A/N: I'm an old X-Men fan and this something gathering virtual dust in my computer from ages ago. It's not anything as amazing as most fics of them I read, so don't expect to be amazed. I just wanted to try and post this as a practice or something. Oh and it's about the real actors of X-Men, not X-Men characters themselves.

My Pillow Has A Name

She was beautiful. Hell, she was hot. He couldn't deny that. No man in his right mind on the face of the planet wouldn't want her like this, shiny and naked on his bed; and what no man on Earth wouldn't trade to be in his shoes right now… because that's exactly where she was; naked, shiny, and on his bed, begging to be taken, with those long-lashed eyes laced with lust. He was one lucky devil, he was. Yes he was. He smiled and bent down to meet her lips. Full and supple.

Yes he was… one lucky devil. He had to keep telling himself… lest he'd fall asleep…

He never imagined how sweet and soft those lips would feel. He almost stopped right there just to make sure his mind wasn't deceiving him, surely, those lips belonged to the person he was now kissing. So red, he marveled, those lips were so red against pale skin, and so unbelievably good. He grew impatient, hands locking itself to strands of wavy hair, gripping, pulling closer. Quick gasps of air in between breathless kisses, as their tongues met and sparred again… and again…

But actually, it was a kiss short lived… he is pushed away dazed. And even more disoriented by the face that greets him as soon as he manages to open his eyes.

"You did it again."

"What-" barely escaped his lips, out of breath.

"You said it again!"

He blinks, trying to gather his wits.

"I've had it with you, Michael." She starts to get up, but spares him a glance, hesitantly before she does so. This only elicits a more annoyed look from her, and she proceeds to pick up pieces of clothing strewn about carelessly only minutes ago on the floor.

"I'm sorry. I-I wasn't serious. It's a joke." Michael says quickly, adding a smile, genuinely hoping to help ease her frustration.

"Oh no Michael, I thought it was a joke. But now I see what's happening here. YOU'RE THE JOKE! This whole affair is a JOKE! It's all a joke to you isn't it?" She stomps over to the door, almost completely clothed, if not for her high-heeled shoes which she chose to carry in one free hand. "Well, I won't let you take me for a fool any longer! I'm through playing games with you! We're THROUGH!"

"Zoe, wait-!" he jumps up and runs after her, in time to get the door slammed in his face.

You said it again!

Her angry voice echoed in his mind. And he didn't blame her, he understood, but… he was confused as ever. He didn't mean to do it, he just…

Michael Fassbender sighed and picked up his jeans and shirt, carelessly slipped it on, grabbed some cash on the side table and headed to the bar of the hotel downstairs. He sure could use a drink right now. He felt tired again. Even though he knew he really wasn't. Lately he's been feeling a lot of that. But he couldn't explain why. He just did. He and Zoe often fought. And he's never been in this clumsy situation with any woman he's ever dated before. Neither has he ever been dumped by ANY woman before, and especially not for these reasons. He had to get it together, but he just didn't know how. Everything was a mess. But being the lighthearted geek that he is, he chose to drink it away, and flirt with the ladies at the bar. Anything to distract him from the real reason behind his perturbations.

A blonde lady in a red dress from across the room flashed him a smile. He smiled back, waving his glass of scotch. She smiled again, wider, more flirtatiously this time. And he was beginning to get distracted once more… just as planned. Fantastic.

Half an hour later, and several shots of who-knows-what else to go with it, they burst into his suite and crash into the bed, wildly tearing at each others' clothes, kissing hungrily, and him, more intoxicated than he had planned. He didn't even feel it when his head hit the headboard of the bed with a loud, alarming thud.

"Oh!" She laughed into the kiss, breaking away. "That must've hurt."

"It must have…" he chuckled, a crazy boyish one. "If I could feel anything right now." He didn't feel the smile either, all he felt was his libido on high. He really didn't care that he was drunk enough to fuck anything, even if it didn't have feet.

"Well, let's see if you feel this one, baby!" She gasped as she pulled off his pants with one strong grunt, and saw what was not so well hidden before.

He had to make sure he didn't slip up this time.

"What's your name again?" he asked sounding stupidly slurring his words, his Irish accent heavier than usual.

"It's Jamie," she purred into his ear. "And you haven't asked yet."

"Jamie." he repeated almost wistfully. "That's a nice name."

It started out the same, but how it happened or where it ended, he no longer could bring to mind. He had the worst hangover of his life.

Throat parched and begging for a cold glass of water, he clumsily tries to push himself out of bed, only to end up a tangled in a heap on the floor.

That's when it hits him. The dream. The dreams he had been having… a painful throbbing accompanied the memories, but he tried to dismiss it, in hopes of piecing together the fragments of events. He could not tell where the fantasies with the women ended and where the stranger, more exciting ones began…

James was there. He was laughing. He didn't remember why, he was just laughing along. He always felt like laughing. He always knew James didn't need a good reason to laugh, and he never felt like he needed any around him either.

The room spun.

And spun…

And…

"Mmm. Hey, wake up. I'm leaving."

He groaned. He didn't want to wake up just yet. He really didn't.

He felt a kiss to his cheeks. Great. Real intimacy.

"I just wanted to thank you for last night. You were great. Everything was great."

Great. At least he didn't screw up again. A much needed bolster for his ego.

"Except you kept calling me James."