Reverie - DVD Extras
Mar. 20th, 2011 03:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Liam/Bradley
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: A fill for this prompt over at the kink meme
Okay, long prompt is long, plz bear with me...
So I just read the first parts of sonora's new RPS fic, and while I'm enjoying it like a vacation in Awesomeville, CA, it made me think of the following...
What if Liam and Brad are having a thing, but one of them (let's go with Brad, coz I love to see this boy suffer) thinks the other isn't really interested in him. They are always fucking on set, most of the time still in costume, lots of Hannibal/Face roleplaying etc. etc. (coz we all know this is hot), but... maybe they never fucked when they were "themselves"? Maybe Brad (or Liam, though I'd prefer Brad) starts to think Liam is only interested in Face, not in Brad? All he's after is the kinky roleplay sex and not the real Brad? What then? Does he break it off or is he so... addicted to Liam he takes what he can get, even if that means he never gets the "real" thing?
... happy ending or not, idc btw. ;)
Bradley thinks Liam’s only interested in Face. Bradley gets quite upset about this, but it doesn't really come to surface until the promotion tour's about to begin. And, of course, Patrick's going to be there to lend a hand...
The planning tent, the set, Iraq, Hannibal’s little diorama all set up on, the little green army men shaking a little as colonel holds on to the edge for dear life, ass pulled nearly off the seat. Bradley's lips are stretched wide around that magnificent cock, tongue flicking, the hand wrapped around the base, everything moving and squeezing and sucking in concert, driving his lover over the edge, and Hannibal’s close, so close. The American can feel it, the way his balls start to tighten up right before, the way his name’s uttered like a prayer
“Oh, god, Face...” he moans. “Oh, fuck, kid, please... please, Face...”
Brad realizes it without even breaking his rhythm.
Liam hasn’t bothered to take off Hannibal’s workshirt.
Brad’s still in Face’s clothes.
Not Liam and Bradley, then.
Hannibal and Face.
He almost stops, almost lets his lips curl off his teeth and off that cock and fall back over his heels to demand that Liam acknowledge him and only him, but he doesn’t want this to stop. He could lose the tenuous hold on this thing between them. Lose Liam. And that’s an unbearable thought. So Brad just concentrates on the task at hand. Wants to bring his man pleasure. Loves him like this, loves him...
And that’s how Face feels about his commander, so it’s okay for Brad to feel it right now. It’s the only good thing about the role-playing, really.
Face flicks his eyes up to watch the older man in the throes of his orgasm, swallowing fast to keep up.
They’ve been at this more and more lately, the roleplaying. A couple times a week now, whenever they can steal a moment or two to be alone. It’s almost always on the set, almost always in costume. Liam doesn’t bother taking Hannibal’s wig off most times, and it’s become Bradley’s mission in life to get that damn thing off him as quickly as possible, every time.
To remind who he is, who’s with him. Liam has such a kink for this, he gets so lost in Hannibal...
Brad slithers up to sit on his lap, playing lightly with the buttons, and Liam draws in him in for a long, hard kiss. One of those possessive kisses. They had their little cartharsis about a month ago, Bradley tricking Liam into asking him for monogamy, his cheap trick with the fantasy scenario his best-guess at getting them both there. And the Irishman’s had filled the younger man with hope. Hope that maybe Liam, finally, would start seeing him in everything they did together, that maybe this could be more than the fun rough-and-tumble it had started as.
That maybe Liam really did want him.
Bradley Cooper.
Not Face.
But the roleplaying’s gotten more intense, more frequent, more everything since then. And his hope for something beyond the movie’s withered a little bit, each day.
“Mmm,” the Irishman says and brushes Bradley’s hair out of his eyes. “That was wonderful, lad.”
The accent’s back, rich and full, and the American sighs into that broad, warm chest beneath him. “It was,” he says and tries to snuggle in as best he can. Loves the sound of that heartbeat. “It always is.”
Whatever he can get, however he can get, whoever, Brad wants.
But not even Liam lifting him up and guiding him out, gentle, by the hand, can make him feel any better about that.
+++++
Three Months Later
Bradley shuffles his feet, staring down, not really looking forward to any of this. They have a meeting, they all have a meeting, actors, agents, business managers, everybody, in about half an hour. Time for the promotion circuit to begin. Joe wanted everybody on the same page. Fairly typical.
He’s a little early.
Liam’s here early, too. Looks fucking edible in his own soft sweater, something Hannibal would never...
“So,” the older man says, “you’ve... been good?”
Bradley’s been nervous about this reunion practically since the shoot ended, wondering how it would go, seeing his... is lover the right word? Lover doesn’t seem like the right word. There wasn’t much love involved in any of it. Fun, yes. Love, no. Least, not for Liam.
And the American actor tries not to think about that first night he got home, with the shower and his accidental fantasy. Or the time a week or so later, when Hannibal had been there, too. Or when it was just Hannibal. He never fantasized about Liam. It seems... well, fantasizing about Hannibal was pretty much what he’d been doing the whole time when they were together, right? So Hannibal’s close enough. As close as he’s going to get. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been good. Keeping busy, you know, doing... stuff. How’s New York?”
“Grand city. You should come out and visit sometime.”
“I’ve been. And hotel rooms are way too tiny there,” Bradley jokes back. Liam wouldn’t be inviting him over. Wouldn’t be asking him to come stay with him, and how great would that be, Bradley wonders. Staying with Liam, sleeping with Liam, Liam’s own bed, a real bed...
Liam nods back slowly. “Aye, they can be pretty small. But Brad...”
“Yeah?”
“It’s, uhh... it’s good to see you.” Like Liam was going to say something and decided against it.
They’re sitting on opposite sides of the conference table, a good four feet of solid New England oak between them. Bradley wants to leap over it, right into Liam’s arms, press their bodies together again, feel those lips on his again.
Might as well be a mile, an ocean.
Because it’s all over. The shoot’s over. Face is gone, at least until a sequel starts filming, if a sequel gets greenlighted. And Liam only really wanted Face. Bradley can’t be him again; at least, he can’t be Face like Liam wants and have Liam at the same time. The two are mutually exclusive, packaged away in their own little worlds that don’t intersect except on a set that no longer exists. This isn’t going to work. He knows that.
How the hell is he going to get through this promotion stuff?
“Yeah,” he replies, and flashes Liam a smile, like everything’s okay. “It’s good to see you too, man.”
Liam smiles back, leans back in his chair and relaxes a little. “I was thinking that perhaps we could go get dinner tonight.”
On what, a date? Brad wants to ask, feeling his pulse start to quicken at the very thought of it. A real date, just them, nothing else, coming back to their hotel late, together, but... when have they ever had one of those? And what’s Liam going to expect? What’s Liam going to want for it? But maybe an evening of being themselves would outweight the night of being somebody else. Maybe. “Sure, umm, that’d be great, but maybe the whole team’s going to want to...”
“Oh, yes, there is that?” Liam says and thinks for a moment. “Drinks after?”
“After what?” Sharlto asks cheerfully, bouncing into the room, every bit as excited as what Murdock might have been. He plunks himself down, right next to Brad. “Fook, it’s good to see you guys again!”
“And you, buddy,” Bradley replies, giving the South African the fist-bump he’s waiting for and glances back over at Liam, who’s pulled his blackberry out and is quite visibly scrolling through emails. Ignoring him.
Because he's not Face.
If his heart sinks a little, he doesn’t have time to notice, because Sharlto’s talking like he always does and that’s something nicer to hold on to right now.
Goddamn.
+++++
The day was every bit as awkward as Bradley could have predicted it would be. Maybe worse. Everybody’s back together, and everybody’s happy and everything couldn’t be better.
For everyone but Brad.
Liam suggests dinner to the group, and everyone agrees, and they’re all laughing and joking and carrying on, Sharlto and Rampage finding their groove again no problem, Jessica smiling and doing that knowing-flirting-joking thing she does, Patrick being tongue-in-cheek serious like he does, flashing Brad a few quick little sympathetic smiles as Liam talks to him, and doesn’t even glance down at Brad’s end of the table.
He feels very out of place. He can’t even really taste the food, Italian, although everyone else thinks it’s just great, and they’re all just great, and he finds himself in the bathroom, trying to figure out...
“Who shit in your cornflakes this morning?” Patrick asks, leaning on the edge of the stall. Brad just shakes his head and lets his head hit the dented metal divider. “Ah,” Patrick says. “Liam.”
“Liam?”
“Come on, Brad, it’s not like I don’t know,” Patrick chuckles, and takes his hand up, warm and soft. “You spent months pining after him...”
“Dude, did you just say pining?”
“Like a princess in a Disney movie, yes, pining for the man and you’ve already fucking got him. What gives?”
"I had him..."
"Oh, past tense. This I must hear," the other actor says lightly.
“Patrick, if we’re going to have this conversation, can’t you, uh, just get in the stall?” Brad asks, watching the floor, feeling extremely uncomfortable. Shit, they’re in public, in a bathroom, talking about...
“Not a chance, don’t want anybody to think we’re a couple of queers,” Patrick replies, and grins, so as to tell Brad that he’s joking. “But Brad, don’t worry, you guys haven’t seen each other in a while and it’s kind of an awkward environment right on day one and...”
Brad sighs. “I don’t think it’s just that, man. I’m not sure he wants...”
The door bangs open, and Patrick instantly drops Brad’s hand. It’s Liam, barely glancing over at them as he stops at the urinal. Patrick raises an eyebrow and Bradley slaps him. It’s supposed to be playful, but it comes out a little too hard, and Liam looks over. “What are you lads talking about?”
“Oh, you know, girls and stuff,” Patrick deadpans.
“Girls. You two. Right,” and Bradley can practically hear Liam’s eyeroll as he zips up and moves over to wash his hands.
Patrick pushes off and taps Bradley on the shoulder, gesturing over towards Liam’s direction as he saunters out. Telling him to say something. It’s pretty damn clear. So Brad takes a deep breath and walks over to the sink, trying to avoid the little patches of wet there, and decides to just not touch the damn thing at all.
Liam’s watching him, something amused dancing in his eyes. “Enjoying being back with everyone?”
Brad shrugs.
“It’s a little overwhelming, these promotion circuits, but I think we’re, well,” and the older actor grabs for a handful of paper towel, “it should give you and Sharlto and Patrick and everyone some time to get to know each other again.”
“Yeah?” Brad asks, his voice starting to shake.
“Yeah,” Liam replies, warm and pleasant as always, his brogue sweet, and claps him on the back. “I think dessert might be up. Don’t have to worry about that diet anymore, right, lad?”
Face’s diet. Jesus, Liam might not be interested anymore, but does he really need to... and Bradley just cuts that off. He already promised himself he wasn’t going to worry about that. Wasn’t going to worry about Liam. “Yup, no diet,” he musters and smiles back, not really feeling it. “Mmm. Creme brulee.”
Liam just chuckles, and holds the door for him, ushering back to nowhere he particularly wants to go.
+++++
Things don’t improve as the week goes on. And becomes another. And the traveling started, the interviews and all the bullshit that went along with those, long hours on the jet together, waiting for stuff to happen, just talking.
It would be nice, good, great, even. But Liam stays away from him. They talk of course, joke and tease and Liam’s just fine with him, everything seems the same. There’s just no together anything. No quiet moments, no little touches. No offers for anything that Brad can see. Liam’s just... staying away.
“And is this my problem how?” Patrick yawns. He’s got his hand up on his door and his head on his hand, and he looks wiped. He yawns. His eyes are half shut. He’s still mostly dressed, though. They all just got back from Thursday night and the bar in the lobby. Neither of them are drunk, but might be dangerously close to that right now. Brad’s not sure. Brad doesn’t care.
“Can I come in?” Bradley asks, not giving a shit, just wanting to talk to someone, feel someone next to him, and the other actor pauses for a moment, like he’s considering all the way this could go wrong, before he finally nods and moves away. Lets Brad in.
