thank you to Alissa for the submission!

He leads you to the elevator with his hand on your back as low as it can be touching you on what is considered your back and not your ass. Once you’re in the elevator and he pushes the button, he doesn’t remove it. You don’t ask him to.

Unfortunately for you, there was a young bellhop in the elevator, slipping in through the closing doors at just the last possible second. You feel irrationally angry at him. In the awkward silence, Michael’s taking in the mirrored walls and you just know he’s imagining what kinds of tricks you could get into if it weren’t for the poor bellhop. Of course, now you are imagining them too…

You get off at the eighth floor. The hotel is gorgeous and clean and it’d have to be, for Michael Fassbender to want to stay in it. There’s art, legitimate not-created-for-a-hotel-chain art on the wall, and there are beautiful flowers on coffee tables, but you’re walking so fast you barely have time to acknowledge this, let alone appreciate it.

His hand is removed now, but your skin’s still on fire. You walk side by side, very closely, to wherever his room is, staring straight ahead, not saying anything. It’s kind of sexy that you both know what’s going to happen soon but no one’s acknowledging it. He puts his hand on your lower back—or the lowest part of what can be considered your lower back before it becomes your ass.

After opening the door, he lets you in first. He doesn’t give you much room before he’s coming in after you. He slides his hand across your ass as he walks past where you’ve stopped to stand, and he makes his way over to a small glass table where there’s a decanter of whiskey.

Good thing he’s walking away from you so he doesn’t see the surprise on your face.

“Care for a drink?” he asks, looking over his shoulder. But with the way he’s eyeing you, with just the curve of a lip visible and a twinkle in his eye that you just know is leftover from when he copped a feel from you, it looks and sounds like he just asked, “Care for a fuck?” 

“Yes, please.” In your mind, you’re answering both questions.

He rolls his sleeves up before pouring two glasses so you can see his veins dancing as his arms move. He hands you your drink and you sip it. It’s nice whiskey. If it’s just sitting in the fancy hotel room of the actor Michael Fassbender it has to be expensive and good.  

After taking a big gulp, he smiles at you over his glass and swallows. Hello, Adam’s apple. “Do you still want to see the view or is there something else you’d like to see?” he asks in that voice.

“Is there something else you think I should see?” you reply saucily. You think you have him beat—that you have the last word now.

“I think there’s something else you should do,” he gives back. He’s good at this.

You’re raising your eyebrow now and trying not to break into a grin. It feels like you’re smirking, and even if that wasn’t the look you were going for it’s more than okay with you.

“Like what?”

“I think you should kiss me,” he murmurs.

He sure as hell doesn’t have to tell you twice. But you don’t want him to know that.

Now his eyes are on your lips, drinking them in like the thirty-year-old Scotch he’s just taken a sip of. He’s gazing so ardently he’ll soon be drunk off of your lips before he’s even kissed them.

You still have your drink in your hand when you take two steps so you’re right in front of him.

“Is that what you think?” you murmur.

And you still have your drink in your hand when you kiss him, hard, harder than what is expected for a first kiss.

It isn’t sweet, like a first kiss with a new boyfriend, or hesitant, like a first kiss with a date. It’s exactly the first kiss to be had with a one night stand, with lots of teeth and tongue and absolutely no embarrassment. Because that’s what you’re going to be for Michael Fassbender—a one night stand—and you know what? That’s fine. That’s more than most women get.  

He sets his glass down on a coffee table, the hand on the back of your head pushing you down so he can bend and put the cup on the table without breaking the kiss. Your eyes are half open, so you place your glass next to his and then straightens when he gently tugs your hair to silently tell you to do it.

He’s playing a lot with your hair—pushing it away from your face and then alternating between softly stroking it and roughly fisting it. It’s kind of like how the kiss is going—one minute he’s sweet and lightly sucking on your bottom lip and then suddenly he’s biting down on it, kind of hard, but you kind of like it.

You wish he still had his Rochester curls for you to run your fingers through, but you’re only thinking that because you’re in a position to afford to be greedy.

He somehow maneuvers you over to the bed and lies you down, pushing you slightly so you bounce after hitting the covers. Standing over you, he looks you up and down appreciatively before unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it on the floor.

