alan rickman character oneshots

2b. alan rickman. metamorphosis

nsfw. sexy time with alan at an exhibition. 

yes, it's the same one shot. don't come at me, i wanted to quench every simp's thirst. i usually don't like writing about real people, especially alan because he has such a special, exceptional persona, but here we go. changed the plot a bit because of obvious personal details, but other than that, it's basically the same.

also, i adore rima and she has my deepest sympathy. yes, alan is married in this fic, but i didn't picture her as his wife, she's just a faceless plot device. it's just for shits and giggles. enjoy!

You snatched a flute filled with middleclass champagne from one of the waiters making their busy way around the chattering high society. You were stupid enough to have actually looked forward to the exhibition, for one thing because you really were into the weirder side of your literature studies, and for another thing because George told you it would be an exclusive, upscale event with versed people, expensive drinks and a fancy dinner to let the evening slowly come to an end.

So of course, you accepted his invitation, only to stand in the middle of the tiny saloon with alcohol too cheap to get a pleasant buzz out of it.

George was mingling, probably to butter the most famous looking people up – he still was on the hunt for a publisher who was indifferent enough to publish his writing in the long term. He only managed to get a few editions out here and there, but never enough to make a living, and so he had to bartend most nights at your favorite club when you had a few coins more to spare.

You secretly thought that was the reason he got his hands on the invitations, although he fiercely argued that he indeed had a standing as an acquainted author.

Either way, it didn't change the fact that you were standing in front of an obscenely strident quote of Franz Kafka, dressed to the nines and bored out of your mind. Not that you took no interest in Kafka's writings and his life, quite the opposite, but the things they displayed were not only distastefully arranged, no, they were straight up half-assed Wikipedia knowledge.

You let out an exasperated sigh and nipped on your champagne. Oh, you were in for a long, long night.

Kafka stared right back at you, his comically wide eyes almost creepily following you when you moved back and forth, lips curled into a demonic grin, the painting downright insulting to the Jewish, genius writer. Your head moved like a snake dancing to the hypnotizing melody of a flute, trying to flee his spooky gaze, but alas, to no avail.

"I'm not a very good painter myself, but I think this is one of the worst portraits I've ever seen."

You stopped in your tipsy tracks and turned around. The owner of the warm, amused voice smirked at you with a slightly drawn eyebrow, a tumbler of whiskey in his left hand. The golden liquid moved peacefully as he drew closer to you.

Your eyes took in the sight before you, slightly narrowed, but attentive, because hallelujah, he was one fine specimen of a man. His obvious British charm gave not only his voice, but also his cheeky smile and his elegant grey suit an air of nonchalant sexiness, the few opened buttons on his dress shirt revealed soft, blond, borderline greyish hair and slightly tanned skin, but his eyes – oh, his eyes, they were a jar of dark, liquid honey, two amber stones glimmering mischievously through dark lashes.

You drew in a deep breath, feeling a dull, pulsing throb in your cunt. He was fucking hot.

"Why, damn right you are", you answered with a scoff, but sent him a brief smirk and turned back around to the portrait.

"I came hoping for some mind-bending conversations or analyses, but here I am, getting drunk off cheap-ass champagne and staring at a fucked-up painting", you muttered, blinking at the similarly fed-up looking grimace on the canvas.