Fic: forget shame forget my name (X-Men: First Class / Shame, NC-17)
title: forget shame forget my name
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 1215
fandoms: X-Men: First Class [movieverse], Shame
pairing: Erik Lehnsherr/Brandon
rating: NC-17
notes: Pretty much got suckered into this one by my lovely ladies Gokuma and LadyFassbender XD Remember when I did a series of fics in which two James McAvoy characters got it on? This is the Michael Fassbender equivalent: Erik Lehnsherr meets Brandon from New York. No regrets :D
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/.
When Erik looks up from the depths of his - shitty American beer this is worse than water - and sees an all-too-familiar face at the door it’s all he can do to suddenly rein in the white-hot hiss of rage in his ears.
As if suddenly waking up on a cold October morning in the year 2011 isn’t already enough for him and his nerves. As if he’s not already worried about all kinds of things: where are the others? Who’s been screwing around with the timelines? Who does he need to kill to get back to 1963? Why does this always happen to him?
He tries to force the emotions back down - he has no idea how people will react to his powers in this place and in this time - but when he looks back up the man at the other end of the bar is still wearing his own face, and there is only one mutant with enough blind courage to do this to him, and Erik is on his feet and moving out the back door before he can even think.
“Damnit,” he growls to himself, and he looks around, to the familiar lilt of metal, undercut by the equally familiar tang of corrosion and rust. “Mystique. Whose side are you on right now?”
“Sorry, man, am I interrupting - you - ” American accent, clipped and rough with surprise.
Erik looks up - into his own face. Oh, it’s not a complete copy this time; this man has far lighter hair and there are bruises and scabs scattered over his face, harsh even in the low light from the fluorescent fixtures.
There is something churning in Erik’s gut right now, something he dares not name. He knows himself well enough to know that this is going to be as temporary as temporary can be - he’s going to have to make it back to 1963 somehow, and damn the consequences until then. Damn Mystique and her constantly shifting allegiances. Damn whoever sent him here, forward in time to a world that is so far removed from what he’s always known.
He doesn’t even know if Charles is alive in this world, and he quickly and ruthlessly quashes the thought.
“You’re not interrupting,” Erik says, at last. “Do I know you.”
“About as much as I know my face in the mirror, except for the part where you’re a total stranger,” the other man says. “You sure you’re all right?”
“I am,” Erik says.
“All right. Sorry.” The other man pauses, makes as if to turn away.
What Erik wouldn’t give for Emma at his side right now. He tries to test the other man anyway. “Are you familiar with Westchester?” In 1963, Mystique still reacts whenever she’s reminded of - of her brother.
“Nope,” is the easy answer. “Never been there.”
That...helps things, somewhat, but that’s one problem traded for another. Because no matter how Erik tries to look at the situation he is still looking at a man who could be a double of himself. He is still looking at a man who could be his exact mirror image and - god help him, he is interested in him.
Why do these things even happen to him?
Erik is still staring at him when the man laughs and openly gives him a once-over. “Been looking at me all this time like that,” he drawls. “I swear I don’t know what you want with me any more. Kill me or kiss me or whatever. Not going to make any much difference, anyway.” The man laughs, waves self-deprecatingly at his face, and it sounds like something familiar at last. Laughter from the gallows. The only kind of humor Erik understands right now.
I don’t care. Need to stop running. So tired, Erik thinks.
As the stranger wearing his face turns away, Erik clears his throat quietly, and says his name. “I’m Erik.”
“Brandon,” is the reply. “You going my way?”
“Yes,” Erik says, finally. “I believe I am.”
Brandon chokes out a laugh, turns back and takes Erik’s hand - skin, the same and still different, my broken hands - and then their mouths are crashing together, and it is nothing Erik had imagined and it is everything he ever wanted.
Brandon kisses as though he were lost and drowning and dying all at once.
Erik kisses back, desperate and needing to feel.
It’s Brandon who breaks the kiss and the smile on his face is the smile of the vanquished. “This. This is fucked up,” he says, almost laughing, and before Erik can take offense - hard to think past the red desire hammering through his blood - he’s pulling on Erik’s hand, he’s calling a cab, Brandon is all but throwing him in and Erik goes, gratefully.