Brad shoves his hands in his pockets, tight and bunched, as he steps in and the door shuts behind him. Patrick’s on another floor in the hotel they’re at today. Brad can’t remember what the name of the place is. Some variation of Hyatt, probably, and he lets Patrick guide him down and into a chair.
A minibar bottle appears in his hand, vodka, and Patrick’s twisting the top off a whiskey. “Talk to me, Bradley. What’s going on in that cute little head of yours?”
The actor honestly doesn’t know. That’s not why he’s here. “Can’t sleep.”
“For you, Cooper, that is weird.”
“It’s...” Bradley begins.
“...Liam?” Patrick finishes, and downs the tiny bottle in one go. Gets up for another. “Yeah, what is it with you two? Could you be more on edge with each other?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Brad says, staring at the vodka. Does he like this brand? Does it matter right now? It’s not like it ever feels different the next morning or anything. He hears the plastic snap as he breaks the seal. “I mean, he doesn’t look at me, he doesn’t really...I don’t think he wants me.”
“Course he does,” Patrick says. “Man planted a flag on your ass like you would not believe. Everybody, and don’t freak, by everybody I mean myself and that damn intern who’s already got a pile of fanfic waiting around to deploy in July...”
“... and the girls from make-up?”
“Oh right, yeah, the girls from make-up. Us. All we all know that Liam fucking owns you. The way he looked when he saw you sucking me...”
“...Lynch?”
Patrick gives him a strange look, like he can’t quite place a reason for the distinction. “Yeah, well, you might as well be wearing a collar, the kind of possessiveness that woke up in the man.”
Bradley shifts a little, trying to image that. It’s a little too easy, and he winces. “I don’t really like the implications there, Pat.”
“Oh, you fucking know what I mean!” the other actor replies, grinning a little, like he’s picturing it himself. “Liam Neeson is so damn hard for you, I think you could cut glass with his...”
And that’s definitely a mental picture he doesn’t need. “He doesn’t want me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He only wanted Face,” Bradley tries to explain. “Of all the times we, you know, did it...”
“God, you’re cute when you blush,” Patrick interjects, words coming a little faster with the second shot of whiskey, and waves for Brad to continue. The other man can feel his cheeks burning, but he keeps going.
“...all those times, I can’t think of maybe one or two where we weren’t in costume or uniform or whatever.”
“What about your first time?”
“Costume.”
Patrick makes a little thinking noise. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. He’s real into the role-playing or something, and that’s the only time, the only time I could... I c-could have him, so I let him do it...” Bradley stutters to stop, hating himself, hating himself all the more for the way Patrick sits down next to him and drapes an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. He can smell lingering cologne and the faintest hint of sweat from the day, and turns his face into that. “I figured... if it was the only way, it was the only way... and...”
“Christ,” Patrick mutters, but mostly to himself, and pushes Brad’s chin up. “I’m going to say this, and yes, it sounds incredibly gay to me too, but you two need to talk this out. Tell him how you feel, ask him about...”
“No fucking way am I doing that.”
“Yes, yes you are,” Patrick tells him, but Brad just buries his face a little further into the other man’s white undershirt, breathing deep until he’s pulled back by his hair and eyes met his own. “You are going to talk to him about this.”
Brad pushes his face back down, bumping the bottom of Patrick’s jaw with his own chin, wrapping his arms around him, moves up a little to plant a kiss right below his ear. It feels good to touch somebody, touch another man who he trusts and respects and likes. God, he likes Patrick. Likes Patrick so much... “Don’t wanna,” he says, and realizes it’s a little slurred. He nips. “Screw Liam. Don’t want him anymore.”
“You suck at lying, Brad.” Hands at his shoulders, and he half expects the other actor to peel him off and throw him out, given the way things seem to be going lately, and he’s pleasantly surprised when strong fingers pinch into his muscle instead, holding him close. “I’m not going to fuck you tonight, Cooper,” he tells him softly. “You’re drunk, Brad. You need some goddamn aspirin and some sleep. Not... that.”
Bradley whines a little. The alcohol in his system doesn’t care, says he doesn’t have to either. Liam, Liam’s promises, Liam’s words weren’t for him. He’s not bound to any of it. And he needs right now. “Patrick, it’s been weeks...”
“No fucking.” And then those arms give him a little squeeze. “You can sleep here if you want, if that would help...”
“Fuck yes,” he says, words and relieved laughter muffled in Patrick’s t-shirt, and Patrick just lets them both fall back onto the mattress, still holding him close. Pulls him under the blankets, whispers that Brad’s okay, that everything’s going to be okay. Pulls him down into the white noise of dreams...
And Bradley wakes right about like that the next morning, stripped down to his boxers, right up next to Patrick.
Wakes because there’s a knock at the door. Wakes because Patrick has to get up to answer it. Wakes because he recognizes the voice that’s talking to Patrick, saying, “have you seen him? I need to...” and he loves that accent, even as hurried and clipped as it seems.
Wakes because Liam pushes his way in, despite Patrick’s obvious, brief, futile struggle to prevent that. Wakes with Liam still talking, “... because he’s being... right now... I don’t know if there’s something going on betwe...”, Liam, not talking, staring at Bradley, tucked into Patrick’s bed, who's had no time at all to prepare a response for this.
So he says nothing.
The older man bites his lower lip so hard it turns white, looks at Patrick, back at Brad, then Patrick again, and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Bradley just feels like he killed something. The way Liam looked... and ironically, now that he thinks about it, this might be a good thing.
Maybe, just maybe, Liam does actually...
...even if he'll likely never touch me again, after this, Brad thinks to himself.
“Motherfucker,” Patrick groans and lets his forehead hit the now mercifully closed door. “The man’s going to kill me for real this time.”
Bradley’s up and out of bed, in a heartbeat, panicking, hopping on one leg, trying to get his pants back on so he can go... chasing Liam down seems insane, but he can’t let the older man just think that he’s...
“Woah, settle down there, killer,” Patrick says, laying a hand on his shoulder, enough to steady him, stop him from falling over as he tries to get dressed. The other actor hooks his fingers through beltloops, helps him tug his jeans back on. “It’s going to be okay...”
“How the fuck...” Bradley pants, and finally gets the damn garment up around his hips, “...is it going to be okay?”
Patrick brandishes his shirt. “Arms up. And it’s going,” he tugs it down over Brad’s head, like he’s dressing a five-year-old, and Bradley makes a mental note to die from embarassment later, “to be fine.”
Where are his shoes? No time for shoes. Fuck his shoes. Patrick’s laughing, and kicks the door open.
“Go get ‘im, tiger.”
Bastard, Bradley thinks, and runs out.
Liam’s room is on this same floor, thank god, and Bradley races down there now, hoping like hell he’s there and not going somewhere...
The door opens right as he reaches it. Liam, sunglasses in hand, a hat, obviously just about to go for a walk. A little surprised.
And then just pissed.
He sighs and tries to shut the door, but Bradley jams it back open, throwing his shoulder into it, and Liam only relents enough to where they can see each other through a six inch gap. “Come on, Liam, please. We need to talk...”
“I’m not in the mood, lad,” Liam growls and looks away. “You need to go.”
Bradley hates himself for even thinking about this, but if it’s the only thing Liam’s going to listen to... “Come on, please, boss...”
Something twists up on Liam’s features, fast and odd. Then the door slams, rattling his chest, and Bradley stares at it for a moment before a hand claps down on his shoulder and pulls him out of the door’s alcove, around the corner, out of line of sight, so he’s not visible from the door.
"Did you just try the Hannibal angle on him, Bradley? Pissed him off, right?"
“Patrick, what the hell are you...”
“Dude, I’m not putting up with months of this fucking UST between you two. Guh, already dealt with enough of that on the shoot,” Patrick says, and bangs a fist on the door. He hands Bradley his shoes. ”Not going to do it. Now just hang out and keep quiet.” Louder. “Liam, come on, it’s just me!”
The door opens again, and Bradley plasters himself back against the wall, feeling like a complete ass. This is retarded. Are they children? And what is Patrick possibly going to say that’s going to...
“Patrick,” Liam says wearily, cracking the door, “it’s no business of mine, what you two are doing in your...”
“Do you seriously want to have this conversation in the hall?” Patrick asks, int hat voice he uses when he’s chewing a fingernail.
“I don’t want to have this conversation at all. I’ll see you lads later...”
Patrick’s hand slaps down on the door, voice low. “I’m not fucking him, Liam. Although I might have to start if you won’t.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s like crying or some shit right now.”
“Bradley was what?”
Yeah, Bradley thinks. Bradley was what?
Patrick just keeps going. “But honestly, Liam, you know what you did when you set the guy’s inner homo loose, right? He’s a, well, I don’t want to say slut for cock...” Patrick chuckles a little, like this is funny. Why’s he being so damn vulgar? Around the corner, Bradley can feel his face burning. "He's been needy. That’s why he was screwing around with me, too, because I guess you weren’t giving him what he needed."
“Patrick...” Liam warns, in that wonderful low little growl of his.
“I mean, seriously, Liam. Guy came over last night, wasted off his ass, asking me to fuck him because you, apparently, aren’t doing it...”
“Did you?” Liam’s voice is low, dangerous.
“Fuck him? Not a chance. I let him stay over, cuddles and all that bullshit, but that was it. He needs some goddamn compassion right now, Liam, but I am not fucking him.” Patrick pauses. “You already fake shot me once, and that was over, like, a blowjob. I hate to think of what kinky roleplaying bullshit you’d drag me into if you actually thought I had my dick up his tight as...”
The door slams again. Patrick peels away, whistling a little, and looks at Bradley who’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open. Yup, embarrassment. He wants to die of it.
Right after he kills Patrick.
“Dude. What the fuck was that?”
“Oh, don’t do that,” the other actor says, and hooks an arm under his, dragging him away, back to his own room, probably, above any of his feeble attempts to protest. “Liam’s about as alpha-male as they get.”
“That is not an explanation!” he hisses.
“If he gives a shit about you,” and Patrick pats his elbow, “which he does, that is going set off every fucking protective instinct in his head. He'll either come down to talk or re-establish his claim or some shit like that, or he'll come try to kick my ass.” He stops for a moment, and then fishes Brad’s key card out of his back pocket for him and hands it over. “Probably both.”
Bradley looks at the number on the door. Oh. Right. This is his room. And he nods, hating that the other actor’s pulling some con on the man he wants to claim to love... “Do you really think that?” he asks, turning the key over in his hand. “That I’m... that I’m a...”
“You’re eager,” Patrick says, warm, no trace of the undercurrent of sarcasm he uses sometimes. Not like the tidal wave of cynicism he just flooded into Liam's brain. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“But... does Liam think...”
“I was just trying to piss him off, Brad,” and the other actor lays an apologetic hand on his shoulder. “And he’s pissed. He’ll be down. Talk it up, make out, whatever. We don’t have anything until lunch anyway...”
“Yeah, I saw the week’s schedule,” Bradley mutters back, and nods.
Patrick smiles. “It’s gonna be okay, Brad. Trust me.”
But as soon as he gets inside his room, he just falls onto the bed, not bothering to turn any lights on, tossing his shoes... somewhere.
He hopes to hell that Patrick's right. Otherwise...
But hasn't he already lost Liam anyway?
Bradley fists a pillow up against his chest, and wills himself not to cry.
It basically, essentially, practically works.
+++++
Liam doesn’t come by that day. Not before lunch, and not after. Which means they have to do one of those internet video interviews, the four of them, and Bradley makes sure he’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch as the girl interviewer smiles at him and asks how much they all loved the A-Team as kids. Sharlto goes nuts. Liam tries to explain he never cared much for it in the politest way possible.
He’s cute when he’s equivocating, Bradley thinks, and then has to play his distraction off when the girl turns to him. Big grin. His business manager tells him the ladies it. Liam used to say he loved it too...
The interview goes on for way, way too long.
Liam? Patrick mouths at him as he and Brian Bloom move in to switch places with the team. Bradley shakes his head. Brian rolls his eyes and makes some comment to Patrick about rocket launchers, which the interviewer catches and giggles, like she knows what the fuck he’s talking about.
