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Most Definately	By : 8inchCaliper Category: Individual Celebrities > Alan Rickman Views: 5230 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Alan Rickman. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Most Definately
- 1
Hey, whats an Alan Rickman section without an Alan Rickman fic? *grin* Here's something you never expected...

Title-Most Definitely
Summary – Alan reflects, chats, has sex
Pairing – Alan Ricman/Mos Def
Rating- NC-17
Disclaimer- This is absolutely false, fiction, made up, untrue. I derive no profit, and I mean no harm. Blame the plotbunnies. (if you’ve seen STLM, you’ll know what I mean.)
Author’s Note- Rima Horton is Alan Rickman’s lifelong partner, and Dante Smith is Mos Def’s real name. Thanks.

It makes him irritable, the way the wind plays in his hair, the way the sun makes him squint hazel eyes against it, the involuntary sneer, wince. Hands grip tighter to steering wheel as foot presses harder to gas pedal. If he hopes to make it in time, if he hopes to arrive within the comfort zone, he must get there within the next ten minutes. Never arrive too early. Never too late. Never miss an opportunity. Then again, some opportunities only make for bad ramifications. Some opportunities, agents warn against and the PR person might have a field day with this one.

Alan Rickman can’t help his beauty; it’s inherent and inborn. Something he could never have controlled. Even at damn near sixty, even as he clings to the final years before middle age becomes decrepit, he swallows against it, making himself stagnant, forcing himself to believe he only just arrived. And he did, in his mind. He forces away the exhaustion. Exhaustion is for Rima, her hopeful old eyes, her gentle Britishness, like so many period films he has done in the past. God, she’d never imagine where he had gone today. Where he is going. Who he might be seeing. It might kill her, he imagines, but perhaps death might save her.

The small car takes to the roads like a sea bass to the stream, coursing through the countryside as if in a dream, and the Welshman blushes as he imagines himself and how he looks to anyone else, at his age, in a Porsche. A red one, no less. He chuckles silently and feels a thrill shoot through him as he gets closer.

The house seems to have been carved into the mountain, an understated little bed and breakfast, a towne inn, the likes of which you might find in a run down old Scottish village, just north of Lock Ness. Alan slows the car and simply peers at it, standing there in a nest of overgrown shrubbery, a clothesline flowing from one window to God knows where? A Telephone pole? No. He doesn’t see any of those. Bamboo, maybe? This place is like some Hollywood recreation, where things are fabricated to look a certain way, to mimic Tuscany when certain details aren’t quite right, the sky is just a little too blue, the trees are a little too well cared for. The horizon is just a bit too rustic, as if painted there by matte artists.

Alan parks the car, locks it and gets out. He hasn’t brought any luggage, only a few larger bills in his wallet and an overcoat. The breeze plays melodies in his graying blonde hair, and he suddenly wishes for his own personal make-up artist. This isn’t like him, this self-conscious anxiety, this feeling of inadequacy. Yeah, he hates watching himself onscreen, but this is an affliction, which affects nearly every other film actor. Another thing, too, is his borderline bi-polar syndrome, how he totters on the brink between laughing out in jubilation or simply jogging down the hillside and flinging himself into the shore below, looking on in horror at the fast approaching rocks before the final splat. Nah, he concedes, it’s just nerves.

Exhaling, he gets to the entrance, and is charmed by the little German immigrant people working the counter. His height makes him feel slightly more attractive and ultimately more Hollywood, but lucky for him, these folks are no more aware of him as an actor as they are of the man who inhabits the moon. He is simultaneously glad for and dismayed by this as he gets to the counter and smiles a bit to get service.

They mutter something to him in broken English while he tries to recall some of his German, and he fails miserably when they hand him the key. He drops down a few fifties and dismisses their protests with a wave as they try to give him change. He is upstairs and standing outside the door as he ponders his next move. He could leave or he could stay, but whatever he decides, he must act now. Delaying could only shift things on its axis, leave more room for error.

The key slides in and turns easily. Alan takes one step past the threshold and waits as he sees the other man sitting on the bed, reading, the sun streaming into the window and making dramatic shadows across his slim frame. And then, he glances up and their eyes meet. Brown eyes on green.

Alan exhales and shuts the door behind him before he takes another step closer. The younger man sitting on the bed stands up and smiles a bit, and Alan takes him in, from the top of his head, to the worn Adidas trainers he wears on his feet. He has a rag tied around his head, beneath a Brooklyn baseball cap, and he wears a baggy white shirt over dark blue Dickies pants. His black leather jacket looks too big for him as he hugs himself, and Alan longs to touch that even toned brown skin, the color of coconut husk.

“Dante.” He says simply in his deep voice, regarding the young recording artist.

The man known to his fans as Mos Def, grins and glances at his plain black watch. “I didn’t think you’d be late.”

