XMFC FF: Starkly Sweet and Sexy [C/Z]
Series: Multi-chaptered
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tony Stark decided that opening a phone sex call centre is a good idea to alleviate mutant unemployment. Accent-savvy Erik and telepathic Charles recruited themselves in order to pay their mounting bills. Cue interesting multi-tasking (a thesis on Genetics and BDSM-themed foreplay, anyone?) and deranged customers.
Kink Meme Prompt: here
Other Chapters:
A is for Accents
B is for Books
XXX
C is for Codenames
Tony Stark was unlike his father, despite whatever people might say and comment upon, despite the similarities of their geniuses, because Tony did not come up with grand schemes and maquettes laid down neat and pretty on his desk - he was a dreamer, which meant he lived with a thousand stars whispering in his ears. Occasionally he would stretch his arm and separate a glow from a multitude others, cradle it close to his ear, and listen to what it had got to say. It often ended up in the surprise of success and the endurance needed in the face of failure. It meant an aptitude for flexibility, and a certain madness of the mind.
“Hiya, Ironman!” Wade Wilson’s chipper voice contrasted starkly with the screams and sirens in his background; his voice handled the cacophony as if chaos was his personal background music.
“Deadpool, my man.” Tony greeted him, smooth, unrevealing, even as he flicked a glance towards the rows of soundproofed cubicles. “How’s it in the frontline?”
“Well, yeah, you told me to call when there’s trouble right? They’re brewing it up just ‘round the corner with the Seven-Eleven. You know what, I don’t think that your kids should walk home tonight. Not if they want to fight me and my boys! They told us to whip out our batons, y’know. It’s a small skirmish, but they’re especially angry tonight; it’s going to get ugly. Lots of college kids and even younger. Real furious, too! You get that, pal? It’s going to get ugly, not it may get ugly. Note the tense there!”
The night shift was ending in fifteen minutes. Emma was doubling as a speaker tonight, despite being a receptionist. Tony’s eyes watched as her lips pouted and whined in succession, alternatively selfish and coaxing. Angel had just finished an engagement, discarding her microphone atop her keyboard and falling backwards into the embrace of her chair. His eyes softened when he saw Erik, rigid and lonely in his cubicle, his headphone on his desk, with a chess set in front of him. With his shoes off and his feet on the table, Charles was talking to a customer in the next cubicle: he had his finger on his temple, directing Erik’s hand across the black and white pieces. Charles’ lips widened in a moan - Erik’s finger faltered on the headpiece of a bishop.
“Yeah,” Tony choked out. He was not a sentimental man, but the world was a cruel world, and that was all there was to it. “Yeah, I’ll tell them to stay the night. Thanks, Deadpool.”
He waited for the last of the clients to struggle off the lines, brooding in his own cubicle. The clock hit half past midnight, and all the lines were tamped down until the noon shift. For a second, silence hit the cramped headquarter of C3S3.
They walked out with their shoulders bowed down. Erik was leaning against the wall, holding his travel chess set in hand, a packet of cigarettes in the other. Charles slumped out of his cubicle with his heavy backpack bearing down on his posture, clutching a stack of essays close to his chest. Yawning, Angel trudged towards the lobby, where Emma was being restless, tapping one heel against the chipped ceramic tiles.
“Hey.” He sounded unnaturally bright against the general impatience, against the pounding tiredness of his workers. “Guys. Y’know what, perhaps we should come up with - codenames or something. Can’t have them calling you with different names all the time, can we?”
Emma gave him a surly, long look. “It will certainly help,” she snapped. “Coming up with names is such a hassle.”
“But, codenames, Tony,” Erik sighed, smirking and incredulous and bordering on arrogance, despite the droop on his eyelids.
“It will give us a certain brand,” Tony insisted. “Clients will be able to identify with you better. You may even build some loyalty in certain customers.” Before any of them had a chance to reply, he turned around and unearthed a pack of beers from his mini-fridge, handing them out.