The actor looks around, but Liam’s already off the little set. How was Patrick wrong about this? Patrick’s usually not wrong about anything...
And Bradley asks himself that question again, once they’re all back, once he’s back. While he’s shirtless and trying to care about tonight.
Patrick announced that they all just have to go out tonight. Sharlto whooped and Rampage just chuckled and Liam didn’t say a goddamn thing. Patrick insisted, though, and elbowed Jessica and Jessica grinned after a moment and backed him up...
He sticks his whole face in the sink. Bradley loves this hotel, having sinks big enough for that. It doesn’t help, but it seems kind of appropriate right now. Isn’t that what people in emotional distress do? Stupid shit for no reason?
There’s a knock at the door, and Brad figures it’s probably Patrick. Here to let him in on phase two of the Plan. Maybe he’s going to have to blow the other actor again. It sounds like a good idea, actually, he thinks as he pads over to the door, drying his face.
He checks the peephole.
Fuck.
Tossing his hand towel over his shoulder, Bradley slides the chain loose and opens the door wide. Takes in the man who’s standing in front of him now. Loose jeans, blue shirt unbuttoned a little too far, sportcoat, that cologne that’s just so damn good... “You look ready to go, Liam,” Bradley says, feeling a little exposed and telling himself to curb his expectations. This probably isn’t going anywhere, after all. “Are you...”
“You don’t have to, Bradley,” Liam says, and that makes just enough sense to not make any sense at all.
“What do you mean?” the American actor asks, and walks back into the bathroom. Does he need to shave? Brush his teeth? Something suitably distracting to do?
“I mean,” Liam says, voice close, and Bradley can see him in the mirror, leaning in the doorway behind him, “that you don’t need to go out, if you need something.”
Bradley grips the edge of the sink. He can do this. Do what? What does he want to do? Does he want to do whatever it is he wants to do? And he groans a little. “I don’t need anything, Liam. We’re just going out.”
“Like you went out to Patrick’s room last night?” Liam replies, almost gliding into the room over to him. He lays a hand on the hollow of Bradley’s spine. Bradley watches those blue eyes narrow in the cloudy surface of the mirror. “You going out, to look for... look for that?”
“Nothing wrong with having some fun, Liam,” Bradley says, trying to laugh and failing miserably.
Liam leans onto the mirror with an open hand. Close, but not yet touching. “What do you need, Cooper?”
Need you, the younger man thinks, and remembers what Patrick said, what he has to do. But his mouth’s dry. He can’t do anything but watch Liam’s reflection get a little closer to his, a hand slip lower, cool against his skin, inside. The other settles on his hip. Far too close.
“Why go to Patrick, Bradley?” Liam asks. Squeezes a little and Bradley suddenly can’t breath. “Why not come to me?”
“Liam...” he gasps, feeling everything come out in that one little word, the best word he knows, and the Irishman’s on him, the buttons of his jacket against Bradley’s back.
“You said you’d come to me, lad. Just me, mine, from now on...”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” And Liam’s hand moves again, just barely along the cleft of his ass now, one finger pressing right above where it’s oh-so needed, where it will always be needed.
Bradley bites his lip. Can he say this? The stimulation, Liam touching him, the way the man smells, so different from Hannibal, so much better. But he has to. Patrick said he had to, and Patrick’s been right so far. He can’t tell Patrick he fucked this up.
“I-I can’t be him anymore.”
“Can’t be who?” It’s low. Growled. So like Hannibal again.
Fuck.
Bradley leans back, just in case this is the last time he gets to touch, and because he can feel himself starting to shake and needs to steady himself against something. “I... I don't think I can play anymore.”
Bradley can feel the rumble as Liam says, “who’s playing games?”
“We do. That’s all we do, Liam.”
Then both Liam’s hands are around his waist, pulling him flush back, brooking no argument, no route of escape. He’s trapped here, against whatever Liam’s got to say next. “What are you talking about, lad?”
Does he sound scared? He sounds a little scared. He sounds how Bradley feels, and that’s just enough to get the younger actor to do what needs to be done here.
Bradley reaches down, grabs Face, and pulls the damn conman up hard. Lets him arch back into Liam, creating just enough room to slide around and loop his own hand up onto Liam’s shirt, seductive and smooth. Face lets his head fall to the side, just a bit, neck exposed and eyes hooded. “Mmm, got us a king tonight, boss. After weeks of goddamn army cots, won’t it be nice, fucking in a real bed...” and he lets his hand stray, up under that jacket, thumbing over a nipple, just for a moment.
Before Liam throws him off.
And it’s Bradley who hits, ass first, against the bathroom wall.
“The fuck?” the Irishman grinds out, heavy, weighted, leaden.
Angry.
One of his vertebra hit at kind of a strange angle, throbbing a little, but Bradley doesn’t really focus on that. He’s just staring at the older man, trying to figure out what emotion he’s seeing there. But the anger’s a heartening sign. “I just can’t keep him out very long, Liam. I can't play him anymore, I’m so sorry...”
Liam drops his face into one of his hands. “Is... is this all it is to you, Bradley?”
Bradley stares up at the ceiling. “It’s all it was, Liam. All it was.”
“Role playing? Our fucking characters? You think I only wanted...”
“Face?” Bradley supplies.
“Face,” Liam repeats, and Bradley feels his heart sink. Right down through the soles of his feet. He doesn’t like this anymore. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want Liam to be here. Not after that, not after... “You think I want Face?”
“It wasn’t like it was me, Liam, you fucked that first time.” It’s a little easier to talk now, not looking, not worrying now, everything out already and still, in the bathroom. “You know, it just wasn’t... it wasn’t ever me, and now the movie’s over and we’re just doing the promotion stuff and I’m not, I’m not Face anymore, and you don’t want Bradley, I mean, why would you, he’s...”
“You?” Liam finishes, almost too quiet to hear.
“Yeah,” Bradley says, and feels his eyes start stinging. Fuck, is he going to cry? He does not want to fucking cry right now. “Yeah. Me. Not Face. He’s...”
“Not smooth or suave or seductive? Not exciting and deadly? Not dashing and heroic?”
“Right.”
“Unsure of himself, a little clumsy, self-conscious, completely flawed?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Distressingly ordinary?”
“Liam...” he breathes, and why did Liam have to make this harder than it already was? “Liam, that's... I’m not him, I’m not anything like him...”
“No, you aren’t.”
There’s a hand on his cheek, and he screws his eyes shut against the next few words to come. But Bradley’s not expecting, not prepared, for what follows, hot and low, prickling his skin.
“You’re better.”
“Liam, I’m...”
“Gorgeous? Strong? Amazing? Sweet, so sweet, darling, so full of light...”
Bradley feels a thumb slide along his cheek, wiping away the leaking moisture that’s just starting to collect under his eyes. He keeps them shut, hoping it’ll stop the tears from flooding out fully, stop him from collapsing into it. “I’m not...”
“You are, my darling,” and that last bit, the my, so close and so warm against him, nearly undoes him completely. “Face doesn’t begin to compare to you.
“Liam...”
“I... I should have told you every goddamn time we...”
“Tell me now.” Liam starts laughing, deep and relieved, and Bradley pushes up into him. Arms hold him in close and he’s knocking his nose up against his lover’s, looking for that kiss, that first searing little touch that opens everything else up. “Please, Liam, tell me now...”
Liam makes a contented little noise, not quite a growl, and Bradley can feel the man’s growing arousal against his own, an excitement flaring through him at that contact, one he hasn’t known in far too long. “Tell you, Bradley?” and he kisses lightly at the younger actor’s lower lip. “Or show you?”
“Mmm,” Bradley says and lunges for a better angle on that kiss, catching Liam’s mouth with his own, just for a moment, just long enough. “Showing is good.”
“Showing is better,” the Irishman agrees, and hitches strong hands under Bradley’s ass, lifting him up. The younger man feels himself start to blush and slides his legs up around Liam’s waist, holding on as his lover takes his weight, pinning him back against the wall, those lips back, hard and demanding on his throat, sucking, biting, marking. Bradley freezes up, that blush deepening as he realizes Liam’s... he’s never done this before, not on his neck, not where the camera’s going to notice.
“Liam, no, you can’t,” he gasps, shuddering with pleasure as his alpha just clamps him down and attacks that spot. He can’t get any purchase to stop this, nothing to hold on to or push off of, other than Liam, and he doesn’t want to push Liam away. Needs him, needs this, but still... “Please...”
But his lover ignores whatever he's asking for, and gives him more, as if Brad's even capable of asking for less. A little growl escapes the older man as he nips and skin breaks and sucks lightly again and Bradley whimpers. Can’t help the whimper, can’t help the feeling washing over him that he’s cared for, that Liam wants him, that Liam wants only him, that this is exactly where he’s supposed to...
“My lad can wear a scarf tomorrow, can’t he?” Liam whispers in his ear, gripping tight along his thigh, slamming him back against the wall as he licks the lovebite in question. “You look so damned good in them.”
Bradley’s pretty sure he’s scarlet by now, but he can’t do anything, doesn’t want to do anything, but nod. Whisper, “yes Liam,” watch that satisfied, triumphant smile grow. Beg with his eyes, his whole body, melting into the next kiss.
“You’re staying in , darling,” Liam murmurs and runs one big, wonderful hand across Bradley's scalp. “Coming to bed with me.”
And the younger American can’t help himself. “Coming in bed with you?”
Liam smacks his ass. “You’ve been spending to much time around Patrick, darling,” he growls affectionately and yanks him loose, holding him tight, carrying me, Bradley thinks, face burning, that Hannibal would have never done this with Face... "We're going to fix that, aren't we?"
"Yes, Liam."
"Remind you who owns your luscious arse?"
"Oh, god..."
"Who's allowed to touch you?"
"Yes... Liam, please..."
"Good lad."
And Bradley shivers as his back hits the bed.
Liam doesn’t waste any time, any movement, after he throws Bradley down on the bed. The younger man’s legs slip down around his thighs. Bradley locks his feet at the ankle with a little whining noise he barely recognizes, keeping Liam close.
His lover smiles at him and rocks into his groin, arching back fall enough to peel off his jacket and nothing else, before he leans back over, pushing up hard against Bradley’s rock hard cock as he settles on an elbow, staring right into the American actor’s eyes, fingering his hair.
“Who am I, lad?” The Irishman’s lips tickle out the words, right at his ear.
“Please...” Bradley breathes, running a hand between them to pull at buttons. “Please, come on...”
“Who am I?” It’s growled this time, and Liam rolls his hips into Bradley’s. He can feel the heat from Liam’s own straining shaft through layers of clothing, knows exactly how huge it is, how it feels. In his hand, in his mouth, driving into his heart. And he wants it, wants the man above him, wants him like he’s never wanted anything in his life...
One big hand cups Bradley’s erection, palming, rubbing and it’s almost a little too harsh, a little too much, but not enough. There can never be enoguh. And he whimpers, mouth not quite closing, and a finger traces his lower lip. Bradley bites for it, needing more contact, needing anything, everything, this man will give him, needing him so damn much...
“Who’s got claim to you?” Liam’s hand moves, dipping in, fingers sliding just once along Bradley’s trapped cock, electric, eliciting a pained, pleading groan. Bradley strains into it, and Liam runs both hands, heavy and possessive, up his sides, arms, to his wrists, forcing them over his head. “Who has permission to touch you like this?”
He groans again, thrusting up for more of that heavy contact, his cock begging for attention, caught against the rough fabric of Liam’s jeans as the older man holds him bodily down. Bradley can’t speak. He’s terrified he’s going to say Hannibal, like he has so many times before, and this will all be over. But Liam doesn’t want to hear another name right now, and Bradley doesn’t want to say it, won’t say it, only wants Liam to leave his lips, curl up between them in binding promise. “Please...”
His arms are wrenched up over his head, wrists gathered in one strong hand. A thrill runs through him, and he shivers into it again, squirming a little as Liam drags him further up on the bed, settles between his legs, impossibly fluid.
“Who is it who knows you so?”
