Title: "Unorthodox Methods Of Persuasion" Pairing: James McAvoy/Michael Fassbender Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer: So not true. Summary: Getting kissed so thoroughly that oxygen was an afterthought did tend to scramble brain cells in the best of men, and Michael had never claimed to be all that altruistic. Sequel to Unorthodox Methods of Seduction. Notes: For Jo as a wee birthday gift. Thanks to G for the beta. If Michael had been remotely paying attention to the early warning system in his brain (which, to be quite honest, had gotten him out of more than a few tight spots over the years, despite what his friends back home would have anyone believe), he would have known that he was going to lose control of the situation the second that James had knocked on the door to his hotel suite, full bottle of Patron in hand, wide grin firmly in place, and looking far better than any man ought wearing jeans and a faded-blue button-down: Michael had taken one look at the bottle and raised an eyebrow. "No flowers?" he'd asked, feeling the first tendrils of anticipation winding through him. Perhaps they really were going discuss doing this, after all. "So it's romance you're wanting, then, darlin'?" James had asked, brushing his body against Michael's as he'd walked through the door and towards the kitchen of the suite. "Irish," Michael'd reminded him. "We do love our grand gestures." James'd set the bottle on the counter and had stepped teasingly close, eyeing Michael's lips like they'd been a particularly tasty dessert. "I'll recite a sonnet or two later," he'd promised, and Michael would have agreed to anything if it had meant James not moving away from him. (He should have known then that James had been serious, but it had been hard to think around the solid ball of want lodged in his throat.) He would have seen that, Irish head for drink or not, matching shots with a Scotsman was just asking for trouble, especially when said Scotsman was known to cheat at drinking games with a shameless smirk and a devilish twinkle in blue eyes: "You're really quite terrible at this," James had declared with a grin, swiping a stray bit of tequila from the corner of his mouth. Michael'd wanted nothing more at that moment than to follow the trail with his tongue, to capture the taste for his own. "That's not what she said," he'd replied, which hadn't been clever at all – not remotely up to his usual standards – but James had laughed delightedly all the same, and had turned Michael's wrist over so he could lick the salt from it, and the heat of James' tongue against his skin had felt like a brand... (He should have known then, too, but in his defense, James had always teased him like this – hugs that lingered too long, kisses hello that strayed too close to the corner of his mouth, petting and touching him like he couldn't help himself, constantly brushing against him, eradicating the physical space between them like he had every right...) He would have remembered how easily James could get under his skin, and could talk him into all sorts of mad situations without even trying: After the fifth shot, and crying with laughter over one of James' stories from another film he was working on, it had blearily occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, mind, James hadn't just come around for a drink or three and some conversation. That maybe this had been what they'd joked about on the phone earlier. "Are we really doing this?" he'd asked abruptly, setting his shot glass on the table with a little more force than strictly needed. James had lounged back in his chair, disheveled and gorgeous, with one of his patented mischievous smiles on his lips. "As I recall, when we last spoke, I said I wanted this. Don't say you're getting cold feet already." "No, no..." Michael hadn't been able to stop staring at the gape in James' collar that had shadowed the hollow of James' throat. He'd wanted to fasten his teeth to it and see if it tasted as good at it looked. "I just thought... You know how you are, James." James' eyes had turned dark, intent, as he'd leaned in, temptingly close. "If you don't want to, simply say so, and I'll –" The rest of his reply had been cut off by Michael yanking him forward so he could finally - finally - get his mouth on James'. It had been better than he'd even imagined. (He definitely should have known then, but he'd been somewhat distracted.) All of these mental revelations about James and his very bad influence on his mental acuity were too little, too late, of course. Especially considering he currently had his tongue down James' throat and James was making the most delightful noises while unzipping Michael's jeans. Getting kissed so thoroughly that oxygen was an afterthought did tend to scramble brain cells in the best of men, and Michael had never claimed to be all that altruistic. Except, apparently, when said traitorous brain decided it wanted to grow a conscience at the worst time possible. "You want to talk about this now?" James asked incredulously, after the words had tumbled out of Michael's