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If James were to end up wearing Fassbender's shirt, it would probably fit him about like this. Even though James is smaller, Fassbender is such a skinny bastard that his shirt might still be a bit snug on James— but too long, so there'd be an extra six inches of shirt crumpled at James's waist.

"Shit!"

Riley pokes his head into the bedroom, face still half-covered in shaving cream. "Something wrong?"

"I'm out of clean shirts." Brian holds one of the dirty ones up to his nose, takes a whiff, and then holds it out at arm's length. "Gah! I'm even out of semi-clean shirts."

"And yet we have a linen closet full of clean sheets," Riley teases. "Borrow one of mine, I don't mind."

"Ha ha. Very funny." Brian wrinkles his nose. "Maybe I can get away with an undershirt..."

"You own those?"

"I have a few!" But when Brian digs through their dresser, he shakes his head. "Apparently also dirty..."

"I really did mean it when I said you could borrow one of mine..."

"Can I borrow your pants, too? And then trip all over the legs while being squooshed to death at the waist?"

Riley just smiles at him, and damn, that looks good even with a face half-covered in shaving cream. "I like your waist. It's not your fault I'm a skinny bastard..." But he ducks back into the bathroom to finish shaving, leaving Brian on his own to deal with the dilemma.

Riley has some oversized t-shirts that would fit anybody, but Brian doesn't really want to meet the reps from the new suppliers looking like he's five pounds of flour in a ten-pound bag. There might be something else... he grabs a thin, light, long-sleeved grey sweater, and holds it up to his chest. Okay, it'll probably go around his chest without being too huge on him...

He gets it on and squeaks a little; there is the fact that Riley is a skinny bastard, and then there is the fact that his gorgeous boyfriend, who is at least five inches taller than him, is pretty much the same size as Brian in the chest. In fact, if anything, Riley's sweater is a little snug on Brian; Brian smooths his hands down his chest and frowns. It had better not be cold in the meeting, or his nipples are going to be saying, "Hey! How ya doing? And by the way, I find your competitive pricing on pastry flour REALLY EXCITING."

Meanwhile, at the waist, the material's bunching up— there's so much of it Brian can't even really hope to tuck it in, not with the tight, low-slung jeans he favors. He sighs and looks at the sleeves, another lost cause, but these at least he can push up around the elbows.

Riley finally comes out of the bathroom and stops in his tracks, staring at Brian. "You borrowed my shirt," he says, inanely, because hey, it was his offer, and besides which, of course it's obvious that Brian's wearing his shirt, would Brian own a shirt that fit him like this?

"You said it was okay," Brian says. He smooths his hands down his chest again. "Do I look stupid?"

"My fashion sense is currently straight out of Man In A Towel designs, I'm not judging," Riley points out, and okay, he has a point, but on Riley, even towels look amazing. Riley's long, lean frame and broad shoulders leading to an impossibly narrow, mermaid-narrow waist... and with Riley facing him, Brian can't see his ass dimples, but when Riley closes the gap between them, Brian reaches out, gets his arms around Riley's waist, and settles his fingertips into those dimples, humming softly with satisfaction.

But Riley's got some feeling up of his own to do; he runs his hands up Brian's chest, fingertips lingering at Brian's nipples, hands going up to Brian's shoulders and squeezing lightly. "I think you should wear my shirts more often," he says softly.

Brian can't help it. He bites his lower lip and beams up at Riley. "So less laundry, more tight shirts, huh?"

"Well, it isn't just that it's tight." Riley grins, a little bit abashed. "It's that I get to look at you and think, 'Mine.'"

Brian pulls Riley a little closer. "You already could," he murmurs.

"I already did," Riley admits, "but this is a nice way to solidify the notion."

"I'll give you something solid if you want," Brian teases back automatically, but he double-checks his watch to be sure. "Oh, yeah, I've got time."

Riley smirks at him— and then he twists his hips, fast, and the towel falls to the floor. "I'm in."

Brian slips his hands down to cup Riley's ass. "Think you've got that backwards," he murmurs, "but I'll let you make it up to me."

Chapter Text

James walks onto the set in his fluffy black bathrobe, already set and prepped. Somewhere around here is his costar-to-be, Michael, who James studied up on before coming to work today. Michael's done the usual shit films like everyone else, but now that he's a headlining star for Kinky Fuckers Dot Com, along with James and Edi and Lucas and Nick, he seems to have settled down into a particular type of scene.

Which is fine with James. He and his favorite lube and a box of tissues developed a real appreciation for Michael's kind of scene over the course of the last few nights, and he's completely ready to bend over some nice custom bondage furniture and take what Michael gives him.