///
It’s strange and easy and sexy all at once, when they’re down to their own naked skins. Brandon devours him, strokes greedily over scar and tattoo and Erik only has a second’s worth of lucidity to wonder if the other man even knows what the numbers mean before Brandon’s mouth is moving over the ink again, kissing silent apologies into Erik’s skin.
Erik is still Erik, however, and after a few more breathless moments of Brandon’s hands moving expertly over him, leaving sputtering trails of fiery need in their wake, he growls and flips them over, bears Brandon down into the crumpled sheets. Desperate laughter in his ears, Brandon rolling his hips and trying to get closer.
Erik explores the body beneath him with a kind of breathless determination. This is where they’re different: what would Brandon know about going hungry or being too weak? Something else is buried in his nerves, though, some other kind of suffering, and that is something Erik knows all too well, something Erik can respond to - and so he does.
Kiss after bruising kiss, tongue and teeth and fingers digging into muscle. Touching everywhere, snatching at each other. Finally Erik gets his hands around Brandon’s cock and begins to move, his heart thumping to the breathless filthy curses spilling from Brandon’s lips.
“Come on come on what do you want from me, fuck fuck fuck I need I need I need,” Brandon is saying, and he thrashes so wildly that he almost flies out of Erik’s grasp - and before Erik can react Brandon’s up on his knees and shoving Erik onto his back.
Erik topples over with a strangled cry - and it turns into a loud moan when Brandon suddenly takes him in his mouth, sloppy and wet and needy and it’s Erik’s turn to shake to pieces. He buries his fingers in Brandon’s hair and the other man makes an encouraging noise, vibrations traveling down Erik’s cock and he doesn’t know what he wants, fuck Brandon or kill him or kiss him or.
Erik’s eyes fly open and he looks down, down past Brandon’s mouth, to where Brandon’s frantically jerking himself off in time to the strokes of his own tongue.
Beautypainneedshame sparking in Erik’s mind, and the world flees in brilliant white, and he can hear Brandon’s laughter in the distance, mocking and destroyed all at once.
///
Erik lets Brandon cling to him, after; wrecked and sticky and there are tears on his face, and he doesn’t know which one of them’s been crying.
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 1215
fandoms: X-Men: First Class [movieverse], Shame
pairing: Erik Lehnsherr/Brandon
rating: NC-17
notes: Pretty much got suckered into this one by my lovely ladies Gokuma and LadyFassbender XD Remember when I did a series of fics in which two James McAvoy characters got it on? This is the Michael Fassbender equivalent: Erik Lehnsherr meets Brandon from New York. No regrets :D
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/.
When Erik looks up from the depths of his - shitty American beer this is worse than water - and sees an all-too-familiar face at the door it’s all he can do to suddenly rein in the white-hot hiss of rage in his ears.
As if suddenly waking up on a cold October morning in the year 2011 isn’t already enough for him and his nerves. As if he’s not already worried about all kinds of things: where are the others? Who’s been screwing around with the timelines? Who does he need to kill to get back to 1963? Why does this always happen to him?
He tries to force the emotions back down - he has no idea how people will react to his powers in this place and in this time - but when he looks back up the man at the other end of the bar is still wearing his own face, and there is only one mutant with enough blind courage to do this to him, and Erik is on his feet and moving out the back door before he can even think.
“Damnit,” he growls to himself, and he looks around, to the familiar lilt of metal, undercut by the equally familiar tang of corrosion and rust. “Mystique. Whose side are you on right now?”
“Sorry, man, am I interrupting - you - ” American accent, clipped and rough with surprise.
Erik looks up - into his own face. Oh, it’s not a complete copy this time; this man has far lighter hair and there are bruises and scabs scattered over his face, harsh even in the low light from the fluorescent fixtures.
There is something churning in Erik’s gut right now, something he dares not name. He knows himself well enough to know that this is going to be as temporary as temporary can be - he’s going to have to make it back to 1963 somehow, and damn the consequences until then. Damn Mystique and her constantly shifting allegiances. Damn whoever sent him here, forward in time to a world that is so far removed from what he’s always known.
He doesn’t even know if Charles is alive in this world, and he quickly and ruthlessly quashes the thought.
“You’re not interrupting,” Erik says, at last. “Do I know you.”