Nobody protested. Charles took the beer and pressed it to his neck, smiling weakly. “I think it’s a great idea, Tony,” he said, gently. “Do you think we should discuss it tomorrow with the rest of us?”
“Or,” he replied flippantly - secretly, he was measuring his every syllable, “you all can stay the night, and we can come up with unique names, yeah?”
Surprisingly, Angel gave a giggle and snickered, “Erik should be Ironman. Or Magneto.”
“Hey! Ironman is taken,” Tony snapped, “by me!”
“You barely work here, Tony.”
“It’s a childhood thing,” he sighed. “It’s stuck. Stay away from Ironman.”
“People have been calling Lehnsherr as ‘the one with the magnetic voice’,” Emma conceded, toeing off her heels. Folding her long legs neatly beneath her, she sat down on the floor, leaning against the cool wall.
“You should be the Queen,” Angel said, gesturing her can towards Emma. “BDSM Queen.”
Charles made an impatient move towards the door, and Erik seemed all too ready to follow him.
“There is a mutant riot near Seven-Eleven,” Tony said, feeling very tiny. He had never hated his humanity more. “The police are using the batons.”
“Oh.” Charles’ eyes were wide and tired in the same time, and he gave Tony a grateful, bitter smile, before slumping onto the floor where he was standing. “Well. Okay. I don’t think BDSM Queen is very…dignified. Why not the White Queen?”
“It does suit your wardrobe, Frost.” Erik sat down. His beer can was floating by his shoulder and fizzing open by its own accord, even as he set down the chess set and began to assemble the pieces once again.
Emma shrugged. “I’ll live.”
What a tragedy. They would not live, not this way, at least not forever. What would Shakespeare make of that? Tony, too, followed his employees and let it all go down. Onto the floor he went, and he had no desire to get up again, not when his friends were sitting on the same floor as him. He clinked his beer can with Angel’s, and smiled, “You, my saucy Angel, should be the Tempest.”
Charles was caressing his white king, his eyes staring emptily at the board. “I want to be a professor.”
“You will,” Erik supplied, mobilising his pawn and sighing. “Professor Xavier. God.”
“Professor X,” Angel mused, cradling her beer in her cupped palms.
“I actually like that,” Charles said wryly. “Let’s just hope it won’t be the closest I can get to getting the professor title.” Burying his face in his hands, he gave a groan of frustration. “Damn you, Stryker. Damn you to hell. My thesis is fine.”
Tony, who had read Charles’ thesis and Stryker’s notes of rejection, nodded. “It is, Charlie boy.”
Erik gave a nonchalant shrug, but his eyes were sad and sympathetic, his jaw tense with anger. “Meritocracy is never an option,” he said, and suddenly Tony knew where Pepper got that phrase.
They went through two packs of beer and four chess games that nobody won before silence claimed them right where they are, on the cold and unforgiving floor, cold and unaccepted by the world.
In the dark, Tony lay awake and blinked at the glowering screen of his phone. “Hiya, Ironman,” Deadpool’s text exclaimed, “I’ve got sixteen children here, all beaten to pulp. The boys are not letting them go. We have three casualties on our side. Revenge is in the air. It’s going to get real ugly, man. Even uglier. Hope none of your kids are here.”
They were safe, Tony told himself, directing the luminescent face of his phone like a searchlight, seeking for the prone, folded forms of his friends. They were safe, although they would wake up with stiff necks and cold backs. But they were safe, as safe as gems could be once you stuffed them into a metal safe, keyed in the lock, and coded them against the touch of the cruel, cruel world. He would hang onto those codes and never reveal them at any price, because that was all there was to it: seeing them safe and sound.
He thought about the looming figure of Howard Stark, the red anger on his lined face, and whispered his safe code, “Fuck you, Dad.”
XXX
Yes. Tony is officially the angstiest character in this AU. Well, for now. I'm not sure what to think of this chapter. Is the mood turn too sudden? I'll be glad to hear your feedback! Thank you for reading!