Except that when he finally spots Michael, Michael's over in the corner, naked— bathrobe puddled at his feet— and listening to something on his iPod. His eyes are closed, his head is tilted back, and he's got... a... banana in his hand, no metaphor, an actual yellow piece of fruit.

James bashes into Jen, who's got her earpiece on and her iPad in hand, programming lights while talking to another staff member at the same time. "Hey!" She glances around. "Oh, good, you're here. You all set?"

"Yeah, but what the fuck," James says, gesturing over at Michael, eyebrows raised and blue eyes wide. "I mean. What the fuck."

"Oh, that. That's just Michael. You know. He needs to get 'into character'," she says, rolling her eyes and grinning a little. "The goth music, the banana, being all by himself for a minute. It's his thing."

"What is he going to do with the banana," James whispers, eyes still very wide indeed. Given that Michael's stark naked, James can see that the banana has nothing on him, but maybe he's... channeling... the power of the... James has no idea.

"It's okay. He just takes stuff kinda serious," Jen says, patting James on the shoulder. "Are you still up for this?"

"Um. Yes." James shifts uncomfortably. "Just, no one told me he was, er..."

But Michael's headed their way now, robe over one shoulder, banana still in his right hand. He smiles at James and nods. "Hey. I'm Michael. You must be James."

James offers his hand automatically, and Michael glances down at it. He slaps the banana into James's hand. "Nice to meet you," he says. "Have a snack before we get started. I swear, it's a perfectly clean banana." His eyes twinkle. "Both of them, actually."

"Okay..." It's on the tip of James's tongue to say no, no he is not up for this, just no. But... he looks Michael up and down again. He would, in point of fact, fuck Michael for free, so there's no point in turning down an opportunity to do it on camera and get paid.

He shrugs out of his robe and passes robe and banana to Jen. "Ready whenever you are."

Michael grins at James, showing off a mouth full of very sharp-looking teeth; James hopes biting is on the scene list. "Let's get started."

Chapter Text

«Can anyone hear me. If there's anyone alive out there, come to the old power station at Rembrandt Point. I have food, shelter, protection. My name is Charles Xavier. Can anyone hear me...?»

Even this, Erik thinks. Even this is worth it. He sends back his thoughts every day, every daylight hour as he gets closer and closer.

I can hear you. I'm alive. My name is Erik Lehnsherr. I'm here.

He wonders how powerful the telepath is. Is he sending this message to everyone in the area? To one mind at a time? If he could feel Erik, read Erik's thoughts from here, surely he'd say something in return.

The monsters are coming; enough of them still have metal in their bodies or their clothes for Erik to feel them. He doesn't have time to rest, today. He keeps running.

Chapter Text

"I have to go," Brandon says.

"You always fucking have to go." Wesley snaps it out angrily, like he snaps out almost everything— like he snaps out Brandon's orders, like he does when he's challenging Brandon on something or calling him something, some name that makes Brandon flush with anger before getting hard. But he doesn't look angry, this time. He looks tired. As tired as Brandon feels.

He grabs hold of Brandon's wrist, and if there were ever a way to cheat and get Brandon to do whatever the fuck Wesley wants, that's it. Wesley knows it. He tilts his head forward, and even as Brandon's turning away, he leans in, lets Wesley rest his forehead against Brandon's temple.

"You're not going anywhere," Wesley murmurs. "Not today."

Brandon should be pulling back. He should be getting up. He should be walking away, right now, because this feels like a now-or-never moment if anything ever has.

He doesn't. He stays put, even though it makes him shake, a little. He stays.

Chapter Text

"I saw you," James says, slipping both hands under Michael's leather jacket, sliding it off his shoulders. Only Michael knows better than to shake the jacket all the way off; James likes it when it gets caught around Michael's forearms, his wrists. When the jacket itself is what holds Michael down.

James purrs a little as he climbs fully onto Michael's lap. "I saw," he murmurs, leaning close, "the way you licked your lips on camera." He nuzzles Michael's cheek, stubble scratching against stubble, and Michael shivers and lets his eyes fall shut. "Don't you know that's for me to do?"

"I was nervous," Michael breathes. "I don't even own a car."

"You were thinking about how much you wanted me to do this to you, after." James reaches between them, gets his hand on Michael's cock. He squeezes, and even blunted with jeans and briefs, it's still intense enough to make Michael gasp. "But don't you dare do that again." He leaves small, soft kisses all the way down Michael's jawline, and then rests, his lips a fraction of an inch from Michael's. "This is mine."

He licks Michael's lower lip, softly, slowly; by the time he's done, Michael would promise him anything.