Bradley can’t do anything, can’t do anything, trapped under Liam’s body, arms like this as the older man slowly undoes his fly now, practically tears his pants down, just far enough. Takes him firmly in hand. At the first full stroke, Bradley cries out and his feet fall useless against the edge of the bed, Liam’s fingers tracing veins as he slowly pulls off.
“Who do you spread for like this? So eager, like some cheap whore?”
“Just you...” Bradley gasps out, and feels Liam lift his hips. No contact at all now, just his wrists, that hand, and he barely stops himself from sobbing with need. He hears a belt being undone and lifts his hips automatically, opening his legs as wide as he can, hobbled by his own clothing. His skin feels like it’s only fire, flushed and aroused and embarrassed, embarrassed in the most delicious way possible, from the rough words, the rough treatment, a casual possession he’s missed more than he knew. “Only you.”
“And who am I?” Liam asks, his own jeans just unzipped, no underwear at all, that magnificent cock of his red, erect, pointing right at Bradley. He rips open a packet of lube with his teeth. He spits the little foil edge away. “Who sees you like this?”
“...you...”
Liam jerks his hand off Bradley’s for just a moment, squeezes the slick out into his hand and then it’s back, that hand. Then it’s there, the other, two fingers, right there...
“Who sees you like I see you?”
“Nobody, I swear, nobody but you...”
The Irishman grunts something unintelligible and those fingers push right up into Brad. He chokes back his scream at the pressure, the intrusion, where Liam hasn’t been in too, too long, everything tighter than it used to be, everything...
He’s rewarded for his initial discomfort with a kiss, long and slow and deep, as those fingers start to scissor and twist up into him, opening him wide as Liam’s other hand works down Bradley’s arm to settle on his shoulder.
“Who do you see? Who is it that wants you, Bradley Cooper? Who...” and his voice cracks, just a little, “who’s here for you now, lad?”
And then his fingers are gone.
And Liam’s not between his legs.
And he’s being rolled over on his back.
And Bradley whines, low in his throat.
His lover is back, though, straddling, guiding Bradley’s own hand back to his cheek, urging him to hold, just so, palm hot over his own. And then that cock is right where it’s supposed to be, right against slicked and stretched muscle. The younger man automatically lifts his hips, presenting himself.
Offering.
Begging.
Liam kisses Bradley hard, all teeth and heat along his spine, his shoulder, nuzzling his neck, and the younger man cries out as he’s taken in one long, almost brutal stroke. He hears a seam rip in his pants as his feet jerk apart, his body wanting Liam closer. The American moans, body shaking as it fights to adjust, pressing back into his lover’s shirt as Liam drapes over him.
“Mine,” Liam whispers in his ear, panting, clearly straining against his own need as he stills himself, only the barest movement, a subtle little rocking. “You’re mine, darling boy...”
Bradley can feel the edges of jeans against his own bare ass, soft shirt against his back, that simple sensation heightening everything, letting him know in no uncertain terms who’s dominating this encounter. Who’s always going to dominate. Who makes him feel...
Liam bites again, and, pulling out, slams all the way back in. Total ownership, Bradley thinks happily, and juts his hips higher.
He lets his head fall into the duvet, pushes back against the increasingly deep thrusts, savors the slide of flesh through him, the rough cotton against his skin, the pressure of his own erection caught beneath him, the barest stimulation driving him crazy. Liam changing the angle, seeking out that spot, and when Bradley screams, he hits it. Every. Single. Time.
Both of them are falling so easily back into the old patterns. Bradley, the small part of his brain capable of thought, wonders at it as Liam drives into him again and again and again. Like they’re supposed to be, supposed to be together like this, never this good with anyone before, not for Bradley, never this surrender, this kind of safety, holding him, holding him up, pulling him up, taking him to that climax, soaring...
He realizes he’s begging, little breathy words, scattering as he gets closer, everything starting to hum just so. “Yes, yes... all... oh god, all yours, all yours, please...”
Those teeth nip at his ear, and the rhymth’s starting to fall apart, Liam growing desperate now. “Who’s going to make you come, Bradley? Who makes you feel this alive?”
“O-only, only... only you...”
The hand, still over his, holding him open, tightens on his ass and he can feel nails, his own or Liam’s, doesn’t matter, digging in. His balls are pulling, that pressure’s building, Liam’s racing and it's all towards that shining light up ahead, so beautiful, so perfect, with this man. And, low and deep, rumbling through him, “who’s going to make you come?”
He tries to say it, but he can’t form the word, it only comes in a stuttering groan, every muscle in his body straining for climax.
“Come for me.”
And that’s it. Everything unsnaps and draws back together, and as Liam latches back onto his mark, he can feel himself spilling into the duvet below in hot, hard spurts, orgasm whiting out his vision, and he can feel Liam’s own climax hitting hot against his prostate, going on forever, and he floats away on it for a little while, secure in his lover’s arms.
At some point, Liam rolls them over on their sides, spooning up close, still fully clothed. His voice is shaking a little, but that’s probably just orgasm talking. “Who’s here with you, Bradley Cooper? Who’s here?”
There's no other answer than the one he finds when he wriggles around, looks up into a tired, beautiful face, those blue eyes on him. No other answer than the one he gives. How could he ever had doubted this? “I see you, Liam Neeson.”
“And never doubt it, darling. You’re mine,” Liam murmurs, and Bradley can no more argue that reality than he could the color of the sky. His arms tighten. “Stay with me tonight...”
Bradley bites his tongue, just stops himself from saying, always, my love like a damn idiot, wanting something he can't keep.
It won't last, it can't, and he shouldn't get attached, but he's allowed to look and touch and have for the moment, and he's still willing to take anything Liam, any time, any way, for as long as he can get it. So he nods and Liam smiles and he tells himself he’s going to enjoy this.
He's not going to worry about what comes later.
“It is my room,” he grins instead.
“Far too much time with Patrick,” Liam says as if he's agreeing with himself on something, and then starts laughing.
+++++
“Morning, lads.”
Patrick doesn’t even bother looking up from his coffee in the sunny little downstairs cafe. He knows that accent. He knows that hand, coming down on his shoulder. And Brian, sitting across from him in flip-flops, tormenting a piece of toast, is grinning like a wolf. “Liam,” the other actor says and kicks out a chair. “How the hell are you? Missed you last night.”
“That’s mostly Patrick’s fault,” the Irishman says serenely, sliding into the proffered seat. “He and I need to talk about that, actually.”
The younger actor winces. Of course Neeson knows. Sharlto has this theory, this insane fucking theory that comes up in those stream of conciousness conversation he holds with Rampage all the damn time, a theory that says Liam is a Jedi, truly and really. He wonders about it at times like this.
But Brian’s still smirking and Patrick nods. “Umm, you mind, man?”
“Nope,” his on-screen partner in crime replies with a wink, and takes his toast with him. “See you girls later.”
And then they’re alone.
If playing Lynch taught Patrick anything, it’s that sizing this Irishman up is usually a very good idea. Liam’s not wearing the same thing he was wearing last night. He looks rested, though, so he probably wasn’t awake all night, pining away for a certain adorable co-star. Must have changed. Clever. Or Bradley ripped something.
But he’s clearly not going to make the first move. Just sit there and stare, so Patrick crosses his legs and hugs one of his knees up a little with interlocked fingers and smiles. “So, you’d get Bradley’s problem taken care of?”
“You’re an interfering little shit, Patrick...”
“I’m not trying to move in on your territory, Liam,” he says. “Just trying to help a friend out.”
“Me or Bradley?”
“Both of you.”
“So you come by my room and make up a story about him being emotionally distraught...”
He is emotionally distraught. He’s in love with you, you fucking idiot, Patrick wants to say, but it’s not really his place. No, Bradley’s still too new at this to trust himself, and Liam... Patrick’s not willing to go there with Liam. They all know the story. He doesn’t want to touch that. It’s Liam’s decision, Liam’s realizations.
“I didn’t make anything up,” he says instead, going back to his coffee. “Do you know why Bradley came to me that first time?”
Liam shakes his head.
“Sweet, innocent little Bradley wanted to make it good for you.” Whether he realized it or not, he adds silently to himself. “He was upset the other night, looking for something to fill up whatever the hell your problem with him is. Poor boy,” he adds, and goes for the creamer. “Scorned by his jealous lover."
“You pissed me off on purpose.”
“And you went and found him and took him and you both fucking loved it,” he says, and pauses. “He needs you.”
“For the moment,” Liam says slowly, playing with a fork now, and Patrick just wants to facepalm. Fucking idiots, both of them, really, and he’s wondering if he might need to step in and take a more active step... “and there will not be any more interference from your corner, Patrick.”
He makes a phhting noise and waves it off. “If he’s not yours...”
Liam grabs his hand off from where it’s laying on his knee. “You aren’t going to fan this any more for him. You understand me? The faux-gay bullshit is going to stop.”
Who's a fake gay here? "That's rather cold, sweetie," Patrick says, lisping a bit.
"Patrick, Bradley doesn't need you putting..."
“Ideas in his head? Foreign objects in his ass? You don’t need to worry about it, Liam. I prefer bottoming anyway,” he says and leans back, squeezing the older man’s hand back. No harm in a little white lie, if it made Liam feel better. Although bottoming was lovely, when he was in the mood...
“Then why...”
“Oh,” and he smiles a little over Liam’s shoulder, as queer as he can possibly make it. “Speak of the devil. You look positively European this morning, sweetie.”
“Err... got room for one more?”
It’s Bradley, and it’s true, American guys don’t dress like that, in jeans just a little too tight and those shoes - dear christ in heaven, those shoes - and a t-shirt with a perfectly wound scarf. A sheepish little smile on his face. Hands jammed in his back pockets.
Yup, no denying that boy looks good in the scarves, Patrick thinks, and then realizes what probably happened last night. Why he's wearing it. Is Bradley walking a little funny? Sore, perhaps?
He only barely keeps himself from laughing as Liam fingers it a little, guiding the younger man into the last empty chair at the table, across from him.
“What are you guys talking about?”
He normally doesn’t ham it up like this, it’s so true, but it’s just way, way too much fun with these two. “I was going to ask about a threesome.”
“Patrick...”
“Hey, hey, we haven’t done one of those!” Bradley exclaims in a stage whisper to Liam, who looks supremely pissed at the mere suggestion. Oh, he is a dominate one, isn't he? Patrick thinks. "Do you..."
“Don’t even think about, lad.”
“Patrick on your shit list again?”
“Patrick is always on my shit list, darling.”
"Come on, man."
"Bradley..."
Liam’s growling at him, forward and assertive. Bradley’s got his lower lip in his teeth, shyly coiled back in the chair, kind of taking his lover in. Beautiful, Patrick thinks. It’s just so damn hilarious. They want each other so fucking bad.
“Oh, think I need to hit the little boys’ room. Get me a refill if the waiter comes back,” he says smoothly. And Patrick just can’t fucking help himself, so when he stands up, he folds Liam’s hand back onto his shoulder and gets really close to his ear. “But don’t you worry, honey, I know just how yours that little cutie is.” He smiles.
He can feel the Irishman’s eyes on his back, all the way out into the hall, and if he collapses in a fit of giggles right outside the men’s bathroom and Brian, still munching toast at this discreet distance, raises an eyebrow, he can’t help it at all.
“Those two get it worked out?” his co-star asks.
“Like a couple of goddamn teenagers,” he manages. Like the rest of the cast never figured it out, he thinks, and that sends into a fresh round.
Brian rolls his eyes, and catches a lump of falling jam with his tongue. “Can I go sit down now?”
And suddenly all Patrick can think about is how much fun he’s going to have with this over the rest of the promotion tour.
In the service of getting the two of them to realize.
Of course.
Just for that.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: A fill for this prompt over at the kink meme
Okay, long prompt is long, plz bear with me...
So I just read the first parts of sonora's new RPS fic, and while I'm enjoying it like a vacation in Awesomeville, CA, it made me think of the following...
