Alan Rickman/Pierce Brosnan, July 22, '04
May. 6th, 2009 06:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mandarinjazzLongish ficlet for nydia_s: Alan Rickman/Pierce Brosnan RPS. The line: "Either way. Just get me there."
Alan's heard more than he needs to hear about Pierce Brosnan by the time Die Another Day premieres in London. Before Mesmer crashed and burned, Roger Spotiswoode had gushed about the man over afternoon tea at the Ritz on Tuesday afternoons. Such a gentleman, he'd say. Such a wonderful performer. Alan remembers muttering something about a magnificent rags-to-riches story and scowling next at his pastry. Alan's seen Pierce's latest outside of the Bond series - something about a Thomas Crown remake? (That last only because of Rima). Hadn't thought much of it.
This evening, he's at an industry party his agent set him up with. "People are starting to notice you now," he'd said. "You've got to get out there." He's got his second-best tux on and he sips champagne and wishes he were one of two places - back at home, watching old shows on the television with Rima typing in the background, or on stage at the Albery. He smiles when he needs to and mumbles when asked how he likes the olives and caviar on toothpicks.
A silence goes through the crowd when Pierce enters – his stride sonorous, his laughter charming. Handshakes all around. Every boy grows up wanting to be James Bond, to drive an Aston Martin down long French highways and make love to pretty girls, even if it's all just an illusion caught on film. Alan frowns into his champagne, watching the bubbles settle. A middle-aged woman, CEO or something, starts chatting with him about the demise of character actors on the British stage. Alan says something intelligently acerbic enough, and she leaves him alone.
The night wears on and Alan excuses himself from an involved conversation with a staunch conservative - men's toilet, he says. The man babbles directions and Alan wanders the hallways of the party's office building before he finds it. Does his business and washes his hands. The door opens. Brosnan walks in, all broad-shouldered and suave in his waiter's suit. "Rickman," he says with a respectful grunt as he unzips his trousers. Alan takes a bit longer than he ought at the sink, and for a long moment forgets to actually place his hands under the jet of streaming water. Pierce chuckles and tugs up his trousers.
"I've seen Private Lives three nights in a row," he says, that deep voice coming out of nowhere. "Sometimes I wish the British stage would take me seriously, eh?"
"You're not..." Alan squints his eyes, fishing for better words. The bathroom light catches a weird angle of Pierce's eyes. He can almost see the appeal.
Pierce moves fast, and Alan thinks that it must be too much champagne that makes his knees buckle when he's pressed against the sink. A sharp graze on his lower lip, and Alan licks a spot of blood. His eyes widen. "You're not serious?" he yelps rather strangely, taking in the fine lines of Pierce's cheekbones and the meticulous rake of his bangs. Pierce's tongue traces the smooth line of Alan's jaw. "Right then," Alan says when Pierce stops sucking on Alan's tongue and goes straight for the neck. He lets out a little moan as Pierce catches an especially sensitive spot on Alan's collarbone. The ties come off, quickly and messily. Trousers next. Pierce's hands slide down Alan's skin, finding his prick and fondling with smooth strokes. Alan gasps.
"Shall we... on the..."
"You talk too much." Pierce is Bond then, as Alan suspects some part of him always will be, taking what he wants any way he can get it. Not that Alan minds right now.
"People might..."
Pierce silences him with a deep kiss and places small bites down Alan's chest. Alan places his hands on Pierce's shoulders and slams him against the tiled wall so hard the smack rings in his ears. "We do this my way, okay?" he growls into Pierce's ear, and the man whimpers, his lips parted. A sound definitely not made by James Bond. Alan grabs Pierce's cock and wraps his hand around the tip, rubbing hard.
Pierce laughs, his smile warm and firm. "Either way. Just get me there." Alan licks a line from Pierce's collarbone down to the warmth spreading between his legs, biting next when he reaches truth. Pierce shifts away from his hands and arches, his face glistening in the awkwardly bright artificial light. Alan turns Pierce so that his belly faces the cold tile and begins working the faucet water through Pierce's skin. Easy. Cool and easy; Alan remembers those days as a schoolboy plying Bond with his boy crushes. One swift thrust consumes the man he faces, and Pierce - Bond - Pierce—shouts sharply.
Confusion begets pleasure. When it's his turn, Pierce licks both of these from Alan's thighs.