Chapter Text

He's tired. Days like this are hard. Executions are no one's favorite part of the kingdom they've built here, and Erik knew some of the mutants he put down.

It didn't matter. Nothing matters except making it through the day, getting back to his quarters. Charles.

Sebastian puts an arm around Erik's shoulders when it's all done, hugs him gently and presses a kiss to his ear. "Good job today," he says. "And I know what you like getting in exchange for a good day's work..."

Erik pulls away from him— firm, but with a glance backward that's almost apologetic. "Not this time," he says. "I have to get back."

"Henri's been waiting for this for two weeks," Sebastian reminds him. "You're gonna skip out on a session with Henri?"

He shouldn't. He's tried to beg off before, but every time it's come to this, he's let Sebastian talk him into it. Every time, he's gone where Sebastian told him to go, let Sebastian call the shots, picked himself off the table or the floor afterwards and limped home. If he turns Sebastian down, Sebastian will let him— probably— but it'll give away more than he wants it to. More than he can afford for it to.

More than Charles can afford.

He leans into Sebastian's arm, and Sebastian chuckles. "That's it. I know you," he says, reaching up and brushing the backs of his fingers down Erik's cheek. "I know what you need right now. C'mon."

*

Later, he opens the door and steps through, closing it with his hand and not his ability. It gets Charles's attention; Charles slips out of bed and comes over, taking Erik's arm and guiding him over to the armchair. Erik sits down carefully. He's still sweating; he left his shirt in the dark mirrored room, came back in just the trousers and the jacket.

Charles doesn't ask. He steps away to get the whiskey, pours out a splash.

"Wait."

Over at the sideboard, Charles turns, looks over his shoulder. The suppression collar is metal, as they all are; Erik stares at it until Charles realizes what he's doing, and then he raises both hands, rests his fingertips against it to feel the tremor.

It needs a fingerprint. Shaw's fingerprint. It needs Shaw's fingerprint, and a tiny wrench. Without them, the explosive devices wired through it will go off, and Erik's prize will be gone forever.

But the explosives are wired with metal, too. The collar could be his, if he wanted it to be. It would take time, effort. He'd need to be rested. He'd have to work on it for the better part of an hour, he thinks, tracing all the failsafes, disengaging it and then reattaching all the sensors that would otherwise set off alarms.

He could do it. It's a risk, but he could do it.

After a long moment, Charles drops his hands, his mouth tightening for the briefest of instants before he shakes his head. "Not tonight," he says. He picks up the whiskey glass— and, after a pause, the bottle— and comes over to the armchair, where he presses the glass into Erik's hand and folds himself down at Erik's feet. He rests his forehead against Erik's knee. His breathing hitches for a moment, but then he's calm again, breathing steadily.

Erik rests his hand on the back of Charles's neck, his thumb light against the collar.

"Someday," he murmurs. "I promise, Charles."

Charles nods.

Chapter Text

"What do you remember?"

His expression is neutral, but his eyes track rapidly from side to side, as if he's collating data. He finally stops, looks up at Charles, and... this is where there ought to be a smile, or a frown, or an expression of utter horror. Charles fully expects to hear What have you done to me, or Kill me, Charles. Kill me now.

"I remember... emotion," he says instead. His eyes go distant, unfocused. "Emotion with direction. With purpose." The focus returns, sudden, blue-green eyes narrowed as that sharp gaze lands on Charles. "You. You are..."

He sags against the cords and wires still connecting him to Cerebro. "I don't remember. What is your name?"

They'll have to start from scratch. Charles has Erik's mind committed to memory, but the transfer was a process still in its infancy. Charles is careful to remind himself that if they have to do it again, and again, and again, the android can assimilate all that information. He's missing pieces, but that doesn't mean he always will be. It doesn't mean he'll never be who Charles meant him to be. It just means he isn't yet.

"My name is Charles."

"What is my name?"

"Don't you remember?"

He shakes his head. Charles sighs. From scratch, he reminds himself. From the beginning.

"You will, someday," Charles promises. "Until then, I'm going to choose a new name for you. I'm going to call you David."

"David," the android repeats. "And you're Charles."

"Charles. Yes."

David slowly puts his arms around Charles's waist, pulling him closer. "I don't know why," he says, "but I feel... I should do this. Is this all right?"

His body isn't as warm as it should be, and the synthetic skin isn't a perfect replica of the humanoid variety. But this is Erik's face, or as near to it as Charles will ever see again, and he caresses that face, his hands light and gentle, David looking up at him with perfect trust.

"It's all right," Charles promises, saving the kiss for later.

Chapter Text

Erik doesn't bring coffee for everyone. He brings a thermos for Charles, and he settles into an armchair, thermos on the floor by his feet.

