29 August 2001
Ultimate X-Men
Bobby/Hank
Spoilers for Ultimate X-Men #1

Disclaimers: It's good they don't belong to us, what with all those laws and stuff.

Warning: Underage sex. WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP

Authors' Note: We already know we're hellbound, really.
 

Handbasket 1: Overnight
by Janete

Hank ends up crouched in the corner of the gym showers because Bobby doesn't want to be alone. Skinny, scared kid, way too clean-cut, still aching from what Hank thinks of as the mutie blues. Still terrified from tonight. God, that body clinging to him in the air. Burrowed against his chest in the middle of a street full of Sentinel guts, bleeding silver ice from his head wound.

Head against his shoulder all the way home.

While Jean and Scott argued and Storm muttered in her sleep and Piotr stared out the window. Back to the world of the suburban rich.

And now in the basement, letting Bobby clean up from his homeless week. Crouched in a corner so he won't be alone, watching and not-watching him scrub down with a kind of frantic efficiency. He wasn't really that dirty. Something about the ice, maybe.

He smelled so good.

God that skinny body, turned towards the water. He's probably as tall as he's ever going to be, just bone and tendon and not enough body fat, awkward and baby-faced. Rubbing at his face so hard Hank can't tell if he's crying.

Little white line he can still see where the cut healed on his forehead.

Hank leaves. Pads back to the lockers and finds his uniform pants, black footless wreck that they are, and works them on. Leans his head against the wall.

Still there when he's hit from behind by a wet, shaky Bobby.

Towel around his waist, but just barely. Face against Hank's shoulder blade and one hand clinging to the back of his pants. This repeating don't leave me, don't leave me muttered into his skin.

And he knows this drill. He's watched TV, read the books. A favourite thing, when he was a kid, to read those books on parenting. Leave them around as hints.

God, he may be a documented genius, but he could sure be an idiot. Smarter now. Mostly knows the best way to avoid getting smacked upside the head.

Obviously didn't know enough to avoid getting this... this kid hurt. He runs a thumb over the silvery scar before he really knows what he's doing.

"hurts."

Just like that. Like the kid, Bobby, doesn't know how to speak in capitals. A little horrifying, that. "Sorry. Look, God, I don't know what I was thinking, holding you up like that --"

"s'okay. You didn't know." Holding him tighter, absolutely no signs of letting go, so Hank just sinks slowly to the floor.

He knows how to do this.

Pulls Bobby into his lap and gets this grateful little sigh that makes him feel.

Old.

Angry.

Where are his parents? Laughing at himself at the question. Really worth a belly laugh. Oh yeah, he knows how this goes. He's bought into the whole fucking family line.

Kid's probably better off right here, bottles and angry mobs and all.

Looking up at him, and everything's right there on his face. Wants to share the joke.

"Nothing, Bobby. Just tired."

Face falls like he's told him he had to hit the streets again or something.

"What?"

Bobby blushes, pulls away. Head down but obviously trying to stiffen himself up. Jesus. Young. "You go on and sleep. I. I will too."

Oh, Christ. Yeah. Hell. Where's the Professor when you need him? Not like Hank has any intention of leaving Bobby alone with him anytime soon. Something creepy about the guy. Vinyl aside. What next? He can do this. Bobby's a nice kid. No skin off his nose. Smells good.

"Wanna hang out for a bit? I'm that kind of tired where you can't really sleep right away, you know? I think I saw a Playstation somewhere..."

"yeah."

He's starting to think he might have to carry Bobby wherever he goes. Not that it's hard. A hundred and thirty pounds of raw bone and blondness who doesn't even seem to notice he's being lifted until they're up. Making him think that if he stood up straight, Bobby's feet wouldn't reach the ground.

Giving him the choice, though. Walk, piggyback, or the current mother-gorilla lift, small creature attached to the front of large one. Well, it works.

Upstairs, room to room, looking for the rumoured toy. Den, parlour, formal living room, media room, tech room. Finds it in a closet and somehow just adds it to the tangle of Bobby-limbs around him.

Takes them all upstairs. The TV in his own room's surrounded by the guts of a dozen dissected machines that the Professor turned him loose on, but last he checked the boob tube wasn't interesting enough to take apart. It's more like an old friend. Replacement caregiver. It's like doing surgery on a teddy bear. All you get is fluffy guts all over and no more bear.

Dumps Bobby on the bed, hooks the thing up.

Comes back with controllers and stretches himself out next to Bobby on the bed. Gets things going. Watches Bobby animate.

Half an hour to establish that whatever else Bobby is, he isn't a child. Just a strung-out, scared teenager who's sunk a bit too deep into himself. Wired into the game, growling at it and cackling laughter the first time he sends Hanks down in flames and virtual blood.

Cracked ivory grin. "eat me, Beast-boy."