He’s not wearing an undershirt, and you’re glad, because that means you get to see his naked torso like three seconds earlier than you would have.  His body is incredible. How his shoulders are so wide and his waist is so small is ludicrous—but the best kind of ludicrous.

Now he’s unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his trousers off. Of course you’re reminded of that Fish Tank scene. But you’re not underage and he’s not your mom’s boyfriend and you’re on a bed, not a couch, so of course it’s going to last longer than that scene you’ve watched over and over again on YouTube.

Oh God. Now he’s taking his little black briefs off.

Fassdong.  Lives up to hype, lives up to nickname, just plain old lives up.

He’s standing over you naked as the day he was born, and he seems as unashamed about his nudity as he probably was that day. Hey, with a body like that, who wouldn’t be?

But you, you’re getting a little bashful. You are wearing a dress that is tight. What if the zipper gets stuck or something?

Thankfully it doesn’t when he unzips you out of it. And if it had, you wouldn’t have cared. Because going off the way he’s looking at you and your lacy black strapless bra and matching panties, he probably wouldn’t have cared either.

Before he lies down on top of you, careful not to put all his weight on you, he slides your underwear off. He’s moving much too slowly and you rub your thighs together. When he gets on the bed, his hands are everywhere.

They run up his sides to cup your face. “This is only the beginning,” he says in that gravelly voice. You can only see the hallowed contours of his cheekbones and the darkness of his eyes.

After a moment he resumes kissing you at warp speed—sucking on your top lip, nibbling on your bottom one, licking your teeth, and playing with your tongue so forcefully you wonder if he’s trying to tie it in a knot. It feels magnificent, though.

He pulls away, kissing down your jawline, your neck, your collarbone, in between his breasts. When his mouth sucks on a nipple, his hand glides down and you react by rocking your hips to meet his fingers.

He has long fingers. Right now you love his fingers. And later, when he moves his face away from your chest and starts kissing down your body, you love his tongue. He makes you melt into a pile of goo that he licks up too until you pull yourself together.

It takes you some time to get back into the game. He waits patiently for you, although you’re not sure how he manages to do that based on how heavily he’s pressing into your thigh. Sometime while you were out in la-la land he went and put a condom on. When you reach down and touch him, guiding him towards your center, his eyes light up as he positions himself at your entrance.

You close your eyes and cry out with the shock of it. You’re not a virgin and this isn’t your first time, but he’s bigger, much bigger, than anyone you’ve ever had. But after a few thrusts, you forget all about the pain. All you can think about is Michael and how he’s making you feel and how you’re making him feel. It’s fantastic.

“Don’t close your eyes. Look at me,” he hoarsely tells you. You do just that and are met with two bright blue orbs right over you. You almost orgasm right there at his words.  .

The only thing that would make this better would be if he asks if it feels like this with that boy of yours, if his cock is this big—but then there’s no question about it, you’d die. You’d literally die. Heart attack caused by excessive lust, combustion of ovaries, hell, you could die of pure, unsaturated happiness.

It’s enough to ask him to say it, but then the game would be up. He’d realize you know who he is, that you’ve always known who he is, and then he’d probably throw your stalker ass out of his hotel room.

But—oh God—now he’s moaning your name. Michael Fassbender is moaning your name. YOUR NAME. That’s a million times hotter than him reciting someone else’s words from his work.

Hopefully the hotel has a good AED outside in the hallway. If he keeps saying your name like that, you’re gonna need it.

 

His tongue is fucking your mouth in timing with the thrusts and it’s so much hotter than you would have thought. Sensory overload.

It happens all over again, the orgasm that is the orgasm that only he has given you. It’s everything you needed because he’s the one giving it to you—the lightheadedness, the quivering thighs, the scrunching of sheets with your claw-like hands.  His moment comes right after, as you’re still experiencing heavenly waves of aftershocks. He collapses on top of you and pants into your heaving chest as he recovers. After a couple of minutes, he raises his head to look up at you.

“That was brilliant,” he whispers.

Brilliant. Not what you’d use—maybe that’s what Harry Potter would use. You would say hot or amazing or sexy or mind-numbing or unreal, but he said “brilliant” and sounds so European and Michael Fassbender-y that you don’t care.

“I know,” you say.

He rolls over off of you and goes on his side, propping himself up with an elbow. You mimic his pose and somehow that’s more intimate feeling than him lying on top of you. Your faces are so close you’re almost kissing him every time you inhale.

