Ice Cream Headache
Title: Ice Cream Headache
Pairing: RPF, James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender
Rating: NC-17
Notes: I never write real person fic. Like, ever. This is pretty much the only RPF you'll ever see me writing. But it was for a prompt on the X-Men: First Class kinkmeme, and the person who requested it was just so awesome I couldn't pass it up. And I think it came out okay.
They may have had a bit too much to drink.
It’s been a long day, with lots of green screen work and not a whole lot of breaks. They had to do nearly fifty takes of one scene because the wires they were using to hang Zoe kept getting tangled and Matthew nearly had a nervous breakdown. So it had been a relief when Michael asked James back to his trailer for drinks, grinning tiredly as they peeled off their costumes back in makeup. Michael’s martini making prowess has become legendary rather quickly, and James’ mouth has been watering all day for some alcohol.
So he’s sitting here on Michael’s couch, head reeling as he watches the other man brandishing the martini shaker like it’s done him a personal injury, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. He’d stripped down to a pair of worn, well-loved sweatpants and a vest, complaining about the broken air conditioning loudly after his third drink. James feels strangely over-dressed in his t-shirt and jeans, but his trailer is all the way over on the other side of the lot and he’s damned if he’s going to leave and change now. Not with Michael looking the way he does, all loose limbs and sharp-toothed smiles.
Michael drops down beside him on the sofa and manages to unscrew the lid of the shaker on his third try, fingers slippery with sweat and intoxication. He takes a swig and hands it to James, their glasses forgotten on the coffee table.
“It’s just as good straight from the bottle as it is with all the fancy bits.” His accent is stronger, his voice husky with intoxication and fatigue, and James’ stomach quivers at the lilt of his words. “Though I can get you an olive, ‘f you’d like.”
James shakes his head. “No, it’s okay, stay here.” His arm is around Michael’s shoulder, and when did that happen? He turns his head to puzzle at their new position and-
And he’s right there, slouched low in the crook of his side, their faces so close he can feel Michael’s breath on his cheek, hot and heavy with vodka and musk and-
They’ve definitely had too much to drink, because James dips his head and captures Michael’s lips in a sloppy kiss. It’s slow and wet and when James moves away for a second to put the tumbler on the ground, out of the way, Michael arches up for him like their lips are magnets. James wraps an arm around his waist and pushes him down on the couch more forcefully than he really needs to and their tongues slide together, hungry and greedy and wanting.
He pushes Michael’s knees apart, dropping in between the spread thighs to rut against him. Michael groans into his mouth, his hard cock pressing up against James’ stomach through his sweatpants. James pulls away, tugging the soft fabric down his legs and tossing them onto the floor by the spilled vodka. He fumbles at his own belt, undoing his jeans frantically. A quick glance at Michael makes his fingers slip- the other man is staring at him, swollen lips parted and hair mussed. There’s a light flush visible on his high cheekbones in the glow of the streetlamp outside, and his chest heaves shakily. It takes what little restraint James still has not to grab a handful of Michael’s hair in his fist and yank him forward like a barbarian.
Instead he thrusts his hand out, caressing Michael’s cheek. Stubble rasps under his palm as he drags his fingers across the other man’s lips and his breathing grows even harsher as Michael opens his mouth and begins to suck, his tongue swirling indecently in the whorls of James’ fingertips. It’s filthy, it’s fucking lewd. Hissing, James jerks back and kisses Michael using his dry hand to raise his hips off the pillow he’s lying on top of. He pushes a finger into him and his cock twitches at the choked-back gasp Michael lets out, at the scrunch of his brow, and Jesus he’s so tight.
Michael bites his lip and moans wantonly, one hand scrunched in the material of James’ t-shirt and the other resting on the curve of his denim-clad arse. He’s too distracted to squeeze because this close, nose-to-nose with James, there’s no way to avoid that Michael’s going to know what James looks like when he comes, feels like when he comes, and that James is going to see that image reflected back in Michael like a mirror.
Christ. James works in another finger, scissoring roughly. He presses their foreheads together, eyes squeezed closed as he works Michael open. It’s quiet, too quiet, and he gasps out the first thing that pops into his head.
“Bet it isn’t like this with Zoe, is it?.”
Michael’s hips snap up. “No.”
James slides his fingers out and begins to ease into Michael with his cock, the tight heat of him and the grip of his fist on James’ shoulder making him grit his teeth. They aren’t using nearly enough lube, and it’s got to hurt like Hell, but Michael arches underneath him and they groan together, far too loud in the silence as James presses in and fills him.
