*To the anonymous 'Guest'-reader:
Yes. You may translate this piece, but Please give me credit if not complete authorship for writing this ficlet (& a link & your penname would also be nice~!)*

M 17 - SLASH - ALL IS FICTIONAL & NOT MINE, Shame,
Pairing: Brandon/mOC

ONESHOT: Love Thy Neighbor (OC's POV)

He's at it again. Fucking all different shapes, sizes, color, types, and sluts of cunt. I can smell them. I can fucking feel them. But most of all: I can fucking hear them!

I tried already to ignore the sounds years ago, I tried being a good man and Asked him to keep the screams to a minimum. I tried putting my head in a bathtub full of water, but I can still hear every goddamn squeak in his bed. I tried sitting on my bed while wading knee-deep in stock options and data, but even my jazz music can't stamp out every scream of 'Oh! Brandon!'

I've even tried going out of the complex to enjoy a coffee and magazine, but there he is on our floor fucking the bitch against his window.

Some people throw their dignity into the nearest loose vulva had they the choice.

Everyone but me seems to be fucking deaf when he brings home a new flavor. Seven times a week, one woman every day, or two if he's missed a day on his cycle and made use of his wireless internet. Soundproof walls and windows don't mean shit if Brandon is your neighbor.

He makes women sound like kittens trying to sing the off notes of opera or flat out growls like bitches in heat.

Everyone on this flat knows his extra-special penchant for bringing women whose name he remembers for the time they're present. I see him Monday through Friday, mostly between six to eight-thirty while I'm having breakfast with my paper, his steps cross under the space of the door, and he's gone.

More than once, I saw him cross the street to the subway station, and I go back to thinking today's stocks should be better by tomorrow.

Being a stockbroker, I'm suppose to predict the moneys' future, calculating every aspect where pennies go, the wiser and most likely of pockets being lined by them.

But Brandon is predictable. When he comes home and what he does to company is no mystery. I try not to pry in his business, but figuring what makes women so drawn to him is only the tip of my curiosity. He's just pent up sex in a suit.

Some women come to my front door asking for him, I tell them that he and I have never spoken, which is true, they hand me business cards to give him. My hand moves as soon as the lock clicks, I now have a trash can right beside the door.

The more I see how fucking dainty and dick-hungry the poor girls are, the more I think how ugly my room looks. But I procrastinate and decide to have ground mail bring new furniture over instead of personally shopping like a morphine-hopped widower.

A girl came by the other day, she was knocking on my door shouting, "Pick up! Pick up! Pick up!"

I answered thinking the new recliner seat came in, her face fell. Lips like lollipops smeared to her cheeks dropped open to reveal cum-breath, I like the smell. Her hair stuck uncombed, her mascara running and eyeliner smearing, regrettable anonymous sex written all over her face. She grabbed the doorknob and shut my door, effectively putting out my cigarette.

Weird. All people her age around New York are a bunch of fucking rude yuppies.

My room is now made over. I hired a designer to redo my wardrobe and plan my rooms. It's painfully mod chic of my 'personality element': metal.

He's turned me into the goddamn Tin Man with all this aluminum crowding the room. From Picasso's paintings 'Artfully Re-imagined' to look like a fucking two dimensional torture chamber, I feel at home with a double-lined trash can and several cases of beer to make these eyesores disappear.

Twenty K is no small or wise investment in an amateur's IQ points, I learned the hard way. By getting royally fucked in the nose and bank account.

My bed looks like a metal rat trap, the bathroom walls and shitter turned into a tin prison block, the kitchen replaced by slabs of aluminum and stainless steel, all my books and catalogues no longer in tall bookshelves, but all stacked beside the flat screen sitting on the floor right in front of my recliner. Thank fuck only my brown recliner isn't anywhere near donation hotspots! The drapes are gone, my wooden floors are gone, my mahogany dinner table is gone, my shelves are gone, my shitty wood and canvas chairs are gone, my picture frames all donated too.

I throw my navy blue sheets over where the curtains should have been to minimize the mirror-effect all the aluminum floor tiles and wall art has on everything.