What if Liam and Brad are having a thing, but one of them (let's go with Brad, coz I love to see this boy suffer) thinks the other isn't really interested in him. They are always fucking on set, most of the time still in costume, lots of Hannibal/Face roleplaying etc. etc. (coz we all know this is hot), but... maybe they never fucked when they were "themselves"? Maybe Brad (or Liam, though I'd prefer Brad) starts to think Liam is only interested in Face, not in Brad? All he's after is the kinky roleplay sex and not the real Brad? What then? Does he break it off or is he so... addicted to Liam he takes what he can get, even if that means he never gets the "real" thing?
... happy ending or not, idc btw. ;)
Bradley thinks Liam’s only interested in Face. Bradley gets quite upset about this, but it doesn't really come to surface until the promotion tour's about to begin. And, of course, Patrick's going to be there to lend a hand...
The planning tent, the set, Iraq, Hannibal’s little diorama all set up on, the little green army men shaking a little as colonel holds on to the edge for dear life, ass pulled nearly off the seat. Bradley's lips are stretched wide around that magnificent cock, tongue flicking, the hand wrapped around the base, everything moving and squeezing and sucking in concert, driving his lover over the edge, and Hannibal’s close, so close. The American can feel it, the way his balls start to tighten up right before, the way his name’s uttered like a prayer
“Oh, god, Face...” he moans. “Oh, fuck, kid, please... please, Face...”
Brad realizes it without even breaking his rhythm.
Liam hasn’t bothered to take off Hannibal’s workshirt.
Brad’s still in Face’s clothes.
Not Liam and Bradley, then.
Hannibal and Face.
He almost stops, almost lets his lips curl off his teeth and off that cock and fall back over his heels to demand that Liam acknowledge him and only him, but he doesn’t want this to stop. He could lose the tenuous hold on this thing between them. Lose Liam. And that’s an unbearable thought. So Brad just concentrates on the task at hand. Wants to bring his man pleasure. Loves him like this, loves him...
And that’s how Face feels about his commander, so it’s okay for Brad to feel it right now. It’s the only good thing about the role-playing, really.
Face flicks his eyes up to watch the older man in the throes of his orgasm, swallowing fast to keep up.
They’ve been at this more and more lately, the roleplaying. A couple times a week now, whenever they can steal a moment or two to be alone. It’s almost always on the set, almost always in costume. Liam doesn’t bother taking Hannibal’s wig off most times, and it’s become Bradley’s mission in life to get that damn thing off him as quickly as possible, every time.
To remind who he is, who’s with him. Liam has such a kink for this, he gets so lost in Hannibal...
Brad slithers up to sit on his lap, playing lightly with the buttons, and Liam draws in him in for a long, hard kiss. One of those possessive kisses. They had their little cartharsis about a month ago, Bradley tricking Liam into asking him for monogamy, his cheap trick with the fantasy scenario his best-guess at getting them both there. And the Irishman’s had filled the younger man with hope. Hope that maybe Liam, finally, would start seeing him in everything they did together, that maybe this could be more than the fun rough-and-tumble it had started as.
That maybe Liam really did want him.
Bradley Cooper.
Not Face.
But the roleplaying’s gotten more intense, more frequent, more everything since then. And his hope for something beyond the movie’s withered a little bit, each day.
“Mmm,” the Irishman says and brushes Bradley’s hair out of his eyes. “That was wonderful, lad.”
The accent’s back, rich and full, and the American sighs into that broad, warm chest beneath him. “It was,” he says and tries to snuggle in as best he can. Loves the sound of that heartbeat. “It always is.”
Whatever he can get, however he can get, whoever, Brad wants.
But not even Liam lifting him up and guiding him out, gentle, by the hand, can make him feel any better about that.
+++++
Three Months Later
Bradley shuffles his feet, staring down, not really looking forward to any of this. They have a meeting, they all have a meeting, actors, agents, business managers, everybody, in about half an hour. Time for the promotion circuit to begin. Joe wanted everybody on the same page. Fairly typical.
He’s a little early.
Liam’s here early, too. Looks fucking edible in his own soft sweater, something Hannibal would never...
“So,” the older man says, “you’ve... been good?”
Bradley’s been nervous about this reunion practically since the shoot ended, wondering how it would go, seeing his... is lover the right word? Lover doesn’t seem like the right word. There wasn’t much love involved in any of it. Fun, yes. Love, no. Least, not for Liam.
And the American actor tries not to think about that first night he got home, with the shower and his accidental fantasy. Or the time a week or so later, when Hannibal had been there, too. Or when it was just Hannibal. He never fantasized about Liam. It seems... well, fantasizing about Hannibal was pretty much what he’d been doing the whole time when they were together, right? So Hannibal’s close enough. As close as he’s going to get. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been good. Keeping busy, you know, doing... stuff. How’s New York?”
“Grand city. You should come out and visit sometime.”
“I’ve been. And hotel rooms are way too tiny there,” Bradley jokes back. Liam wouldn’t be inviting him over. Wouldn’t be asking him to come stay with him, and how great would that be, Bradley wonders. Staying with Liam, sleeping with Liam, Liam’s own bed, a real bed...
Liam nods back slowly. “Aye, they can be pretty small. But Brad...”
“Yeah?”
“It’s, uhh... it’s good to see you.” Like Liam was going to say something and decided against it.
They’re sitting on opposite sides of the conference table, a good four feet of solid New England oak between them. Bradley wants to leap over it, right into Liam’s arms, press their bodies together again, feel those lips on his again.
Might as well be a mile, an ocean.
Because it’s all over. The shoot’s over. Face is gone, at least until a sequel starts filming, if a sequel gets greenlighted. And Liam only really wanted Face. Bradley can’t be him again; at least, he can’t be Face like Liam wants and have Liam at the same time. The two are mutually exclusive, packaged away in their own little worlds that don’t intersect except on a set that no longer exists. This isn’t going to work. He knows that.
How the hell is he going to get through this promotion stuff?
“Yeah,” he replies, and flashes Liam a smile, like everything’s okay. “It’s good to see you too, man.”
Liam smiles back, leans back in his chair and relaxes a little. “I was thinking that perhaps we could go get dinner tonight.”
On what, a date? Brad wants to ask, feeling his pulse start to quicken at the very thought of it. A real date, just them, nothing else, coming back to their hotel late, together, but... when have they ever had one of those? And what’s Liam going to expect? What’s Liam going to want for it? But maybe an evening of being themselves would outweight the night of being somebody else. Maybe. “Sure, umm, that’d be great, but maybe the whole team’s going to want to...”
“Oh, yes, there is that?” Liam says and thinks for a moment. “Drinks after?”
“After what?” Sharlto asks cheerfully, bouncing into the room, every bit as excited as what Murdock might have been. He plunks himself down, right next to Brad. “Fook, it’s good to see you guys again!”
“And you, buddy,” Bradley replies, giving the South African the fist-bump he’s waiting for and glances back over at Liam, who’s pulled his blackberry out and is quite visibly scrolling through emails. Ignoring him.
Because he's not Face.
If his heart sinks a little, he doesn’t have time to notice, because Sharlto’s talking like he always does and that’s something nicer to hold on to right now.
Goddamn.
+++++
The day was every bit as awkward as Bradley could have predicted it would be. Maybe worse. Everybody’s back together, and everybody’s happy and everything couldn’t be better.
For everyone but Brad.
Liam suggests dinner to the group, and everyone agrees, and they’re all laughing and joking and carrying on, Sharlto and Rampage finding their groove again no problem, Jessica smiling and doing that knowing-flirting-joking thing she does, Patrick being tongue-in-cheek serious like he does, flashing Brad a few quick little sympathetic smiles as Liam talks to him, and doesn’t even glance down at Brad’s end of the table.
He feels very out of place. He can’t even really taste the food, Italian, although everyone else thinks it’s just great, and they’re all just great, and he finds himself in the bathroom, trying to figure out...
“Who shit in your cornflakes this morning?” Patrick asks, leaning on the edge of the stall. Brad just shakes his head and lets his head hit the dented metal divider. “Ah,” Patrick says. “Liam.”
“Liam?”
“Come on, Brad, it’s not like I don’t know,” Patrick chuckles, and takes his hand up, warm and soft. “You spent months pining after him...”
“Dude, did you just say pining?”
“Like a princess in a Disney movie, yes, pining for the man and you’ve already fucking got him. What gives?”
"I had him..."
"Oh, past tense. This I must hear," the other actor says lightly.
“Patrick, if we’re going to have this conversation, can’t you, uh, just get in the stall?” Brad asks, watching the floor, feeling extremely uncomfortable. Shit, they’re in public, in a bathroom, talking about...
“Not a chance, don’t want anybody to think we’re a couple of queers,” Patrick replies, and grins, so as to tell Brad that he’s joking. “But Brad, don’t worry, you guys haven’t seen each other in a while and it’s kind of an awkward environment right on day one and...”
Brad sighs. “I don’t think it’s just that, man. I’m not sure he wants...”
The door bangs open, and Patrick instantly drops Brad’s hand. It’s Liam, barely glancing over at them as he stops at the urinal. Patrick raises an eyebrow and Bradley slaps him. It’s supposed to be playful, but it comes out a little too hard, and Liam looks over. “What are you lads talking about?”
“Oh, you know, girls and stuff,” Patrick deadpans.
“Girls. You two. Right,” and Bradley can practically hear Liam’s eyeroll as he zips up and moves over to wash his hands.
Patrick pushes off and taps Bradley on the shoulder, gesturing over towards Liam’s direction as he saunters out. Telling him to say something. It’s pretty damn clear. So Brad takes a deep breath and walks over to the sink, trying to avoid the little patches of wet there, and decides to just not touch the damn thing at all.
Liam’s watching him, something amused dancing in his eyes. “Enjoying being back with everyone?”
Brad shrugs.
“It’s a little overwhelming, these promotion circuits, but I think we’re, well,” and the older actor grabs for a handful of paper towel, “it should give you and Sharlto and Patrick and everyone some time to get to know each other again.”
“Yeah?” Brad asks, his voice starting to shake.
“Yeah,” Liam replies, warm and pleasant as always, his brogue sweet, and claps him on the back. “I think dessert might be up. Don’t have to worry about that diet anymore, right, lad?”
Face’s diet. Jesus, Liam might not be interested anymore, but does he really need to... and Bradley just cuts that off. He already promised himself he wasn’t going to worry about that. Wasn’t going to worry about Liam. “Yup, no diet,” he musters and smiles back, not really feeling it. “Mmm. Creme brulee.”
Liam just chuckles, and holds the door for him, ushering back to nowhere he particularly wants to go.
+++++
Things don’t improve as the week goes on. And becomes another. And the traveling started, the interviews and all the bullshit that went along with those, long hours on the jet together, waiting for stuff to happen, just talking.
It would be nice, good, great, even. But Liam stays away from him. They talk of course, joke and tease and Liam’s just fine with him, everything seems the same. There’s just no together anything. No quiet moments, no little touches. No offers for anything that Brad can see. Liam’s just... staying away.
“And is this my problem how?” Patrick yawns. He’s got his hand up on his door and his head on his hand, and he looks wiped. He yawns. His eyes are half shut. He’s still mostly dressed, though. They all just got back from Thursday night and the bar in the lobby. Neither of them are drunk, but might be dangerously close to that right now. Brad’s not sure. Brad doesn’t care.
“Can I come in?” Bradley asks, not giving a shit, just wanting to talk to someone, feel someone next to him, and the other actor pauses for a moment, like he’s considering all the way this could go wrong, before he finally nods and moves away. Lets Brad in.
Brad shoves his hands in his pockets, tight and bunched, as he steps in and the door shuts behind him. Patrick’s on another floor in the hotel they’re at today. Brad can’t remember what the name of the place is. Some variation of Hyatt, probably, and he lets Patrick guide him down and into a chair.
A minibar bottle appears in his hand, vodka, and Patrick’s twisting the top off a whiskey. “Talk to me, Bradley. What’s going on in that cute little head of yours?”
The actor honestly doesn’t know. That’s not why he’s here. “Can’t sleep.”