Ahh, therapy through video games. A novel approach. Maybe he'll write a paper. But first, "You're going down, popsicle."

"promises, promises."

And he really didn't need his mind to go there and by the time he shakes it off, he's being pummeled to within an inch of his life by an improbably muscled cartoon character with shades.

Wonderful.

Well, if he remembers correctly, if you press those three buttons in succession...

"You broke my neck!"

"I did, indeed, ice-boy."

"Oh, are you ever going down --"

And the game's on.

And on, and on, until Hank's eyes have that particular grainy quality that only hours of video games can produce. Years of evidence on that one. He's old enough to even remember Atari, vaguely.

Blessed technology.

Steals a glance at Bobby while the game loads the next round and gets a blurry view of a glassy-eyed zombie who, it's clear, really doesn't have any intention of retiring to his room to sleep.

No bear, here, but he supposes he's hairy enough. "You know, Bobby..."

"mmmph?"

"You can sleep here if you want. The floor's fine for me."

"naw. s'cool. jus don' snore, kay?"

It sounds like an invitation. Probably isn't one, but...

Enough to make him retire after the next bloody round. Pretty sure he won if they're keeping score across the hours, but he doesn't think Bobby's going to remember that. Just this last, laughing triumph.

Turns in time to see Bobby launch himself at him. Flying boy like a winged badger, the sheer improbability of it freezing him long enough to get the wind knocked out of him.

"I win. I win I win I win I win I win..." Sing-songing, rocking back and forth on Hank's chest. Skinny, impossibly little wrists in Hank's grip when he catches them.

Boneless flop onto him. Bobby's hanging from his wrists, most of his weight pushing them chest to chest. Lays his head down.

"hey"

"Yeah?"

"thanks."

"No problem." Wraps his arms around Bobby's back and holds him there.

Somehow he didn't notice before that Bobby never managed to get more dressed than the towel. Like the sheer happy, zoned-out sprawl of him negated the need for real clothes.

Naked, happy teenager who burrows his head in against Hank's chest again and. Kisses.

It's not easy to mistake. Open mouth, soft tongue, sucking and mouthing and a lot of attention given to his skin.

"Bobby..."

"mmm"

There are knees on either side of him. Shouldn't be possible, wide as he is, and it's probably a tribute to Bobby's flexibility. Something they'll exploit, of course, but not yet. Or not like that, yet. Other ways...

Bobby wiggles against him. No towel interfering at this point. Just warm skin against his shirt and an extra little slide.

Even more noticeable when his shirt rucks up and there's very, very soft skin touching him.

And it's not that he's in any way immune to the possibilities inherent in a naked Bobby working himself against and... yes, definitely moving into a more pornographic position.

It's just that the kid is a kid.

"Bobby --"

"I'm not a virgin." Easy, steady voice enough to rock him even if Bobby wasn't doing what he's doing.

"That's not the point." What is the point?

"What is?"

Fuck. "Statutory rape is the point."

Bobby's still moving, still shifting for better position and that feels much, much too good, even just imagining what it would feel like without the all-important and suffocating vinyl pants and Hank finally regains motor control enough to grab Bobby by the hips and hold him still.

Unfortunately hears very, very clearly the tiny gasp when he makes contact. Hands big enough, Bobby small enough that his fingertips touch.

And that's not all they touch and it's very, very late.

"Bobby, it's late, we're both tired, and I've been to jail. It's not a happy place."

"I wouldn't tell, Hank, it's just. You feel really good."

And you smell really good but you don't see me sniffing you for the past several hours oh Christ. If only it was daylight, or even night, when he would have something resembling a functioning forebrain. As opposed to a hyperactive hindbrain and a very small, very horny boy by the hips.

Not even the excuse of it being wrong to take advantage because 'I'm not a virgin' and really, all that clinging makes a lot more sense now.

Clearly, Hank knows nothing about the minds of teenagers, despite actually being one.

Or maybe knows too much.

Or maybe should stop rubbing Bobby's hard cock with his thumbs right now.

Before Bobby does something that'll make it a lot harder to stop. Like shed the towel. Like lay his hands on Hank's chest and push up and arch back in this blatant kind of offer.

God, wants him.

Bobby's so fucking pretty.

Like maybe not that much younger than he is. And very sharp.

Rubbing his soft little balls against Hank's stomach again. Whimpering and working down, following Hank's hands wherever they move in trying to let go.

Lays down against him, lays that little hard body and his erection against Hank, and kisses him. Gets both hands under his shirt and works it up.

Slides that clever little tongue into his mouth.

Pets his face.

Rubs little ivory thumbs over Hank's lips when he pulls back before he leans in again.

Can't not.

Flips them. And yeah, if anybody walks in right now, it's jail-time for Hank-boy. What with Bobby's knees currently around his ears and his arms around Hank's neck and the two of them kissing. Takes about ten seconds to figure this one out.