Rickman nods, slowly. “Yes. Well. I had doubts.”

The other man lowers his eyes a bit, sad round eyes beneath heavy lashes. “Mmm…”

“Not about you.” Alan quickly reassures. “No, on the contrary, I wondered if I was good enough. If I could be good enough…for you. You’re so…”

“Intense? Brash? New York? Hip Hop?” Dante exhales, slowly, meeting Ricman’s gaze again, a grin playing about his full mouth. “Black?”

Alan shakes his head, not the slightest bit offended. “No. I’m European, you remember. Issues of race don’t concern us to nearly the degree it does your southern compatriots.” He smiles when Dante laughs silently. “However, I had wondered if…”

The other man searches his face. “Yeah?”

“I had wondered if you still felt the same?”

The smaller man nods, quickly. “Yeah. I mean, I haven’t changed my mind or anything. I still…I mean…” He blushes, his dimples creasing his face as Alan watches, mesmerized by his beauty.

Now Dante watches Alan’s face, the shape of his mouth as he contemplates, the brown flecks in his eyes that make them ultimately hazel, the crooked shape of his nose, the slope of it, the tall height of him in his slacks and jacket, the pale blonde of his hair, the gray at the temples, the way his large hands move absently, flexing and reflexing. Dante comes to within inches of Alan, his face to where Alan’s clavicle might be, just beneath the crisp blue shirt. He takes in his clean powder scent as he imagines his heart beating just beneath the surface.

And Alan is suddenly very decisive as he reaches up to caress the face in his hands, thumbs brushing over cheekbones, index finger brushing an earlobe. Dante shudders, in spite of himself. For just an instant he wonders what his friends might think, his dogs, his peeps from the hood, if they could see him now, in the arms of this man. He quickly dismisses the thought, or rather, the thought leaves him as Alan’s mouth meets his, and electricity inflames his nerve endings. Who gives a fuck what they might think. He just went fucking supernova.

Alan’s mouth has an odd shape, Dante muses absently, so much thinner lips than his but also, somehow full in their own way, caressing, taking light nips. He’s careful not to use tongue yet, simply feeling his way around this, and Dante wonders how long before he’ll taste his two-time co-star.

During the filming of Something the Lord Made, he’d simply tried to get through his lines, ignoring the little voices in his head, the voices he’d heard other people use as they’d announced Alan’s arrival on the set. He’d been such a formidable presence - no denying his greatness, his star quality. He’d done fucking Shakespeare – but even better than that, he’d done fucking Die-Hard, something any kid growing up in Brooklyn could identify with, pop culture! Dante had been frightened, but he’d played it off. Sure, Alan could bring his well-bred training to the set. Whatever. Mos Def was bringing his own personal flare, his hype. Soon enough, though, that had run out, and Dante had found himself lined up behind all the rest, a simpering fangirl, mesmerized by the voice and the hands and the talent. And the worst part of it was, Alan was actually a nice guy. He wasn’t an asshole about it. He was quiet and understated and he’d given Dante a chance. It had meant more to him than anything.

Now, however, no chances are given – not even to breathe. Alan is still kissing gently while his hands move down to remove the jacket and unbutton the Sean John shirt Dante wears, and Dante, for his part, simply stands there, getting kissed, allowing himself to be disrobed. To be honest, he isn’t sure what to do, isn’t sure where to begin. He wants to do something but is afraid of ruining the moment, something so precious and delicate. These are the times that he wishes he could write about, these strange little instances in life, these odd moments that come without definition. He swallows, thinking that maybe the world isn’t ready to hear him rap about Alan Rickman making him hard while he stands there in wonder, on the verge of singing sweet praises to God.

In a sudden burst of ingenuity, Dante raises his hands to Alan’s head, desperate to feel those golden locks sliding through his fingers. Its so much like silk, he thinks as Alan pushes the shirt off his shoulders before unzipping and lowering the Dickies, letting Dante step out of them and his Adidas. He feels lightheaded as he gets a close up look at the shards of parsley in those eyes just as Alan’s hands come up to rest on his chest.

“You’re skin is so warm and rich.” Alan’s voice is honey melting over him, and Dante shuts his eyes, feeling suddenly too weak to remain standing.

“The bed.” He says in an uneven voice and moves from Alan to go sit on the edge.

Rickman watches Dante as he perches on the comforter, eyes still shut, breathing deep and unnatural.

“Are you okay?” Alan inquires in a soft accent. “Am I moving too fast?”

Dante shakes his head and reaches out for Alan to come take his hands. “Not at all…its just something about you. Too much…too intense…had to sit before I fell.”

Alan quirks his lips upward into a slight grin. “If you want to stop, at an time…”

Dante wraps his thin arms loosely around Alan’s waist. “No. I don’t want to stop. Never that.”