mouth, almost of their own volition, and Michael couldn't say that James didn't have a point. It was a rather inopportune moment. But, it was just... He couldn't quite shut off his thoughts as easily as all that. Even if he did have James' shirt completely unbuttoned and James was hard and flushed beneath him. They'd moved to the sofa at some point, but Michael couldn't say when. Everything was a haze of need and craving and it's about bloody time. "Yes. No. I..." He stopped, made a helpless gesture, and sat back on his heels on the cushions. James pushed him back far enough to he could slide up to a sitting position. "Alright, if it means so much to you, we'll talk." "You don't have to...you don't owe me..." Michael stopped, cursed himself under his breath. This was a spectacularly awful idea. He should just tug James back to him and get back to the more pleasant task of getting James to make those throaty moans again. Why should he care about the moral ramifications if James didn't? He'd been wanting this for months. What was wrong with him? "No, you're spot on, I do have to, and I do owe you. It's alright," James said, with a small smile. "Although, in the interest of full disclosure, I really was planning on talking to you about it. But after, see." "I'm fair certain telling me about the particulars of you cheating on your wife after the fact defeats the purpose," Michael said, aware that he sounded completely peevish, but unable to bring himself to care. 'Twas probably because he was still annoyed with himself (and still hard), but he wasn't about to apologize for it. It was far easier to blame James for getting him into this mess. (It was far easier to blame James for quite a few things, if anyone were to ask him. James may look like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but Michael knew that angelic face hid a mind so devious it would make demons blush.) "And if I were to tell you that it wouldn't be cheating, what then?" "I..." Michael paused, then scrubbed a hand over his face. It didn't help the lack of clarity. Or the fact that James was staring up at him with those gorgeous lips all red and bruised from his own, shirt hanging off his sides and baring a truly spectacular chest to his gaze. "I'd ask if you were just telling me this to get in my pants," he finally said, squeezing his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to James. He'd started this conversation. May as well see it through. "Of course I'm telling you this to get in your bloody pants, why else would I bring up the particulars of my marriage?" James exclaimed, then shook his head with a long-suffering sigh like Michael had disappointed him somehow. (Michael didn't blame him – he was rather disappointed in himself at the moment.) "Honestly, I don't know what to do with you. Other than the obvious, of course," James added, with a leer, and then said: "But, as it happens, it's the truth. It wouldn't be cheating." "But you love your wife," Michael protested, because, well, someone had to. And it was obvious it wasn't going to be James. "Passionately," James agreed, confusing Michael even further. "She's the light of my life and the mother of my child and I adore her, truly, madly, deeply. But marriage isn't about monogamy." "Alright, now you've lost me completely." Not that getting lost while having conversations with James was a new thing – it wasn't – but he'd expected a little more in the way of clarity in this particular instance. Again, he should have known better. Even in the best of times, James could tie him in knots. "It's about building a life together. Intimacy in the little things. Holding a united front against the world and knowing that there's one person who chooses to have your back. That's what marriage is, and I met a woman who's brilliant enough to know that as well." James tugged at one of Michael's hands until he could twine their fingers together. "Which doesn't mean I'm doing this on a whim. Just because I have a wife who understands that her husband likes the look of the lads as well as the ladies doesn't mean I abuse my privileges." "So what are you saying?" Michael asked, even though he thought he had a pretty good idea now. But still, drink and lust tended to addle his brain (more than a little bit), and he wanted to make certain he wasn't reading too much into the situation. James' smile was crooked, bright, and so utterly beautiful that it stopped Michael's heart. "I'm saying that Anne-Marie knows about you. About how I feel about you. And that if you let me in your bloody pants already, then you'd only be the second person I've done this with since I got married." "Who was the first?" Which wasn't what he'd meant to say at all, but somehow, it tumbled out of him, unbidden. James made a tsking sound. "A gentleman never tells." Michael couldn't help the sharp burst of laughter. The tight coil in his chest loosened with it. "You've never been a gentleman a day in your life." "True," James conceded, sounding completely unrepentant, "but I'm still not telling." He slid his hands under Michael's t-shirt, warm