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tony Stark decided that opening a phone sex call centre is a good idea to alleviate mutant unemployment. Accent-savvy Erik and telepathic Charles recruited themselves in order to pay their mounting bills. Cue interesting multi-tasking (a thesis on Genetics and BDSM-themed foreplay, anyone?) and deranged customers.
Kink Meme Prompt: here
Other Chapters:
A is for Accents
B is for Books
XXX
C is for Codenames
Tony Stark was unlike his father, despite whatever people might say and comment upon, despite the similarities of their geniuses, because Tony did not come up with grand schemes and maquettes laid down neat and pretty on his desk - he was a dreamer, which meant he lived with a thousand stars whispering in his ears. Occasionally he would stretch his arm and separate a glow from a multitude others, cradle it close to his ear, and listen to what it had got to say. It often ended up in the surprise of success and the endurance needed in the face of failure. It meant an aptitude for flexibility, and a certain madness of the mind.
“Hiya, Ironman!” Wade Wilson’s chipper voice contrasted starkly with the screams and sirens in his background; his voice handled the cacophony as if chaos was his personal background music.
“Deadpool, my man.” Tony greeted him, smooth, unrevealing, even as he flicked a glance towards the rows of soundproofed cubicles. “How’s it in the frontline?”
“Well, yeah, you told me to call when there’s trouble right? They’re brewing it up just ‘round the corner with the Seven-Eleven. You know what, I don’t think that your kids should walk home tonight. Not if they want to fight me and my boys! They told us to whip out our batons, y’know. It’s a small skirmish, but they’re especially angry tonight; it’s going to get ugly. Lots of college kids and even younger. Real furious, too! You get that, pal? It’s going to get ugly, not it may get ugly. Note the tense there!”
The night shift was ending in fifteen minutes. Emma was doubling as a speaker tonight, despite being a receptionist. Tony’s eyes watched as her lips pouted and whined in succession, alternatively selfish and coaxing. Angel had just finished an engagement, discarding her microphone atop her keyboard and falling backwards into the embrace of her chair. His eyes softened when he saw Erik, rigid and lonely in his cubicle, his headphone on his desk, with a chess set in front of him. With his shoes off and his feet on the table, Charles was talking to a customer in the next cubicle: he had his finger on his temple, directing Erik’s hand across the black and white pieces. Charles’ lips widened in a moan - Erik’s finger faltered on the headpiece of a bishop.
“Yeah,” Tony choked out. He was not a sentimental man, but the world was a cruel world, and that was all there was to it. “Yeah, I’ll tell them to stay the night. Thanks, Deadpool.”
He waited for the last of the clients to struggle off the lines, brooding in his own cubicle. The clock hit half past midnight, and all the lines were tamped down until the noon shift. For a second, silence hit the cramped headquarter of C3S3.
They walked out with their shoulders bowed down. Erik was leaning against the wall, holding his travel chess set in hand, a packet of cigarettes in the other. Charles slumped out of his cubicle with his heavy backpack bearing down on his posture, clutching a stack of essays close to his chest. Yawning, Angel trudged towards the lobby, where Emma was being restless, tapping one heel against the chipped ceramic tiles.
“Hey.” He sounded unnaturally bright against the general impatience, against the pounding tiredness of his workers. “Guys. Y’know what, perhaps we should come up with - codenames or something. Can’t have them calling you with different names all the time, can we?”
Emma gave him a surly, long look. “It will certainly help,” she snapped. “Coming up with names is such a hassle.”
“But, codenames, Tony,” Erik sighed, smirking and incredulous and bordering on arrogance, despite the droop on his eyelids.
“It will give us a certain brand,” Tony insisted. “Clients will be able to identify with you better. You may even build some loyalty in certain customers.” Before any of them had a chance to reply, he turned around and unearthed a pack of beers from his mini-fridge, handing them out.