“Want a smoke?” he asks. “After that, I kind of feel obligated to.”

No kidding. “Sure,” you say.

He grins his sharky grin and you and gets out of bed, stark naked, to retrieve his pack and lighter. It’s kind of endearing he fucked you with his socks on. He walks to the bathroom and disposes of the condom. When he’s back in the room, he crouches down to get his stuff out of his pants on the ground and the sight is enough to make you faint. He walks back to bed and you stare at him as he does; he knows he’s given you a show.

Right now you don’t want a stupid cigarette in your mouth. But he’s already lit one and is holding it out for you so you accept.

You have a fleeting thought that it’s so French for you to smoke so quickly after being fucked by your lover.

He gets back under the covers and then lights his cigarette. You’re still on your side, but he’s now on his back, propped up against the pillows and the headboard.

 When he motions for you to rest you head on his chest, saying “C’me here, love,” and gesturing with the hand holding the cigarette, you gladly do what was asked of you.

The way you’re resting against him makes your neck hurt a little, since you don’t want to burn him with the cigarette. He takes drags off the cigarette from time to time, but he’s always petting your hair very soothingly. You don’t say anything the whole time, just smoke peacefully with each other.

You finish your cigarette first. Without even being asked he takes it from you and puts it in the ash tray. He’s still working on his, but you stay there, running your fingers across his chest, tracing his abs.

It’s an intimate moment—too intimate. It feels suffocating when you are holding back that you know his identity, his real identity. You didn’t care before because you weren’t sure where things were going, but now that things went and you’re here in his bed and he’s petting your hair and kissing the top of your head every so often you wish you didn’t feel so guilty.

He might kick you out of bed if you admit you know he’s not just Michael, but he’s Michael fucking Fassbender. You know he might curse at you and yell at you and accuse you of being things that you maybe kind of are. Maybe you did sleep with him because he’s Michael Fassbender—but if he wasn’t and he still went up to you at the balcony and said those things to you and smoked with you and asked you back to your hotel and looked the way he did and looked at you the way he did …. maybe you’d still have ended up in bed with him. But you’re not going to ask him for an autograph or a picture or anything embarrassingly fan-like.

“I have to tell you something,” you mumble into his chest. You can’t look at him when you do this.

“And what’s that?” he asks lazily. You can almost hear the smile in his voice.

You take a deep breath, eyes on the fair hair of his chest. “I know who you are. Who you really are,” you tell him. And then shut your eyes real fast so you can’t be tempted to look at his reaction.

“Good, because I know who you really are too,” he says, cool as a cucumber.

You pop your head up. What? He’s watching you, his eyes crinkling with mischief. When he sees you look at him, he raises his eyebrows at you as if to say, “Yeah? And?”

You shake your head and insist, “No, you’re not getting it. I’m just me, but you’re more than you. I know you’re Michael Fassbender—like, Fish Tank and X-Men Michael Fassbender. I knew this whole time.”

He smirks. “I know you knew this whole time.”

“What?”

He shrugs his shoulders, making you wait while he takes a drag. “When I went to the party, my agent pointed you out and said he heard that you wanted to meet me, so that’s why I walked over to you at the balcony. I thought you might scream or become mute or freak out or something once you saw me, but you just treated me like any other guy trying to hit on you at a party. And I liked that, a lot. I wanted to see how else you’d treat me, whether you’d continue treating me like I was normal. So few people do, you know. And once I started spending time with you and getting to know you … it didn’t matter to me that you were hiding that you knew who I was. It mattered more that even with that additional knowledge you still treated me like a regular person.”

Of course his revelation would top your own. How come you’re the one who ended up surprised?

“Seriously?” you ask, all wide eyes and open mouth. You can’t believe what you’re hearing.

“Seriously seriously,” he says, chuckling. He even goes and kisses the tip of your nose.

“I can’t believe you knew this whole time and didn’t say anything!”

“I could say the same of you, you know,” he says, very astutely. “And besides, what does it matter? We were both using each other, to some extent. People do that all the time and now we’re one of them. The important thing is, now that we’ve covered that we were both using each other, I still want to use you some more, so to speak. Can you say the same?”

You reach up and stroke his cheek. “You bet your ass I can.”