James’ cry at the friction drowns out Michael’s soft moans. He moves out and slams in hard, fast, messy. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that he’s going to make Michael bleed, but he doesn’t care. He pounds into him, knocking his head back against the armrest of the sofa with each thrust. Michael’s fingers knead his skin mindlessly, his eyes wide and staring as he takes it.
Michael’s breath is stuttering, erratic as the pace of James’ hips. His toes curl and flex against nothing, muscles losing control. James thrusts relentlessly, their noses squished together, lips meeting every few seconds and then parting again as they gasp with pleasure and pain.
“Bet you’ve never had a cock this big.” He slurs breathlessly, and Michael doesn’t even try to disguise his groan. Sweat slides against them, in the slick where Michael’s cock bobs painfully hard between their bodies.
James leans to his side, burying his face in Michael’s neck. His teeth scrape along the long, pale column of Michael’s throat, orange in the sulfurous light from outside. And then Michael’s quaking, wet and virtually silent as he spills his seed onto their stomachs. It pushes James over the edge: that sound, the intense look of Michael’s face and the feel of him. He shudders as he fills him, groaning into his shoulder.
They lie there for a second, James hand curled into Michael’s hair and his face pressed down where he can’t see what his expression. He pulls out of Michael slowly, Michael’s wince and shift on the wet cushions paired with a soft grunt. He straightens himself on the sofa, tucking himself back into his jeans and doing up the fly.
“I’m pissed.” His voice is hoarse. “Can I have a smoke?”
Michael nods. “’Course.”
James can’t look Michael in the eye; The cigarette he’s smoking betrays the way his hands are shaking, the doubt and regret suddenly running through his mind. The Fuck, the What have I done, the half-mumbled Lord’s prayer. He can feel his wedding ring chafing his knuckles.
When James does chance a look in Michael’s direction, his one sobering thought is that if their positions were reversed- if it was him naked from the waist down and wearing nothing but a wrinkled, cum-stained vest- he probably wouldn’t be gazing at Michael as adoringly as Michael is gazing at him.
“We have to keep this between you and me.”
He’s not looking so he can’t see the flicker of pain in Michael’s eyes, but he can tell it’s there. “Yeah, I know.”
“I’d better…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’d better go.”
He stumbles out of the trailer, the ground spinning beneath his feet and guilt roiling in his stomach and Michael’s face burned into his mind.
Pairing: RPF, James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender
Rating: NC-17
Notes: I never write real person fic. Like, ever. This is pretty much the only RPF you'll ever see me writing. But it was for a prompt on the X-Men: First Class kinkmeme, and the person who requested it was just so awesome I couldn't pass it up. And I think it came out okay.
They may have had a bit too much to drink.
It’s been a long day, with lots of green screen work and not a whole lot of breaks. They had to do nearly fifty takes of one scene because the wires they were using to hang Zoe kept getting tangled and Matthew nearly had a nervous breakdown. So it had been a relief when Michael asked James back to his trailer for drinks, grinning tiredly as they peeled off their costumes back in makeup. Michael’s martini making prowess has become legendary rather quickly, and James’ mouth has been watering all day for some alcohol.
So he’s sitting here on Michael’s couch, head reeling as he watches the other man brandishing the martini shaker like it’s done him a personal injury, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. He’d stripped down to a pair of worn, well-loved sweatpants and a vest, complaining about the broken air conditioning loudly after his third drink. James feels strangely over-dressed in his t-shirt and jeans, but his trailer is all the way over on the other side of the lot and he’s damned if he’s going to leave and change now. Not with Michael looking the way he does, all loose limbs and sharp-toothed smiles.
Michael drops down beside him on the sofa and manages to unscrew the lid of the shaker on his third try, fingers slippery with sweat and intoxication. He takes a swig and hands it to James, their glasses forgotten on the coffee table.
“It’s just as good straight from the bottle as it is with all the fancy bits.” His accent is stronger, his voice husky with intoxication and fatigue, and James’ stomach quivers at the lilt of his words. “Though I can get you an olive, ‘f you’d like.”
James shakes his head. “No, it’s okay, stay here.” His arm is around Michael’s shoulder, and when did that happen? He turns his head to puzzle at their new position and-
And he’s right there, slouched low in the crook of his side, their faces so close he can feel Michael’s breath on his cheek, hot and heavy with vodka and musk and-
They’ve definitely had too much to drink, because James dips his head and captures Michael’s lips in a sloppy kiss. It’s slow and wet and when James moves away for a second to put the tumbler on the ground, out of the way, Michael arches up for him like their lips are magnets. James wraps an arm around his waist and pushes him down on the couch more forcefully than he really needs to and their tongues slide together, hungry and greedy and wanting.