“About as much as I know my face in the mirror, except for the part where you’re a total stranger,” the other man says. “You sure you’re all right?”
“I am,” Erik says.
“All right. Sorry.” The other man pauses, makes as if to turn away.
What Erik wouldn’t give for Emma at his side right now. He tries to test the other man anyway. “Are you familiar with Westchester?” In 1963, Mystique still reacts whenever she’s reminded of - of her brother.
“Nope,” is the easy answer. “Never been there.”
That...helps things, somewhat, but that’s one problem traded for another. Because no matter how Erik tries to look at the situation he is still looking at a man who could be a double of himself. He is still looking at a man who could be his exact mirror image and - god help him, he is interested in him.
Why do these things even happen to him?
Erik is still staring at him when the man laughs and openly gives him a once-over. “Been looking at me all this time like that,” he drawls. “I swear I don’t know what you want with me any more. Kill me or kiss me or whatever. Not going to make any much difference, anyway.” The man laughs, waves self-deprecatingly at his face, and it sounds like something familiar at last. Laughter from the gallows. The only kind of humor Erik understands right now.
I don’t care. Need to stop running. So tired, Erik thinks.
As the stranger wearing his face turns away, Erik clears his throat quietly, and says his name. “I’m Erik.”
“Brandon,” is the reply. “You going my way?”
“Yes,” Erik says, finally. “I believe I am.”
Brandon chokes out a laugh, turns back and takes Erik’s hand - skin, the same and still different, my broken hands - and then their mouths are crashing together, and it is nothing Erik had imagined and it is everything he ever wanted.
Brandon kisses as though he were lost and drowning and dying all at once.
Erik kisses back, desperate and needing to feel.
It’s Brandon who breaks the kiss and the smile on his face is the smile of the vanquished. “This. This is fucked up,” he says, almost laughing, and before Erik can take offense - hard to think past the red desire hammering through his blood - he’s pulling on Erik’s hand, he’s calling a cab, Brandon is all but throwing him in and Erik goes, gratefully.
///
It’s strange and easy and sexy all at once, when they’re down to their own naked skins. Brandon devours him, strokes greedily over scar and tattoo and Erik only has a second’s worth of lucidity to wonder if the other man even knows what the numbers mean before Brandon’s mouth is moving over the ink again, kissing silent apologies into Erik’s skin.
Erik is still Erik, however, and after a few more breathless moments of Brandon’s hands moving expertly over him, leaving sputtering trails of fiery need in their wake, he growls and flips them over, bears Brandon down into the crumpled sheets. Desperate laughter in his ears, Brandon rolling his hips and trying to get closer.
Erik explores the body beneath him with a kind of breathless determination. This is where they’re different: what would Brandon know about going hungry or being too weak? Something else is buried in his nerves, though, some other kind of suffering, and that is something Erik knows all too well, something Erik can respond to - and so he does.
Kiss after bruising kiss, tongue and teeth and fingers digging into muscle. Touching everywhere, snatching at each other. Finally Erik gets his hands around Brandon’s cock and begins to move, his heart thumping to the breathless filthy curses spilling from Brandon’s lips.
“Come on come on what do you want from me, fuck fuck fuck I need I need I need,” Brandon is saying, and he thrashes so wildly that he almost flies out of Erik’s grasp - and before Erik can react Brandon’s up on his knees and shoving Erik onto his back.
Erik topples over with a strangled cry - and it turns into a loud moan when Brandon suddenly takes him in his mouth, sloppy and wet and needy and it’s Erik’s turn to shake to pieces. He buries his fingers in Brandon’s hair and the other man makes an encouraging noise, vibrations traveling down Erik’s cock and he doesn’t know what he wants, fuck Brandon or kill him or kiss him or.
Erik’s eyes fly open and he looks down, down past Brandon’s mouth, to where Brandon’s frantically jerking himself off in time to the strokes of his own tongue.
Beautypainneedshame sparking in Erik’s mind, and the world flees in brilliant white, and he can hear Brandon’s laughter in the distance, mocking and destroyed all at once.
///
Erik lets Brandon cling to him, after; wrecked and sticky and there are tears on his face, and he doesn’t know which one of them’s been crying.