Charles walks into the room a few minutes later, his whole face lighting when he sees Erik. "I was afraid you weren't going to make it," he says. He nudges Erik's legs apart, placing them just so, and then sits on the floor between them, rubbing his cheek against the inside of Erik's knee. "And coffee! You really must love me."

"Of course, dear," Erik says, brushing his fingertips down Charles's cheek. "How is our young Mr. Summers? Still nervous about his first shoot?"

"Armando's taking care of him," Charles assures Erik. "By which I mean, Raven will probably have to drag them out of the supply closet by their ears. Last I saw, they were making out like starved teenagers."

"Love on the set," Erik chuckles. "Will people never learn?"

Charles tilts his head back and looks at Erik. "If it weren't for the fact that we were together long before we joined the adult entertainment industry, I'd wonder if that statement had a deeper meaning..."

Erik bends down and kisses Charles's nose. "Mmm. It means, I hope you still intend to fuck me later. Cameras optional."

"That's a good meaning. I'll allow it."

"Of course you will, dear."

Chapter Text

The first time Michael takes Jennifer out on his motorcycle, she doesn't know where to hold him. His waist is so tiny she feels like she could crush him. Maybe his thighs? Or would that be too distracting?

So, okay, waist it is. The thrum under her ass isn't quite like sitting on her parents' old washing machine, though the fact that Michael's ass is right between her thighs makes up for that in a serious way. She wonders what it would take to bend him over the handlebars, if she could talk him into that next time. She'll try.

Chapter Text

"Havok, this is Darwin... Darwin, meet Havok." Raven pats Armando on the shoulder. "Take a couple of minutes to yourselves; we'll be setting up the lighting, so you've got a little time."

Alex has met a lot of beautiful people at Xavier Studios, but Armando is... he's on a different level entirely, really. He has the most gorgeous smile, and Alex did his homework; he's seen the incredible muscle definition Armando's carrying, his pecs, his shoulders, his back. He's also seen Armando's cock, but he almost tried not to look; it seemed dishonest somehow, like he really ought to see it in person the first time instead of sneaking a peek on the website.

"If there's anything I can do to help make you more comfortable, you just let me know," Armando says, reaching out and putting a hand on Alex's waist. They're both in bathrobes, still, but Alex steps forward immediately, gets right into Armando's space. Armando grins at him, and Alex tilts his head forward.

"If you're okay with doing this before the cameras roll," Alex says, "I'd really like it if you kissed me."

"I am so okay with that," Armando agrees. He reaches up, cups the back of Alex's head in his hand, and then his lips find Alex's, his tongue licking against Alex's lips and gently pressing in.

Alex moans and holds on, mouth opening; he lets Armando lead the kiss, just melting against him. It's the best first kiss he's had in... ever, and he gropes Armando's ass, his arms, reaches into Armando's bathrobe as the kiss goes on and on.

When Alex's bathrobe hits the ground, he winds his arms around Armando's neck, shivering as Armando reaches down and puts his hands on Alex's ass, drawing Alex in tight. Screw the movie; Alex could just keep doing this all day.

Dimly, Alex hears Raven saying, "Please, God, someone tell me we're shooting," and there's laughter behind her. But none of it matters. The only thing that matters is holding onto Armando, letting Armando touch him and kiss him for as long as he's willing to do it.

Chapter Text

You know that guy turned out to have somebody trapped in the basement. I'm thinking it was actually this guy:


[Picture of Jake Jensen from The Losers.]

who was trying really hard to get someone's attention, but dude in the sticks did not have any kind of technology he could scavenge in order to call his team for help.

But Lee heard somebody yelling through a gag, and convinced Creeper Dude to let her into the house (ew, but you gotta do what you gotta do in order to save a damsel in distress), and just when Creeper Dude thought he was going to get something good, she roundhouse kicked him in the head and the nuts (it was one hell of a roundhouse kick, like a round-and-roundhouse kick), knocking him flat.

After that, she ran down into the basement and needed a minute, because really, Jake Jensen in a ball-gag and a pair of armbinders and some beat-up jeans and Chucks with the top button of those jeans undone, um, um, A GIRL CAN GET THOUGHTS, OKAY. But since Lee is awesome, she undid the gag and the armbinders (making Jensen wonder how how how she knows how to undo bondage gear that fast, goodness gracious), and Jensen said, thanks so much, you don't have a cell phone, do you? Oh, and by the way, excuse me a minute, and he hogtied Creeper Dude and strung him up on the ceiling fan and set that sucker to HIGH.