He pushes Michael’s knees apart, dropping in between the spread thighs to rut against him. Michael groans into his mouth, his hard cock pressing up against James’ stomach through his sweatpants. James pulls away, tugging the soft fabric down his legs and tossing them onto the floor by the spilled vodka. He fumbles at his own belt, undoing his jeans frantically. A quick glance at Michael makes his fingers slip- the other man is staring at him, swollen lips parted and hair mussed. There’s a light flush visible on his high cheekbones in the glow of the streetlamp outside, and his chest heaves shakily. It takes what little restraint James still has not to grab a handful of Michael’s hair in his fist and yank him forward like a barbarian.
Instead he thrusts his hand out, caressing Michael’s cheek. Stubble rasps under his palm as he drags his fingers across the other man’s lips and his breathing grows even harsher as Michael opens his mouth and begins to suck, his tongue swirling indecently in the whorls of James’ fingertips. It’s filthy, it’s fucking lewd. Hissing, James jerks back and kisses Michael using his dry hand to raise his hips off the pillow he’s lying on top of. He pushes a finger into him and his cock twitches at the choked-back gasp Michael lets out, at the scrunch of his brow, and Jesus he’s so tight.
Michael bites his lip and moans wantonly, one hand scrunched in the material of James’ t-shirt and the other resting on the curve of his denim-clad arse. He’s too distracted to squeeze because this close, nose-to-nose with James, there’s no way to avoid that Michael’s going to know what James looks like when he comes, feels like when he comes, and that James is going to see that image reflected back in Michael like a mirror.
Christ. James works in another finger, scissoring roughly. He presses their foreheads together, eyes squeezed closed as he works Michael open. It’s quiet, too quiet, and he gasps out the first thing that pops into his head.
“Bet it isn’t like this with Zoe, is it?.”
Michael’s hips snap up. “No.”
James slides his fingers out and begins to ease into Michael with his cock, the tight heat of him and the grip of his fist on James’ shoulder making him grit his teeth. They aren’t using nearly enough lube, and it’s got to hurt like Hell, but Michael arches underneath him and they groan together, far too loud in the silence as James presses in and fills him.
James’ cry at the friction drowns out Michael’s soft moans. He moves out and slams in hard, fast, messy. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that he’s going to make Michael bleed, but he doesn’t care. He pounds into him, knocking his head back against the armrest of the sofa with each thrust. Michael’s fingers knead his skin mindlessly, his eyes wide and staring as he takes it.
Michael’s breath is stuttering, erratic as the pace of James’ hips. His toes curl and flex against nothing, muscles losing control. James thrusts relentlessly, their noses squished together, lips meeting every few seconds and then parting again as they gasp with pleasure and pain.
“Bet you’ve never had a cock this big.” He slurs breathlessly, and Michael doesn’t even try to disguise his groan. Sweat slides against them, in the slick where Michael’s cock bobs painfully hard between their bodies.
James leans to his side, burying his face in Michael’s neck. His teeth scrape along the long, pale column of Michael’s throat, orange in the sulfurous light from outside. And then Michael’s quaking, wet and virtually silent as he spills his seed onto their stomachs. It pushes James over the edge: that sound, the intense look of Michael’s face and the feel of him. He shudders as he fills him, groaning into his shoulder.
They lie there for a second, James hand curled into Michael’s hair and his face pressed down where he can’t see what his expression. He pulls out of Michael slowly, Michael’s wince and shift on the wet cushions paired with a soft grunt. He straightens himself on the sofa, tucking himself back into his jeans and doing up the fly.
“I’m pissed.” His voice is hoarse. “Can I have a smoke?”
Michael nods. “’Course.”
James can’t look Michael in the eye; The cigarette he’s smoking betrays the way his hands are shaking, the doubt and regret suddenly running through his mind. The Fuck, the What have I done, the half-mumbled Lord’s prayer. He can feel his wedding ring chafing his knuckles.
When James does chance a look in Michael’s direction, his one sobering thought is that if their positions were reversed- if it was him naked from the waist down and wearing nothing but a wrinkled, cum-stained vest- he probably wouldn’t be gazing at Michael as adoringly as Michael is gazing at him.
“We have to keep this between you and me.”
He’s not looking so he can’t see the flicker of pain in Michael’s eyes, but he can tell it’s there. “Yeah, I know.”
“I’d better…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’d better go.”
He stumbles out of the trailer, the ground spinning beneath his feet and guilt roiling in his stomach and Michael’s face burned into his mind.