Nobody protested. Charles took the beer and pressed it to his neck, smiling weakly. “I think it’s a great idea, Tony,” he said, gently. “Do you think we should discuss it tomorrow with the rest of us?”
“Or,” he replied flippantly - secretly, he was measuring his every syllable, “you all can stay the night, and we can come up with unique names, yeah?”
Surprisingly, Angel gave a giggle and snickered, “Erik should be Ironman. Or Magneto.”
“Hey! Ironman is taken,” Tony snapped, “by me!”
“You barely work here, Tony.”
“It’s a childhood thing,” he sighed. “It’s stuck. Stay away from Ironman.”
“People have been calling Lehnsherr as ‘the one with the magnetic voice’,” Emma conceded, toeing off her heels. Folding her long legs neatly beneath her, she sat down on the floor, leaning against the cool wall.
“You should be the Queen,” Angel said, gesturing her can towards Emma. “BDSM Queen.”
Charles made an impatient move towards the door, and Erik seemed all too ready to follow him.
“There is a mutant riot near Seven-Eleven,” Tony said, feeling very tiny. He had never hated his humanity more. “The police are using the batons.”
“Oh.” Charles’ eyes were wide and tired in the same time, and he gave Tony a grateful, bitter smile, before slumping onto the floor where he was standing. “Well. Okay. I don’t think BDSM Queen is very…dignified. Why not the White Queen?”
“It does suit your wardrobe, Frost.” Erik sat down. His beer can was floating by his shoulder and fizzing open by its own accord, even as he set down the chess set and began to assemble the pieces once again.
Emma shrugged. “I’ll live.”
What a tragedy. They would not live, not this way, at least not forever. What would Shakespeare make of that? Tony, too, followed his employees and let it all go down. Onto the floor he went, and he had no desire to get up again, not when his friends were sitting on the same floor as him. He clinked his beer can with Angel’s, and smiled, “You, my saucy Angel, should be the Tempest.”
Charles was caressing his white king, his eyes staring emptily at the board. “I want to be a professor.”
“You will,” Erik supplied, mobilising his pawn and sighing. “Professor Xavier. God.”
“Professor X,” Angel mused, cradling her beer in her cupped palms.
“I actually like that,” Charles said wryly. “Let’s just hope it won’t be the closest I can get to getting the professor title.” Burying his face in his hands, he gave a groan of frustration. “Damn you, Stryker. Damn you to hell. My thesis is fine.”
Tony, who had read Charles’ thesis and Stryker’s notes of rejection, nodded. “It is, Charlie boy.”
Erik gave a nonchalant shrug, but his eyes were sad and sympathetic, his jaw tense with anger. “Meritocracy is never an option,” he said, and suddenly Tony knew where Pepper got that phrase.
They went through two packs of beer and four chess games that nobody won before silence claimed them right where they are, on the cold and unforgiving floor, cold and unaccepted by the world.
In the dark, Tony lay awake and blinked at the glowering screen of his phone. “Hiya, Ironman,” Deadpool’s text exclaimed, “I’ve got sixteen children here, all beaten to pulp. The boys are not letting them go. We have three casualties on our side. Revenge is in the air. It’s going to get real ugly, man. Even uglier. Hope none of your kids are here.”
They were safe, Tony told himself, directing the luminescent face of his phone like a searchlight, seeking for the prone, folded forms of his friends. They were safe, although they would wake up with stiff necks and cold backs. But they were safe, as safe as gems could be once you stuffed them into a metal safe, keyed in the lock, and coded them against the touch of the cruel, cruel world. He would hang onto those codes and never reveal them at any price, because that was all there was to it: seeing them safe and sound.
He thought about the looming figure of Howard Stark, the red anger on his lined face, and whispered his safe code, “Fuck you, Dad.”
XXX
Yes. Tony is officially the angstiest character in this AU. Well, for now. I'm not sure what to think of this chapter. Is the mood turn too sudden? I'll be glad to hear your feedback! Thank you for reading!