“For you, Cooper, that is weird.”
“It’s...” Bradley begins.
“...Liam?” Patrick finishes, and downs the tiny bottle in one go. Gets up for another. “Yeah, what is it with you two? Could you be more on edge with each other?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Brad says, staring at the vodka. Does he like this brand? Does it matter right now? It’s not like it ever feels different the next morning or anything. He hears the plastic snap as he breaks the seal. “I mean, he doesn’t look at me, he doesn’t really...I don’t think he wants me.”
“Course he does,” Patrick says. “Man planted a flag on your ass like you would not believe. Everybody, and don’t freak, by everybody I mean myself and that damn intern who’s already got a pile of fanfic waiting around to deploy in July...”
“... and the girls from make-up?”
“Oh right, yeah, the girls from make-up. Us. All we all know that Liam fucking owns you. The way he looked when he saw you sucking me...”
“...Lynch?”
Patrick gives him a strange look, like he can’t quite place a reason for the distinction. “Yeah, well, you might as well be wearing a collar, the kind of possessiveness that woke up in the man.”
Bradley shifts a little, trying to image that. It’s a little too easy, and he winces. “I don’t really like the implications there, Pat.”
“Oh, you fucking know what I mean!” the other actor replies, grinning a little, like he’s picturing it himself. “Liam Neeson is so damn hard for you, I think you could cut glass with his...”
And that’s definitely a mental picture he doesn’t need. “He doesn’t want me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He only wanted Face,” Bradley tries to explain. “Of all the times we, you know, did it...”
“God, you’re cute when you blush,” Patrick interjects, words coming a little faster with the second shot of whiskey, and waves for Brad to continue. The other man can feel his cheeks burning, but he keeps going.
“...all those times, I can’t think of maybe one or two where we weren’t in costume or uniform or whatever.”
“What about your first time?”
“Costume.”
Patrick makes a little thinking noise. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. He’s real into the role-playing or something, and that’s the only time, the only time I could... I c-could have him, so I let him do it...” Bradley stutters to stop, hating himself, hating himself all the more for the way Patrick sits down next to him and drapes an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. He can smell lingering cologne and the faintest hint of sweat from the day, and turns his face into that. “I figured... if it was the only way, it was the only way... and...”
“Christ,” Patrick mutters, but mostly to himself, and pushes Brad’s chin up. “I’m going to say this, and yes, it sounds incredibly gay to me too, but you two need to talk this out. Tell him how you feel, ask him about...”
“No fucking way am I doing that.”
“Yes, yes you are,” Patrick tells him, but Brad just buries his face a little further into the other man’s white undershirt, breathing deep until he’s pulled back by his hair and eyes met his own. “You are going to talk to him about this.”
Brad pushes his face back down, bumping the bottom of Patrick’s jaw with his own chin, wrapping his arms around him, moves up a little to plant a kiss right below his ear. It feels good to touch somebody, touch another man who he trusts and respects and likes. God, he likes Patrick. Likes Patrick so much... “Don’t wanna,” he says, and realizes it’s a little slurred. He nips. “Screw Liam. Don’t want him anymore.”
“You suck at lying, Brad.” Hands at his shoulders, and he half expects the other actor to peel him off and throw him out, given the way things seem to be going lately, and he’s pleasantly surprised when strong fingers pinch into his muscle instead, holding him close. “I’m not going to fuck you tonight, Cooper,” he tells him softly. “You’re drunk, Brad. You need some goddamn aspirin and some sleep. Not... that.”
Bradley whines a little. The alcohol in his system doesn’t care, says he doesn’t have to either. Liam, Liam’s promises, Liam’s words weren’t for him. He’s not bound to any of it. And he needs right now. “Patrick, it’s been weeks...”
“No fucking.” And then those arms give him a little squeeze. “You can sleep here if you want, if that would help...”
“Fuck yes,” he says, words and relieved laughter muffled in Patrick’s t-shirt, and Patrick just lets them both fall back onto the mattress, still holding him close. Pulls him under the blankets, whispers that Brad’s okay, that everything’s going to be okay. Pulls him down into the white noise of dreams...
And Bradley wakes right about like that the next morning, stripped down to his boxers, right up next to Patrick.
Wakes because there’s a knock at the door. Wakes because Patrick has to get up to answer it. Wakes because he recognizes the voice that’s talking to Patrick, saying, “have you seen him? I need to...” and he loves that accent, even as hurried and clipped as it seems.
Wakes because Liam pushes his way in, despite Patrick’s obvious, brief, futile struggle to prevent that. Wakes with Liam still talking, “... because he’s being... right now... I don’t know if there’s something going on betwe...”, Liam, not talking, staring at Bradley, tucked into Patrick’s bed, who's had no time at all to prepare a response for this.
So he says nothing.
The older man bites his lower lip so hard it turns white, looks at Patrick, back at Brad, then Patrick again, and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
Bradley just feels like he killed something. The way Liam looked... and ironically, now that he thinks about it, this might be a good thing.
Maybe, just maybe, Liam does actually...
...even if he'll likely never touch me again, after this, Brad thinks to himself.
“Motherfucker,” Patrick groans and lets his forehead hit the now mercifully closed door. “The man’s going to kill me for real this time.”
Bradley’s up and out of bed, in a heartbeat, panicking, hopping on one leg, trying to get his pants back on so he can go... chasing Liam down seems insane, but he can’t let the older man just think that he’s...
“Woah, settle down there, killer,” Patrick says, laying a hand on his shoulder, enough to steady him, stop him from falling over as he tries to get dressed. The other actor hooks his fingers through beltloops, helps him tug his jeans back on. “It’s going to be okay...”
“How the fuck...” Bradley pants, and finally gets the damn garment up around his hips, “...is it going to be okay?”
Patrick brandishes his shirt. “Arms up. And it’s going,” he tugs it down over Brad’s head, like he’s dressing a five-year-old, and Bradley makes a mental note to die from embarassment later, “to be fine.”
Where are his shoes? No time for shoes. Fuck his shoes. Patrick’s laughing, and kicks the door open.
“Go get ‘im, tiger.”
Bastard, Bradley thinks, and runs out.
Liam’s room is on this same floor, thank god, and Bradley races down there now, hoping like hell he’s there and not going somewhere...
The door opens right as he reaches it. Liam, sunglasses in hand, a hat, obviously just about to go for a walk. A little surprised.
And then just pissed.
He sighs and tries to shut the door, but Bradley jams it back open, throwing his shoulder into it, and Liam only relents enough to where they can see each other through a six inch gap. “Come on, Liam, please. We need to talk...”
“I’m not in the mood, lad,” Liam growls and looks away. “You need to go.”
Bradley hates himself for even thinking about this, but if it’s the only thing Liam’s going to listen to... “Come on, please, boss...”
Something twists up on Liam’s features, fast and odd. Then the door slams, rattling his chest, and Bradley stares at it for a moment before a hand claps down on his shoulder and pulls him out of the door’s alcove, around the corner, out of line of sight, so he’s not visible from the door.
"Did you just try the Hannibal angle on him, Bradley? Pissed him off, right?"
“Patrick, what the hell are you...”
“Dude, I’m not putting up with months of this fucking UST between you two. Guh, already dealt with enough of that on the shoot,” Patrick says, and bangs a fist on the door. He hands Bradley his shoes. ”Not going to do it. Now just hang out and keep quiet.” Louder. “Liam, come on, it’s just me!”
The door opens again, and Bradley plasters himself back against the wall, feeling like a complete ass. This is retarded. Are they children? And what is Patrick possibly going to say that’s going to...
“Patrick,” Liam says wearily, cracking the door, “it’s no business of mine, what you two are doing in your...”
“Do you seriously want to have this conversation in the hall?” Patrick asks, int hat voice he uses when he’s chewing a fingernail.
“I don’t want to have this conversation at all. I’ll see you lads later...”
Patrick’s hand slaps down on the door, voice low. “I’m not fucking him, Liam. Although I might have to start if you won’t.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s like crying or some shit right now.”
“Bradley was what?”
Yeah, Bradley thinks. Bradley was what?
Patrick just keeps going. “But honestly, Liam, you know what you did when you set the guy’s inner homo loose, right? He’s a, well, I don’t want to say slut for cock...” Patrick chuckles a little, like this is funny. Why’s he being so damn vulgar? Around the corner, Bradley can feel his face burning. "He's been needy. That’s why he was screwing around with me, too, because I guess you weren’t giving him what he needed."
“Patrick...” Liam warns, in that wonderful low little growl of his.
“I mean, seriously, Liam. Guy came over last night, wasted off his ass, asking me to fuck him because you, apparently, aren’t doing it...”
“Did you?” Liam’s voice is low, dangerous.
“Fuck him? Not a chance. I let him stay over, cuddles and all that bullshit, but that was it. He needs some goddamn compassion right now, Liam, but I am not fucking him.” Patrick pauses. “You already fake shot me once, and that was over, like, a blowjob. I hate to think of what kinky roleplaying bullshit you’d drag me into if you actually thought I had my dick up his tight as...”
The door slams again. Patrick peels away, whistling a little, and looks at Bradley who’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open. Yup, embarrassment. He wants to die of it.
Right after he kills Patrick.
“Dude. What the fuck was that?”
“Oh, don’t do that,” the other actor says, and hooks an arm under his, dragging him away, back to his own room, probably, above any of his feeble attempts to protest. “Liam’s about as alpha-male as they get.”
“That is not an explanation!” he hisses.
“If he gives a shit about you,” and Patrick pats his elbow, “which he does, that is going set off every fucking protective instinct in his head. He'll either come down to talk or re-establish his claim or some shit like that, or he'll come try to kick my ass.” He stops for a moment, and then fishes Brad’s key card out of his back pocket for him and hands it over. “Probably both.”
Bradley looks at the number on the door. Oh. Right. This is his room. And he nods, hating that the other actor’s pulling some con on the man he wants to claim to love... “Do you really think that?” he asks, turning the key over in his hand. “That I’m... that I’m a...”
“You’re eager,” Patrick says, warm, no trace of the undercurrent of sarcasm he uses sometimes. Not like the tidal wave of cynicism he just flooded into Liam's brain. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“But... does Liam think...”
“I was just trying to piss him off, Brad,” and the other actor lays an apologetic hand on his shoulder. “And he’s pissed. He’ll be down. Talk it up, make out, whatever. We don’t have anything until lunch anyway...”
“Yeah, I saw the week’s schedule,” Bradley mutters back, and nods.
Patrick smiles. “It’s gonna be okay, Brad. Trust me.”
But as soon as he gets inside his room, he just falls onto the bed, not bothering to turn any lights on, tossing his shoes... somewhere.
He hopes to hell that Patrick's right. Otherwise...
But hasn't he already lost Liam anyway?
Bradley fists a pillow up against his chest, and wills himself not to cry.
It basically, essentially, practically works.
+++++
Liam doesn’t come by that day. Not before lunch, and not after. Which means they have to do one of those internet video interviews, the four of them, and Bradley makes sure he’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch as the girl interviewer smiles at him and asks how much they all loved the A-Team as kids. Sharlto goes nuts. Liam tries to explain he never cared much for it in the politest way possible.
He’s cute when he’s equivocating, Bradley thinks, and then has to play his distraction off when the girl turns to him. Big grin. His business manager tells him the ladies it. Liam used to say he loved it too...
The interview goes on for way, way too long.
Liam? Patrick mouths at him as he and Brian Bloom move in to switch places with the team. Bradley shakes his head. Brian rolls his eyes and makes some comment to Patrick about rocket launchers, which the interviewer catches and giggles, like she knows what the fuck he’s talking about.
The actor looks around, but Liam’s already off the little set. How was Patrick wrong about this? Patrick’s usually not wrong about anything...
And Bradley asks himself that question again, once they’re all back, once he’s back. While he’s shirtless and trying to care about tonight.
Patrick announced that they all just have to go out tonight. Sharlto whooped and Rampage just chuckled and Liam didn’t say a goddamn thing. Patrick insisted, though, and elbowed Jessica and Jessica grinned after a moment and backed him up...