At any rate, Lee got to hang out with Jensen for several hours before the rest of Jensen's buddies showed up, at which point Zoe, Kim, and Abernathy returned in their beat-up car, and Pooch burst into spontaneous weeping tears of grief and rage at the sight of that poor 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T, and Roque let him cry on his shoulder, all the while rolling his eyes and siiiiiiighing over at Kim, who, let it be known, stared right back, thinking to herself, what's a girl got to do to get in the middle of that sandwich, because if Roque was eyefucking her like there was no tomorrow, Clay was glaring DAGGERS.

Zoe bounced over to Lee and snuggled her and told her SO MUCH FUCKING STUFF HAPPENED, and Clay said, Did this fucking stuff involve a crazy guy with a black car with a duck hood ornament, because we have been looking for his ass, and Zoe said, uh, hopefully for bad reasons, right…?

And the Losers helped the girls clean up their mess and they all went home happily ever after. For reasons.

Chapter Text

Oh yeah, it's CLEARLY about the mind. Obviously the mind. It doesn't kill Charles to know that he's never going to get his hands on that body ever again, or have his mouth (lips, tongue, teeth) on Erik's arse. It doesn't make him think about all the things he'd do if he had one night, just one, to pull that damned helmet off Erik and remind him all the ways they used to be... compatible. He doesn't think about breaking Erik down, remaking him, forcing Erik to give up his mutant supremacy plans and his need for control and revenge, finding out what Erik would be like if that day on the beach had been so different, so very different, if Erik had said "I'll stay"...

He misses Erik's mind, still loves it, which is why he won't, but sometimes, shallowly, more than anything else, he misses Erik's body, and the way his muscles bunched and curved in his back when he was close enough to tremble from it.

Chapter Text

"Weren't you just here a couple of hours ago?"

"Yes. No." Erik clears his throat. "Yes. It's been a long work day."

The man in the food truck grins; the teasing expression stays on his face, leaving Erik sure he should be backing away, tacos be damned. "You've been here every day this week," Food Truck Man says. "There are a dozen other food trucks. Variety is the spice of life, isn't it?"

Erik looks him over: the white button-down shirt that frames his shoulders so well, the hint of reddening skin visible over the last button he bothered with, the way his eyebrow arches, the pair of freckles on his nose, standing out as if to accentuate its curved shape...

"Not necessarily," Erik says.

"Two chicken tacos with extra pico de gallo coming up."

Erik has to walk away once he gets them, of course, kicking himself for not at least asking for Food Truck Man's phone number. But when he finishes the second, he notices the note slipped in under a few stray bits of tomato and onion and cilantro.

Charles Xavier. 646-555-0120.

His wallet is going to smell like cumin now, but Erik isn't losing that phone number.

Chapter Text

"How much for the one on the end? Black leather jacket, white shirt, buzzcut."

"Hm." The auction associate looks through her clipboard. "Four hundred thousand."

Charles gives her a skeptical look. "That's all?"

"You'd be his fourth contract in two years. He's not really been known for staying put and being well-behaved. As contract dominants go, he's not bad; he knows all the basic skills, he scores very high on stamina, and of course he has certain physical attributes that make him ideal for specific purposes..."

Charles snorts. "They didn't have time to brief you on your buyers, did they?"

A confused look up and down, and she colors, her hand rising to cover her mouth. "Oh, Dr. Xavier, I'm so sorry--

"Not to worry. I get a lot of that." Charles glances back at the man on the end. "Dominant work, hm?"

"For a total of seven contracts over six years. He just hasn't found the right owner yet."

"There might be a reason for that." Charles heads over; the man on the end looks up at him, impassive.

He does his best to stay impassive while Charles cups his chin and turns his face slightly, side-to-side. But Charles can see his pulse speeding at the side of his neck, his nostrils flaring as he struggles not to respond.

"I'm Charles," Charles murmurs. "I think I'd like to own you."

"Erik," says the other man. "Marie's holding my contract."

"I'll talk to her about that in a minute. I've got a few questions for you first."

"All right."

"Do you want to come home with me?"

Erik pauses and looks him over. He can't incline his head; he can only lower his eyes, which leaves his lashes dark against his cheek for a moment before he looks back up. "Sure."

"Do you like the work you've done under your other contracts?"

He feels the twitch in Erik's jaw more than he sees it. "It's been fine."

Charles bends down and puts his lips at Erik's ear. "That's not what I want you for."

Erik's breath is coming faster and faster, now. "All right."

"Shall I get your contract, Erik?"

Erik licks his lips; Charles gets the impression he's searching for a word he hasn't had to use for a while. When he finally says it, Charles can't help the smile that stretches across his face.

Erik says, "Please."