Hugh Jackman peeled off his Wolverine uniform, the hot leather leaving red welts across his tight abdomen. It had been a long day on the set of X-Men 3, Bret demanding take after take, ever the stern taskmaster. They had, what at best, could be described as a love/hate relationship. Hugh admired Bret's exacting skills behind the camera, but he couldn't help but feel a mounting tension between them, like a cobra, coiled, ready to strike. He wanted to please Bret, more than anything, but as the days wore on he feared he'd never be able to satisfy Ratner's genius, never be able to sate the fire that burned so brightly behind the young auteur's eyes.
"Hugh?"
He turned. There, at the door of the trailer stood Bret.
"You left these on set."
In his hands were Wolverine's stunt claws, the ones they used for practical shots and place holders. The silver paint had begun to wear off the tips, revealing the balsa wood underneath.
"Oh yeah, sorry."
Hugh reached for the claws. One of the tips poked his finger, drawing blood. Hugh winced, putting the cut digit in his mouth.
"Here. Let me do that for you."
Brett took his hand. To his own disbelief, Hugh found that he had no will to resist. Bret took the finger into his mouth, began to suck...