He sticks his whole face in the sink. Bradley loves this hotel, having sinks big enough for that. It doesn’t help, but it seems kind of appropriate right now. Isn’t that what people in emotional distress do? Stupid shit for no reason?
There’s a knock at the door, and Brad figures it’s probably Patrick. Here to let him in on phase two of the Plan. Maybe he’s going to have to blow the other actor again. It sounds like a good idea, actually, he thinks as he pads over to the door, drying his face.
He checks the peephole.
Fuck.
Tossing his hand towel over his shoulder, Bradley slides the chain loose and opens the door wide. Takes in the man who’s standing in front of him now. Loose jeans, blue shirt unbuttoned a little too far, sportcoat, that cologne that’s just so damn good... “You look ready to go, Liam,” Bradley says, feeling a little exposed and telling himself to curb his expectations. This probably isn’t going anywhere, after all. “Are you...”
“You don’t have to, Bradley,” Liam says, and that makes just enough sense to not make any sense at all.
“What do you mean?” the American actor asks, and walks back into the bathroom. Does he need to shave? Brush his teeth? Something suitably distracting to do?
“I mean,” Liam says, voice close, and Bradley can see him in the mirror, leaning in the doorway behind him, “that you don’t need to go out, if you need something.”
Bradley grips the edge of the sink. He can do this. Do what? What does he want to do? Does he want to do whatever it is he wants to do? And he groans a little. “I don’t need anything, Liam. We’re just going out.”
“Like you went out to Patrick’s room last night?” Liam replies, almost gliding into the room over to him. He lays a hand on the hollow of Bradley’s spine. Bradley watches those blue eyes narrow in the cloudy surface of the mirror. “You going out, to look for... look for that?”
“Nothing wrong with having some fun, Liam,” Bradley says, trying to laugh and failing miserably.
Liam leans onto the mirror with an open hand. Close, but not yet touching. “What do you need, Cooper?”
Need you, the younger man thinks, and remembers what Patrick said, what he has to do. But his mouth’s dry. He can’t do anything but watch Liam’s reflection get a little closer to his, a hand slip lower, cool against his skin, inside. The other settles on his hip. Far too close.
“Why go to Patrick, Bradley?” Liam asks. Squeezes a little and Bradley suddenly can’t breath. “Why not come to me?”
“Liam...” he gasps, feeling everything come out in that one little word, the best word he knows, and the Irishman’s on him, the buttons of his jacket against Bradley’s back.
“You said you’d come to me, lad. Just me, mine, from now on...”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” And Liam’s hand moves again, just barely along the cleft of his ass now, one finger pressing right above where it’s oh-so needed, where it will always be needed.
Bradley bites his lip. Can he say this? The stimulation, Liam touching him, the way the man smells, so different from Hannibal, so much better. But he has to. Patrick said he had to, and Patrick’s been right so far. He can’t tell Patrick he fucked this up.
“I-I can’t be him anymore.”
“Can’t be who?” It’s low. Growled. So like Hannibal again.
Fuck.
Bradley leans back, just in case this is the last time he gets to touch, and because he can feel himself starting to shake and needs to steady himself against something. “I... I don't think I can play anymore.”
Bradley can feel the rumble as Liam says, “who’s playing games?”
“We do. That’s all we do, Liam.”
Then both Liam’s hands are around his waist, pulling him flush back, brooking no argument, no route of escape. He’s trapped here, against whatever Liam’s got to say next. “What are you talking about, lad?”
Does he sound scared? He sounds a little scared. He sounds how Bradley feels, and that’s just enough to get the younger actor to do what needs to be done here.
Bradley reaches down, grabs Face, and pulls the damn conman up hard. Lets him arch back into Liam, creating just enough room to slide around and loop his own hand up onto Liam’s shirt, seductive and smooth. Face lets his head fall to the side, just a bit, neck exposed and eyes hooded. “Mmm, got us a king tonight, boss. After weeks of goddamn army cots, won’t it be nice, fucking in a real bed...” and he lets his hand stray, up under that jacket, thumbing over a nipple, just for a moment.
Before Liam throws him off.
And it’s Bradley who hits, ass first, against the bathroom wall.
“The fuck?” the Irishman grinds out, heavy, weighted, leaden.
Angry.
One of his vertebra hit at kind of a strange angle, throbbing a little, but Bradley doesn’t really focus on that. He’s just staring at the older man, trying to figure out what emotion he’s seeing there. But the anger’s a heartening sign. “I just can’t keep him out very long, Liam. I can't play him anymore, I’m so sorry...”
Liam drops his face into one of his hands. “Is... is this all it is to you, Bradley?”
Bradley stares up at the ceiling. “It’s all it was, Liam. All it was.”
“Role playing? Our fucking characters? You think I only wanted...”
“Face?” Bradley supplies.
“Face,” Liam repeats, and Bradley feels his heart sink. Right down through the soles of his feet. He doesn’t like this anymore. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want Liam to be here. Not after that, not after... “You think I want Face?”
“It wasn’t like it was me, Liam, you fucked that first time.” It’s a little easier to talk now, not looking, not worrying now, everything out already and still, in the bathroom. “You know, it just wasn’t... it wasn’t ever me, and now the movie’s over and we’re just doing the promotion stuff and I’m not, I’m not Face anymore, and you don’t want Bradley, I mean, why would you, he’s...”
“You?” Liam finishes, almost too quiet to hear.
“Yeah,” Bradley says, and feels his eyes start stinging. Fuck, is he going to cry? He does not want to fucking cry right now. “Yeah. Me. Not Face. He’s...”
“Not smooth or suave or seductive? Not exciting and deadly? Not dashing and heroic?”
“Right.”
“Unsure of himself, a little clumsy, self-conscious, completely flawed?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Distressingly ordinary?”
“Liam...” he breathes, and why did Liam have to make this harder than it already was? “Liam, that's... I’m not him, I’m not anything like him...”
“No, you aren’t.”
There’s a hand on his cheek, and he screws his eyes shut against the next few words to come. But Bradley’s not expecting, not prepared, for what follows, hot and low, prickling his skin.
“You’re better.”
“Liam, I’m...”
“Gorgeous? Strong? Amazing? Sweet, so sweet, darling, so full of light...”
Bradley feels a thumb slide along his cheek, wiping away the leaking moisture that’s just starting to collect under his eyes. He keeps them shut, hoping it’ll stop the tears from flooding out fully, stop him from collapsing into it. “I’m not...”
“You are, my darling,” and that last bit, the my, so close and so warm against him, nearly undoes him completely. “Face doesn’t begin to compare to you.
“Liam...”
“I... I should have told you every goddamn time we...”
“Tell me now.” Liam starts laughing, deep and relieved, and Bradley pushes up into him. Arms hold him in close and he’s knocking his nose up against his lover’s, looking for that kiss, that first searing little touch that opens everything else up. “Please, Liam, tell me now...”
Liam makes a contented little noise, not quite a growl, and Bradley can feel the man’s growing arousal against his own, an excitement flaring through him at that contact, one he hasn’t known in far too long. “Tell you, Bradley?” and he kisses lightly at the younger actor’s lower lip. “Or show you?”
“Mmm,” Bradley says and lunges for a better angle on that kiss, catching Liam’s mouth with his own, just for a moment, just long enough. “Showing is good.”
“Showing is better,” the Irishman agrees, and hitches strong hands under Bradley’s ass, lifting him up. The younger man feels himself start to blush and slides his legs up around Liam’s waist, holding on as his lover takes his weight, pinning him back against the wall, those lips back, hard and demanding on his throat, sucking, biting, marking. Bradley freezes up, that blush deepening as he realizes Liam’s... he’s never done this before, not on his neck, not where the camera’s going to notice.
“Liam, no, you can’t,” he gasps, shuddering with pleasure as his alpha just clamps him down and attacks that spot. He can’t get any purchase to stop this, nothing to hold on to or push off of, other than Liam, and he doesn’t want to push Liam away. Needs him, needs this, but still... “Please...”
But his lover ignores whatever he's asking for, and gives him more, as if Brad's even capable of asking for less. A little growl escapes the older man as he nips and skin breaks and sucks lightly again and Bradley whimpers. Can’t help the whimper, can’t help the feeling washing over him that he’s cared for, that Liam wants him, that Liam wants only him, that this is exactly where he’s supposed to...
“My lad can wear a scarf tomorrow, can’t he?” Liam whispers in his ear, gripping tight along his thigh, slamming him back against the wall as he licks the lovebite in question. “You look so damned good in them.”
Bradley’s pretty sure he’s scarlet by now, but he can’t do anything, doesn’t want to do anything, but nod. Whisper, “yes Liam,” watch that satisfied, triumphant smile grow. Beg with his eyes, his whole body, melting into the next kiss.
“You’re staying in , darling,” Liam murmurs and runs one big, wonderful hand across Bradley's scalp. “Coming to bed with me.”
And the younger American can’t help himself. “Coming in bed with you?”
Liam smacks his ass. “You’ve been spending to much time around Patrick, darling,” he growls affectionately and yanks him loose, holding him tight, carrying me, Bradley thinks, face burning, that Hannibal would have never done this with Face... "We're going to fix that, aren't we?"
"Yes, Liam."
"Remind you who owns your luscious arse?"
"Oh, god..."
"Who's allowed to touch you?"
"Yes... Liam, please..."
"Good lad."
And Bradley shivers as his back hits the bed.
Liam doesn’t waste any time, any movement, after he throws Bradley down on the bed. The younger man’s legs slip down around his thighs. Bradley locks his feet at the ankle with a little whining noise he barely recognizes, keeping Liam close.
His lover smiles at him and rocks into his groin, arching back fall enough to peel off his jacket and nothing else, before he leans back over, pushing up hard against Bradley’s rock hard cock as he settles on an elbow, staring right into the American actor’s eyes, fingering his hair.
“Who am I, lad?” The Irishman’s lips tickle out the words, right at his ear.
“Please...” Bradley breathes, running a hand between them to pull at buttons. “Please, come on...”
“Who am I?” It’s growled this time, and Liam rolls his hips into Bradley’s. He can feel the heat from Liam’s own straining shaft through layers of clothing, knows exactly how huge it is, how it feels. In his hand, in his mouth, driving into his heart. And he wants it, wants the man above him, wants him like he’s never wanted anything in his life...
One big hand cups Bradley’s erection, palming, rubbing and it’s almost a little too harsh, a little too much, but not enough. There can never be enoguh. And he whimpers, mouth not quite closing, and a finger traces his lower lip. Bradley bites for it, needing more contact, needing anything, everything, this man will give him, needing him so damn much...
“Who’s got claim to you?” Liam’s hand moves, dipping in, fingers sliding just once along Bradley’s trapped cock, electric, eliciting a pained, pleading groan. Bradley strains into it, and Liam runs both hands, heavy and possessive, up his sides, arms, to his wrists, forcing them over his head. “Who has permission to touch you like this?”
He groans again, thrusting up for more of that heavy contact, his cock begging for attention, caught against the rough fabric of Liam’s jeans as the older man holds him bodily down. Bradley can’t speak. He’s terrified he’s going to say Hannibal, like he has so many times before, and this will all be over. But Liam doesn’t want to hear another name right now, and Bradley doesn’t want to say it, won’t say it, only wants Liam to leave his lips, curl up between them in binding promise. “Please...”
His arms are wrenched up over his head, wrists gathered in one strong hand. A thrill runs through him, and he shivers into it again, squirming a little as Liam drags him further up on the bed, settles between his legs, impossibly fluid.
“Who is it who knows you so?”
Bradley can’t do anything, can’t do anything, trapped under Liam’s body, arms like this as the older man slowly undoes his fly now, practically tears his pants down, just far enough. Takes him firmly in hand. At the first full stroke, Bradley cries out and his feet fall useless against the edge of the bed, Liam’s fingers tracing veins as he slowly pulls off.
“Who do you spread for like this? So eager, like some cheap whore?”
