and chin. It’s less a kiss than a desire for more contact to which George tries to respond. Their teeth bump and Anderson drops his mouth to George’s neck where it seems to be doing both more and less damage. He’s keening into the curve of muscle clamped between his teeth, though George barely hears him over the sounds coming from his own mouth. Their movements are jerky, frenzied.

Suddenly Anderson arches back, lifting almost completely off George’s cock, before slamming back down, evidence of his orgasm arching over both their shirts. The clench of Anderson’s fingers on his shoulders, the sight of his long throat, and the shudders of his climax send George thrusting upwards and into shudders of his own.

Anderson’s arms twist around George’s neck as he drops his head forward to rest against George’s cheek. George hugs him close. He wants to say something. To ask what happened to the shy man he brought upstairs; to make sure Anderson knows that George likes this new version of the newsman just as much if not more, but Anderson is suddenly heavy in his arms and he’s not sure any words he could form would mean anything anyway.

After a minute or two or ten, Anderson starts to move, uncoupling them. George does his part to help, letting Anderson slide off and back until he’s all light weight and angles again, sitting on George’s knees. He traces a thumb over George’s cheekbone. “I’ll stand up in a minute, just let me finish getting my legs back.”

“Will you stay and have breakfast with me? I’m flying to London tomorrow, but if you don’t have to be anywhere…”

“I’ll stay for breakfast if I can have a shower. And maybe some sleep.”

“Of course.” George looks over at the king-sized bed, covers still maid-service pristine. “The good thing is, neither of us has to sleep in the wet spot.”

“Unless you want to join me in the shower?”

“I’m the wrong side of forty for even that to lead to another wet spot, I think.”

“Oh well, I can always wash your back for you.”

“Only if I can return the favor.”

Anderson stands, stripping off his shirt. “You can wash anything you’d like.”

George thinks that’s likely to include everything.