Will edit grammar more soon. Hope you enjoy!
nydia_s: Alan Rickman/Pierce Brosnan RPS. The line: "Either way. Just get me there." Alan's heard more than he needs to hear about Pierce Brosnan by the time Die Another Day premieres in London. Before Mesmer crashed and burned, Roger Spotiswoode had gushed about the man over afternoon tea at the Ritz on Tuesday afternoons. Such a gentleman, he'd say. Such a wonderful performer. Alan remembers muttering something about a magnificent rags-to-riches story and scowling next at his pastry. Alan's seen Pierce's latest outside of the Bond series - something about a Thomas Crown remake? (That last only because of Rima). Hadn't thought much of it.
This evening, he's at an industry party his agent set him up with. "People are starting to notice you now," he'd said. "You've got to get out there." He's got his second-best tux on and he sips champagne and wishes he were one of two places - back at home, watching old shows on the television with Rima typing in the background, or on stage at the Albery. He smiles when he needs to and mumbles when asked how he likes the olives and caviar on toothpicks.
A silence goes through the crowd when Pierce enters – his stride sonorous, his laughter charming. Handshakes all around. Every boy grows up wanting to be James Bond, to drive an Aston Martin down long French highways and make love to pretty girls, even if it's all just an illusion caught on film. Alan frowns into his champagne, watching the bubbles settle. A middle-aged woman, CEO or something, starts chatting with him about the demise of character actors on the British stage. Alan says something intelligently acerbic enough, and she leaves him alone.
The night wears on and Alan excuses himself from an involved conversation with a staunch conservative - men's toilet, he says. The man babbles directions and Alan wanders the hallways of the party's office building before he finds it. Does his business and washes his hands. The door opens. Brosnan walks in, all broad-shouldered and suave in his waiter's suit. "Rickman," he says with a respectful grunt as he unzips his trousers. Alan takes a bit longer than he ought at the sink, and for a long moment forgets to actually place his hands under the jet of streaming water. Pierce chuckles and tugs up his trousers.
"I've seen Private Lives three nights in a row," he says, that deep voice coming out of nowhere. "Sometimes I wish the British stage would take me seriously, eh?"
"You're not..." Alan squints his eyes, fishing for better words. The bathroom light catches a weird angle of Pierce's eyes. He can almost see the appeal.
Pierce moves fast, and Alan thinks that it must be too much champagne that makes his knees buckle when he's pressed against the sink. A sharp graze on his lower lip, and Alan licks a spot of blood. His eyes widen. "You're not serious?" he yelps rather strangely, taking in the fine lines of Pierce's cheekbones and the meticulous rake of his bangs. Pierce's tongue traces the smooth line of Alan's jaw. "Right then," Alan says when Pierce stops sucking on Alan's tongue and goes straight for the neck. He lets out a little moan as Pierce catches an especially sensitive spot on Alan's collarbone. The ties come off, quickly and messily. Trousers next. Pierce's hands slide down Alan's skin, finding his prick and fondling with smooth strokes. Alan gasps.
"Shall we... on the..."
"You talk too much." Pierce is Bond then, as Alan suspects some part of him always will be, taking what he wants any way he can get it. Not that Alan minds right now.
"People might..."
Pierce silences him with a deep kiss and places small bites down Alan's chest. Alan places his hands on Pierce's shoulders and slams him against the tiled wall so hard the smack rings in his ears. "We do this my way, okay?" he growls into Pierce's ear, and the man whimpers, his lips parted. A sound definitely not made by James Bond. Alan grabs Pierce's cock and wraps his hand around the tip, rubbing hard.
Pierce laughs, his smile warm and firm. "Either way. Just get me there." Alan licks a line from Pierce's collarbone down to the warmth spreading between his legs, biting next when he reaches truth. Pierce shifts away from his hands and arches, his face glistening in the awkwardly bright artificial light. Alan turns Pierce so that his belly faces the cold tile and begins working the faucet water through Pierce's skin. Easy. Cool and easy; Alan remembers those days as a schoolboy plying Bond with his boy crushes. One swift thrust consumes the man he faces, and Pierce - Bond - Pierce—shouts sharply.
Confusion begets pleasure. When it's his turn, Pierce licks both of these from Alan's thighs.
Will edit grammar more soon. Hope you enjoy!