and distracting, and so very welcome. His smile turned sly, rakish, and seeing it did nothing to help Michael's equilibrium. "You're in an elite group. Shouldn't that be enough?" "Yes, of course. You're right," Michael said, because he'd heard everything he'd needed to hear, and it was also the truth. It wasn't like he'd been pining away on a storm-tossed cliff waiting for James like some Bronte-esque maiden. (Even though the thought of himself – or James – in a corset made him chuckle.) They both had pasts – colorful ones – and were both adult enough to admit it. The important thing was that James was here now, semi-naked and more than willing, and Michael could finally start acting on all of those late night fantasies he'd been having the past few months about James and his clever mouth and even more clever hands. "So, where were we?" James finished pulling Michael's shirt off, and tossed it to the side, out of the way and unnoticed. "I believe we were right...about...here," he said, his voice a husky burr, and tugged Michael back down to him. The kiss was voluptuously slow, with James taking the lead, sliding his hands down Michael's back to cup his ass and grind their hips together. Michael was instantly, hopelessly, lost in sensation, sliding his tongue along James', sliding his hands down James' sides, wishing he'd had the forethought to take James' shirt off as well. He'd have to make do, he thought, and vowed to himself that next time, they'd do this on a proper bed, with proper planning, and he wouldn't be half-drunk and so needy that taking his time wasn't really an option. For now, he settled for fumbling between them to get James' jeans completely undone so he could wrap his hand around James' cock and start stroking him, nice and steady. James gasped, hips bucking up as his kiss turned reckless, hard. Michael felt like he'd been waiting a lifetime to see James like this, undone and debauched, all slick skin and impatient touches as James pushed his fingers under the waistband of Michael's sweatpants, curled one of those clever hands around him, and matched his rhythm twist for twist. "So bloody gorgeous like this," Michael panted, nipping at James' lower lip, just to hear that breathy gasp again, to feel James shudder against him. He tightened his grip, then groaned when James did the same, buried his face in the crook of James' neck and breathed him in, sweat and soap and something underneath that was purely James. And fuck, but James had the best hands – he stroked Michael like he'd been doing it for years, like he already knew every little thing that made Michael's breath hitch in his throat, everything that made him shiver and twist and beg. Michael could only hope he was giving James even half as much pleasure as he was getting – he couldn't concentrate past the sensations swamping him, turning him inside out with every deft flick of James' wrist. Their lips met again, messy and desperate, when Michael came, followed a few beats later by James. Michael all but collapsed on top of James – his limbs felt like jelly and he could swear the room was spinning while bright bursts of color exploded behind his closed eyelids. He might never move again. He felt fucking marvelous. "Should've done this months ago," James murmured beneath him, breath light and ticklish against his ear. "I agree." Michael turned his head just enough so he could get at James' lips. "Although I'm hoping we won't wait so long to do this again." James awkwardly patted Michael's back, then gave it up as a lost cause and just let it slide to rest against the jut of Michael's hip. "Give me an hour, luv. I'm not as young as I used to be." Michael chuckled, delighting in the way it reverberated against James and back to him. He could definitely get used to this. "I might need an hour myself." "And a shower wouldn't go amiss." Michael lifted his head long enough to grin down at James. He felt loose, carefree, like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. "Why, my dear James, was that an invitation?" James just smirked, eyes twinkling and satisfied. It was a damn good look on him, if Michael said so himself. "If I recall, I've been trying to invite myself into your shower, your trailer, your bed, etcetera, etcetera, for months now." "How was I supposed to take you seriously? You flirt like it's your job." "I suppose it's both our jobs in a way, isn't it?" James replied, then squirmed under Michael, provoking the requisite expected reaction. Perhaps he wouldn't need an hour after all. "Anyhoo, the past isn't important. What is important is that I'm here now and I'm sticky and I could use a bit of help cleaning up." The last was said with a winking leer. "I suppose I could sacrifice myself and scrub your back," Michael said, stroking his chin, pretending to give the matter deep thought. "But I'd expect recompense." "I'm sure we could work out a mutually beneficial bartering system." "I do love it when you talk smart," Michael said, and swallowed James' laughter with his kiss. If you enjoyed this fic, please leave feedback here. Thanks!