When he drops his hands down, he starts to unfasten Alan’s pants, excited and a little nervous. Alan simply watches, bringing a hand up to caress the younger man’s face. Dante lowers the zipper slowly and pushes the garment down Alan’s legs, careful to leave on the boxers. From this angle, it’s pretty obvious that Alan wants this, and Dante feels sure he is in an identical predicament. The throbbing started when Alan first turned the key in the lock. He is salivating and forcing himself to resist doing what his mouth so desperately wants him to do. Instead, though, he gets on the bed and beckons Alan near.

Kneeling together, they face one another and Alan wraps his arms around the other man, bringing him in to share a deep kiss, this time tongues sliding together, licking and teasing. Dante has his hands, once again, in Alan’s hair as they hold onto one another pelvises meeting and pressing, arms clutching. Then Alan starts to kiss downward, his lips brushing the place just under Dante’s chin, then onto his neck, gentle kissing then nipping playfully with teeth.

Dante hears himself gasp and presses his lower body into Alan’s feeling erections through thin layers of cotton. His hands reach up to unbutton Alan’s brilliant blue shirt, a difficult feat with trembling hands, but he manages it nonetheless. When they are both shirtless and wearing only shorts and socks, Dante lets his hands move across Alan’s chest, the skin like porcelain, dusted with soft sandy hair. The contrast of colors of their skin is astounding, but somehow erotic and breathtaking. Dante can’t help but to lean forward and take a powder pink nipple into his mouth, suckling it gently as Alan makes a low sound in the back of his throat.

“Like that?” Dante asks, absently between licks, and Alan groans softly.

“You needn’t ask…” He murmurs in a strained voice as he caresses Dante’s pectoral as if it were the most precious breast in all of existence. The sentiment isn’t lost on Dante who shudders at the contact of rough fingertips against his own sensitive nipple.
Then, Alan raises Dante’s face again and captures the mouth savagely in a kiss as he takes those arms in his hands and holds tight. Dante likes the confinement. In fact, finds it utterly sexy, before Alan releases him and reaches for his package, caressing him through cotton Joe boxers.

“Oh God.” The younger man moans, taken off guard. “Okay…that’s nice…”

Alan chews his lip, grinning. “Shall we try it without the nickers, then?”

Dante makes a face, his dimples making themselves prominent again. “Uh…yeah, yeah. Let’s try it. See how it goes.”

“Alright.” Alan gives him a chaste kiss on his mouth before caressing his head, cap and all. “Lie down then.”

Dante looks indecisive for a moment before stretching himself out on top of the comforter. His eyes continue to watch Alan as the older man approaches, hands moving up and down the lemon pepper chest, up across dark nipples and down onto the lightly furred belly where the ebony hair disappears into his shorts.

Raising his legs, Dante assists Alan in removing them and tries not to feel self-conscious as his erection rests against his belly, long and thin like its owner, and leaking lightly. Alan’s eyes move across his body, appraising him with warm smile.

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, caressing the muscled legs with gentle hands, up thighs and across his abdomen, coming to rest on the shaft, closing his hand around it. Dante shuts his eyes and simply lets himself feel as Alan tugs, bringing foreskin up over the head, sliding the velvet across steel, making Dante moan low in his chest and turn his head away.

“Alan…” He hears himself whisper. “…yeah.”

After several seconds of this, of Dante not thrusting, of Dante getting close, of Dante’s heart pounding in his chest like a mallet, Alan stops and considers the chocolate body spread out before him like the dessert platter.

“I want to taste you. May I?”

Dante smiles with his eyes closed, still marveling in the feeling of Alan touching him, bringing him so close. This can’t be real. It feels too good. It feels too sinful, and Alan is so amazing – like a dream. He nods slowly as Alan bends his head, without hesitation, to take the younger man down his throat, and Dante cries out, in spite of himself, unprepared for such perfection. The natural suction of Alan’s mouth wrapped around his dick is almost a shock to his system, the tongue playing about the head is torturous, the teeth lightly grazing is going to make him come. Soon. He reaches down to rest hands on Alan’s lightly freckled shoulders first before bringing them up to bury in his hair, so much dark blond hair, rustic gold, silky beautiful hair, flowing through his fingers as his hips start to move slowly, fucking that lovely mouth. He can’t help himself, and he wants to come, wants to more than anything.

“Ahh…God…” He moans, sliding his dick past lips, past teeth, along the pad of that glorious tongue, so wet, so incredible. Alan reaches beneath him to caress his taut little ass, squeezing it in his hands, then moving underneath to toy with scrotum and tease perineum. Dante gasps in surprise and arousal, hoping for more contact as Alan delivers, mouth working overtime to engulf his engorged dick as his finger slides beneath to circle the tight pucker of his entrance.