I go out and buy a pack of cigarettes, a plain carpet, a wooden coffee table, and three packs of plain white undershirts.

Brandon notices me on the sidewalk when I wait for delivery of my items, since I have a thing called pride which keeps me from lugging my 'groceries' eight blocks back to my flat. I nod while he waits beside me for the lights to turn red, we both watch the furniture van back up to the complex. I sign for the stuff while several guys start carrying my boxes up to my flat.

"Moving in?" Brandon asks.

I scratch behind my neck and shrug. The light turns red at the same time the white icon across instructs walkers to pick up the New York Minute pace, and he does. And he's gone. A taxi stops for me, I go in and wait while the driver weaves around the block to a client's building.

The rest is the same: pay, get out, go in, inform desk jockey, crowd into elevator, meet with client, get business partnership, open bourbon, and leave. Fear of commitment keeps me from digging a hole in the asphalt and fucking the world, that's how single men end up jacking off to dating site profiles.

She likes red wine after a movie?

'Ooh, sounds like a nice lay.'

She does community service as much as an eighty-hour workweek?

'Take it! Take it, you dirty Bitch!'

She has two cats and a dog?

'Both of you, ride my cock!'

She's a widow?

'Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Cum! Cum!'

It's both become a habit and a ritual where I image what Brandon would say to these women, how a woman screams when he hits it off Just Right, how their sex sounds, and that I'd actually hear him through my ghastly walls. My pants grow tighter no matter how many times I look at my repulsive turn-off of a room.

It used to work, until I ended up seeing Brandon fucking random ass on my walls. I peel off my pants in order to save on dry cleaning since stiff patches became a problem over the growing years.

Suddenly, I want to see his dick. I want to know how long it is. I want to know how thick it is, whether it's got a big head and slender shaft, or a small head with a thick shaft, or if it's perfectly balanced. I want to know if it's got thick veins or moles. I want to know everything all the way down to the rhythm he fucks his partner.

I know by now that he goes full hard knocking Monty on that pussy. Because I have never in all my five years on this floor heard 'Harder!' from any of his partners.

He worships those different tits, he tongue-fucks that ever changing mouth, he tangles that surreal-seeming hair, he grabs those long thighs, he bruises those little hips, he pinches those gaping pussy lips, he nut-strokes that jumping clit, he rams that G-spot head on, pun intended.

A knock at my door makes me drag my laptop off my lap, I set it on the coffee table and answer the door. He stands there, sweaty, flushed and wet, his bottom half covered with a towel.

"Nice place," he says offhandedly, his blue-green eyes scraping the shit off my walls.

"It's a fucking nightmare," I rub my hand over my face agitatedly.

"Picasso?" he asked, pointing to the flat faces gaping like potheads.

"Re-imagined," I answered, not about to glance over my shoulder to my twenty-thousand dollar embarrassment.

"Lovely," he said, his hand goes to the door when I reach for the knob, "I'm not talking about your wall."

My shirt is pushed over my head and wrapped several times around my wrists as he throws me to the nearest scrambled jigsaw puzzle I call my wall, he licked his lips, "I meant with You against It."

My dreams are also becoming increasingly real the more I try not to think of him. I walk wobbly-legged to my bed and throw my pants into a Picasso face where it hangs like a victory pelt. I toss off my suit shirt and undershirt until only my boxers keep my hands away from my dick.

I'm willing to fuck him.

Any way he wants me, he can fuck me, because I'm ready.

The End.

Shame is one of the best films I've ever seen, & I hope it won't be the last for Michael Fassbender as his physio-sexual self. I don't write HET, but this is a kindof graphic start. I hope the OC doesn't sound too horribly grotesque for his own lack of self-description or giving at all any clue about himself. But this fic is for You to interpret any way you can, & put virtually Any face on this OC. *I was thinking of Til Schweiger (for his good repertoire in many indie-films), but mostly Daniel Craig (because this is how I kind of imagined him fitting in this film) as the main character (the OC mentioned) the whole time…*giggle* silly me.