“Just you...” Bradley gasps out, and feels Liam lift his hips. No contact at all now, just his wrists, that hand, and he barely stops himself from sobbing with need. He hears a belt being undone and lifts his hips automatically, opening his legs as wide as he can, hobbled by his own clothing. His skin feels like it’s only fire, flushed and aroused and embarrassed, embarrassed in the most delicious way possible, from the rough words, the rough treatment, a casual possession he’s missed more than he knew. “Only you.”
“And who am I?” Liam asks, his own jeans just unzipped, no underwear at all, that magnificent cock of his red, erect, pointing right at Bradley. He rips open a packet of lube with his teeth. He spits the little foil edge away. “Who sees you like this?”
“...you...”
Liam jerks his hand off Bradley’s for just a moment, squeezes the slick out into his hand and then it’s back, that hand. Then it’s there, the other, two fingers, right there...
“Who sees you like I see you?”
“Nobody, I swear, nobody but you...”
The Irishman grunts something unintelligible and those fingers push right up into Brad. He chokes back his scream at the pressure, the intrusion, where Liam hasn’t been in too, too long, everything tighter than it used to be, everything...
He’s rewarded for his initial discomfort with a kiss, long and slow and deep, as those fingers start to scissor and twist up into him, opening him wide as Liam’s other hand works down Bradley’s arm to settle on his shoulder.
“Who do you see? Who is it that wants you, Bradley Cooper? Who...” and his voice cracks, just a little, “who’s here for you now, lad?”
And then his fingers are gone.
And Liam’s not between his legs.
And he’s being rolled over on his back.
And Bradley whines, low in his throat.
His lover is back, though, straddling, guiding Bradley’s own hand back to his cheek, urging him to hold, just so, palm hot over his own. And then that cock is right where it’s supposed to be, right against slicked and stretched muscle. The younger man automatically lifts his hips, presenting himself.
Offering.
Begging.
Liam kisses Bradley hard, all teeth and heat along his spine, his shoulder, nuzzling his neck, and the younger man cries out as he’s taken in one long, almost brutal stroke. He hears a seam rip in his pants as his feet jerk apart, his body wanting Liam closer. The American moans, body shaking as it fights to adjust, pressing back into his lover’s shirt as Liam drapes over him.
“Mine,” Liam whispers in his ear, panting, clearly straining against his own need as he stills himself, only the barest movement, a subtle little rocking. “You’re mine, darling boy...”
Bradley can feel the edges of jeans against his own bare ass, soft shirt against his back, that simple sensation heightening everything, letting him know in no uncertain terms who’s dominating this encounter. Who’s always going to dominate. Who makes him feel...
Liam bites again, and, pulling out, slams all the way back in. Total ownership, Bradley thinks happily, and juts his hips higher.
He lets his head fall into the duvet, pushes back against the increasingly deep thrusts, savors the slide of flesh through him, the rough cotton against his skin, the pressure of his own erection caught beneath him, the barest stimulation driving him crazy. Liam changing the angle, seeking out that spot, and when Bradley screams, he hits it. Every. Single. Time.
Both of them are falling so easily back into the old patterns. Bradley, the small part of his brain capable of thought, wonders at it as Liam drives into him again and again and again. Like they’re supposed to be, supposed to be together like this, never this good with anyone before, not for Bradley, never this surrender, this kind of safety, holding him, holding him up, pulling him up, taking him to that climax, soaring...
He realizes he’s begging, little breathy words, scattering as he gets closer, everything starting to hum just so. “Yes, yes... all... oh god, all yours, all yours, please...”
Those teeth nip at his ear, and the rhymth’s starting to fall apart, Liam growing desperate now. “Who’s going to make you come, Bradley? Who makes you feel this alive?”
“O-only, only... only you...”
The hand, still over his, holding him open, tightens on his ass and he can feel nails, his own or Liam’s, doesn’t matter, digging in. His balls are pulling, that pressure’s building, Liam’s racing and it's all towards that shining light up ahead, so beautiful, so perfect, with this man. And, low and deep, rumbling through him, “who’s going to make you come?”
He tries to say it, but he can’t form the word, it only comes in a stuttering groan, every muscle in his body straining for climax.
“Come for me.”
And that’s it. Everything unsnaps and draws back together, and as Liam latches back onto his mark, he can feel himself spilling into the duvet below in hot, hard spurts, orgasm whiting out his vision, and he can feel Liam’s own climax hitting hot against his prostate, going on forever, and he floats away on it for a little while, secure in his lover’s arms.
At some point, Liam rolls them over on their sides, spooning up close, still fully clothed. His voice is shaking a little, but that’s probably just orgasm talking. “Who’s here with you, Bradley Cooper? Who’s here?”
There's no other answer than the one he finds when he wriggles around, looks up into a tired, beautiful face, those blue eyes on him. No other answer than the one he gives. How could he ever had doubted this? “I see you, Liam Neeson.”
“And never doubt it, darling. You’re mine,” Liam murmurs, and Bradley can no more argue that reality than he could the color of the sky. His arms tighten. “Stay with me tonight...”
Bradley bites his tongue, just stops himself from saying, always, my love like a damn idiot, wanting something he can't keep.
It won't last, it can't, and he shouldn't get attached, but he's allowed to look and touch and have for the moment, and he's still willing to take anything Liam, any time, any way, for as long as he can get it. So he nods and Liam smiles and he tells himself he’s going to enjoy this.
He's not going to worry about what comes later.
“It is my room,” he grins instead.
“Far too much time with Patrick,” Liam says as if he's agreeing with himself on something, and then starts laughing.
+++++
“Morning, lads.”
Patrick doesn’t even bother looking up from his coffee in the sunny little downstairs cafe. He knows that accent. He knows that hand, coming down on his shoulder. And Brian, sitting across from him in flip-flops, tormenting a piece of toast, is grinning like a wolf. “Liam,” the other actor says and kicks out a chair. “How the hell are you? Missed you last night.”
“That’s mostly Patrick’s fault,” the Irishman says serenely, sliding into the proffered seat. “He and I need to talk about that, actually.”
The younger actor winces. Of course Neeson knows. Sharlto has this theory, this insane fucking theory that comes up in those stream of conciousness conversation he holds with Rampage all the damn time, a theory that says Liam is a Jedi, truly and really. He wonders about it at times like this.
But Brian’s still smirking and Patrick nods. “Umm, you mind, man?”
“Nope,” his on-screen partner in crime replies with a wink, and takes his toast with him. “See you girls later.”
And then they’re alone.
If playing Lynch taught Patrick anything, it’s that sizing this Irishman up is usually a very good idea. Liam’s not wearing the same thing he was wearing last night. He looks rested, though, so he probably wasn’t awake all night, pining away for a certain adorable co-star. Must have changed. Clever. Or Bradley ripped something.
But he’s clearly not going to make the first move. Just sit there and stare, so Patrick crosses his legs and hugs one of his knees up a little with interlocked fingers and smiles. “So, you’d get Bradley’s problem taken care of?”
“You’re an interfering little shit, Patrick...”
“I’m not trying to move in on your territory, Liam,” he says. “Just trying to help a friend out.”
“Me or Bradley?”
“Both of you.”
“So you come by my room and make up a story about him being emotionally distraught...”
He is emotionally distraught. He’s in love with you, you fucking idiot, Patrick wants to say, but it’s not really his place. No, Bradley’s still too new at this to trust himself, and Liam... Patrick’s not willing to go there with Liam. They all know the story. He doesn’t want to touch that. It’s Liam’s decision, Liam’s realizations.
“I didn’t make anything up,” he says instead, going back to his coffee. “Do you know why Bradley came to me that first time?”
Liam shakes his head.
“Sweet, innocent little Bradley wanted to make it good for you.” Whether he realized it or not, he adds silently to himself. “He was upset the other night, looking for something to fill up whatever the hell your problem with him is. Poor boy,” he adds, and goes for the creamer. “Scorned by his jealous lover."
“You pissed me off on purpose.”
“And you went and found him and took him and you both fucking loved it,” he says, and pauses. “He needs you.”
“For the moment,” Liam says slowly, playing with a fork now, and Patrick just wants to facepalm. Fucking idiots, both of them, really, and he’s wondering if he might need to step in and take a more active step... “and there will not be any more interference from your corner, Patrick.”
He makes a phhting noise and waves it off. “If he’s not yours...”
Liam grabs his hand off from where it’s laying on his knee. “You aren’t going to fan this any more for him. You understand me? The faux-gay bullshit is going to stop.”
Who's a fake gay here? "That's rather cold, sweetie," Patrick says, lisping a bit.
"Patrick, Bradley doesn't need you putting..."
“Ideas in his head? Foreign objects in his ass? You don’t need to worry about it, Liam. I prefer bottoming anyway,” he says and leans back, squeezing the older man’s hand back. No harm in a little white lie, if it made Liam feel better. Although bottoming was lovely, when he was in the mood...
“Then why...”
“Oh,” and he smiles a little over Liam’s shoulder, as queer as he can possibly make it. “Speak of the devil. You look positively European this morning, sweetie.”
“Err... got room for one more?”
It’s Bradley, and it’s true, American guys don’t dress like that, in jeans just a little too tight and those shoes - dear christ in heaven, those shoes - and a t-shirt with a perfectly wound scarf. A sheepish little smile on his face. Hands jammed in his back pockets.
Yup, no denying that boy looks good in the scarves, Patrick thinks, and then realizes what probably happened last night. Why he's wearing it. Is Bradley walking a little funny? Sore, perhaps?
He only barely keeps himself from laughing as Liam fingers it a little, guiding the younger man into the last empty chair at the table, across from him.
“What are you guys talking about?”
He normally doesn’t ham it up like this, it’s so true, but it’s just way, way too much fun with these two. “I was going to ask about a threesome.”
“Patrick...”
“Hey, hey, we haven’t done one of those!” Bradley exclaims in a stage whisper to Liam, who looks supremely pissed at the mere suggestion. Oh, he is a dominate one, isn't he? Patrick thinks. "Do you..."
“Don’t even think about, lad.”
“Patrick on your shit list again?”
“Patrick is always on my shit list, darling.”
"Come on, man."
"Bradley..."
Liam’s growling at him, forward and assertive. Bradley’s got his lower lip in his teeth, shyly coiled back in the chair, kind of taking his lover in. Beautiful, Patrick thinks. It’s just so damn hilarious. They want each other so fucking bad.
“Oh, think I need to hit the little boys’ room. Get me a refill if the waiter comes back,” he says smoothly. And Patrick just can’t fucking help himself, so when he stands up, he folds Liam’s hand back onto his shoulder and gets really close to his ear. “But don’t you worry, honey, I know just how yours that little cutie is.” He smiles.
He can feel the Irishman’s eyes on his back, all the way out into the hall, and if he collapses in a fit of giggles right outside the men’s bathroom and Brian, still munching toast at this discreet distance, raises an eyebrow, he can’t help it at all.
“Those two get it worked out?” his co-star asks.
“Like a couple of goddamn teenagers,” he manages. Like the rest of the cast never figured it out, he thinks, and that sends into a fresh round.
Brian rolls his eyes, and catches a lump of falling jam with his tongue. “Can I go sit down now?”
And suddenly all Patrick can think about is how much fun he’s going to have with this over the rest of the promotion tour.
In the service of getting the two of them to realize.
Of course.
Just for that.
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no subject
Date: 2011-03-29 01:34 am (UTC)I've actually read this a couple of times already, but yeah, still awesome!
And this image: Bradley’s got his lower lip in his teeth, shyly coiled back in the chair, kind of taking his lover in. *sigh*
Also there can never be enough of Brad with a scarf, so hot. And it's true, all Europeans wear scarves... ;P But I am wearing one right now, actually, in bed, lol!
no subject
Date: 2011-03-29 01:40 am (UTC)Even if all American men think it's gay to wear them.
Silly, silly American men.
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Date: 2011-03-29 02:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-29 02:10 am (UTC)And men are silly, silly creatures, aren't they?
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Date: 2011-03-29 02:16 am (UTC)