“Ooh…” He moans, uncertain but willing, uneasy but simmering with anticipation and curiosity. Alan circles gently, using saliva and pre-cum to aid his entrance as he continues to suckle on the head of Dante’s dick while slowly invading him with the blunt tip of his right index finger. Dante’s hips stop moving, chest rising and falling as he takes more of the finger, lets it fill him, then lets it caress him from the inside. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels odd, a new sensation altogether. Not unwelcome by any accounts. Anyway, if he’s destined to do this, he prefers it be with Alan.

He hardly recognizes his voice as he murmurs one word, in a rasp of a voice. “More.”

Alan continues the fellatio but now less intent on it, more intent on preparing him for this, adding another finger, making sure he doesn’t hurt the younger man. He’d had no idea he hadn’t ever done this before, but he should have guessed as much. The young rapper is unassuming and quiet, almost brooding in a passive kind of way. Still, Alan would have guessed he wouldn’t have been the first for him. There’s just something about him that reeks of experience in such matters. All this makes him relatively apprehensive as he slowly continues to breach his body.

“Ahh…Alan…” Dante is actually pushing against his hand, further impaling himself. “…Yeah, more…”

With that, Alan adds yet another finger, loosening the ring of muscle and pushing past it, sucking on that hard-as-cement dick with renewed vigor. In actually, he is fueled by the prospect of joining bodies with this man, of being enveloped inside him, of taking this willowy body and wrapping it around him like a close-fitting cardigan…

In moments, Alan’s fingers are pumping deeply inside the body beneath his and Dante is coming in his mouth, warm and shuddering like liquid fire, melting like cocoa, and Alan is swallowing it down as if it were Holy water.

The next several minutes happen in a blur, Dante kissing Alan’s mouth, tasting himself, both brown and white hands fumbling around for a condom, Alan kissing the soft brow, kneeling between Dante’s legs as Dante rolls the latex over his thick leaking cock, Alan lying over Dante, supporting himself on outstretched hands as his cock seems to find its own way inside the other man. Both of them gasp and Alan watches the other man’s face for signs of discomfort even while he keeps a tight reign on himself to keep from fucking because all he wants to do now is fuck, to pound this boyish body beneath his, to be nestled inside the warmth and tightness. He clenches his teeth to keep from fucking, even while restraining himself is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

“Are you alright, Dante?”

Dante nods, legs spread, thighs wide as his eyelids flutter shut. “Uh huh…” he manages. “…don’t stop.”

Alan continues to watch his face as he moves, slowly in, slowly out, mouth coming down to kiss that warm brown skin, like burnt sienna. The sun peeks into the window, caressing them with its heat, and Alan imagines it is the eye of God, perhaps condoning this, just this once, perhaps okay with it. Alan imagines he resides on the line between heaven as hell as he starts to pound into the man below him, starts to lose himself in the fucking, something he rarely does, something he couldn’t possibly do with Rima. God, if only, if only…

“Alan…” Dante clings to the Englishman’s shoulder, hands eventually finding that hair again, sliding through it, aching but dying from the pleasure of aching. How can something hurt so goddamn bad and yet feel like mutherfucking euphoria at the same time? How can it be so good like this? What is that special place that seems to like the head of Alan’s prick so much that it makes him gasp and feel like crying each and every time he nudges it? How is it that Alan can find his G-spot when he didn’t even know he had one? Why is his dick leaking again, and why does he feel like he might come again? Why does he feel like a bitch and like the feeling, wanting to fling his legs over Alan Rickman’s shoulders and run away with him and have his baby? Where do these fucking thoughts come from?

“Oh God…” Dante’s eyes fling open wide as he starts to shudder some several minutes later. “…Oh My Fucking God…Alan…”

“I’m coming…” Alan says in that voice born of angels as he starts to tremble above Dante, and Dante is shocked to find himself coming again, squirting hot gism between their bodies. “…Oh my God…”

Dante lets his eyes shut as Alan rests on top of him, his body a heavy weight over him but very welcome. In fact, he clings to him, arms wrapped around him, slightly embarrassed by what has transpired here, but also, wishing he had the whole thing on tape to watch over and over again. It can’t have been real. It felt so damned good.

As Alan moves to disentangle himself, Dante holds tighter.

“Not yet.” He says in a quiet voice, unwilling to have Alan leave him so soon. “Stay. Just a little longer.”

Alan raises himself up a bit to look into the deep brown eyes, uncertain of what he might find there.
“Sure.” He says with a warm caring smile. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

Dante nods, slowly, still panting a bit as he revels in the fact that he’s covered in Alan’s perspiration - Hell! He’s covered in Alan, and he holds on tight, unsure of when or where or how this reality might end, but glad for the present – however long it might last.

END
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Most Definately