God, he's such a little slut.

Pushes his mouth down on Bobby's and kisses him hard. Like he could suck the whole boy out through his mouth. Pushes the miserable vinyl of his uniform pants desperately against Bobby's ass.

Feels him moan.

Feels him shaking.

Okay, half a brain. Even a quarter. Enough to pause. Pull back. Rub the back of his hand against Bobby's face.

"Bad night."

"Yeah."

"You might not want this so much in the morning." Thumbs against the little throat. Leg brushing his ear.

An out, even though he suddenly just knows Bobby won't take it. Has to be offered. Some God, somewhere, perhaps slightly less likely to take Hank out with a thunderbolt from on high.

But Bobby's still grinding against him, little half-circular pushes. Not a virgin. Jesus. Hank has nothing but sympathy for whoever was the first to meet a horny Bobby Drake.

"Maybe just... not all the way?"

Disappointment that Hank quashes ruthlessly. Clearly some part of his mind was already rushing out to buy the lube and handcuffs.

"Okay. Okay. Bobby, Christ, are you sure?"

"I'm too young to have regrets."

"That doesn't help at all."

Wicked little smile that Hank has to kiss off. A little rougher this time, letting Bobby feel his stubble. Making him red, making him raw, and Hank has no idea what point he's trying to make or who he's trying to make it to.

Bobby's moans shorting out any residual higher brain function and Bobby's lean cool body just exactly what his skin is craving. Gets them on the bed, Bobby clinging like a limpet and kissing fiercely.

Hungry like only a teenaged boy can be.

Hands in his hair, moving over his shoulders and back and, belatedly, Hank realizes that he's really going to do this. Right here, right now, Bobby's mouth sugar sweet and oh, God, needing to know what the rest of him tastes like.

Strips as quickly as he can, helplessly aware of Bobby's eyes on him, taking him all in with some crazy mixture of awe, envy, and lust. Pure want, and Bobby sitting up, too.

Soft, wet kisses to his nipples. Hard sucks and an experimental bite that makes Hank groan.

Takes all of his hands -- feels like a lot more than two -- to lay Bobby out. Clinging to him. Has to smooth him down. Rub his chest. Kiss it. Give him two fingers to suck to Hank can pay attention to the rest of him.

Slide down his body and lick him. Chest. Tiny nipples hardly even big enough for his tongue to feel and more than enough to make Bobby twist and whimper. Belly and navel. Jumps to his thighs and gets them suddenly wide, wide open. Clamped around his ears.

As long as he's down there...

Goes down. Burrows under Bobby's cock and licks his balls. Licks the soft little piece of skin around them. Sucks each little rounded shape until Bobby's pushing desperately at him. Telling him in a really a lot of detail what he wants, and which one of them is supposed to be taking advantage of who here?

Not a virgin. Fuck no. Desperate, happy little whimpers when Hank settles in and sucks him. Not that he's tiny, but with their size difference, it's just this pressure at the back of his throat, an extra couple of fingers against his lips. That's all. Sucks him. Hollow cheeks and careful teeth and all the pressure his tongue can give. All the attention he can give to the little slick path from Bobby's cock on back is being given, fingers pushed up in and rubbing hard.

Finds his prostate and rubs a thumb against the skin and rides the bucking fit. Thinks just a bit about what that might be like if he'd touched it inside.

What it might be like to hear the noises Bobby'd make with a couple of fingers up him.

Shoves his fingers back in Bobby's mouth. Big between Bobby's lips as Bobby's cock is between his own. Thick and pushing and Bobby's good at this. Better than he is, probably, though so far nobody's complaining. Rubs his fingers along Bobby's tongue and pulls that shiver-moan out, slides them out when they're so slick it doesn't even feel like they're attached to him anymore. Lets go of the cock's root with his other fingers and slides his mouth down as best he can, pushes his throat against it. Sucks as hard as he can and as soon as he's sure Bobby's whole attention is on him, pushes in a finger.

"Ohhhh, Hank..."

Which doesn't sound anything like 'no,' or 'stop,' or, if he's being honest with himself about Bobby, 'fuck me now,' either, so he just goes with the one finger. Sucking hard and pushing a little. Stretching him until he can crook his finger just enough --

"Oh, fuck!"

Bobby comes hard, arching nearly off the bed and ripping a few hairs out of Hank's scalp, cursing and yelling and generally being endearingly horrifying before collapsing in a small blond heap of satiation.

Hank doesn't know whether to be smug or to start running.

Listens for a moment, just to be sure the villagers with torches are still asleep and then starts laughing.

And keeps laughing.

Because, really, his life is pretty damned hilarious. Or terrifying.

He's not sure which, but he's gonna go with funny for now, because he's really much too tired for the alternative of crouching in a corner and rocking back and forth for several hours.

After a while, Bobby starts snickering, too, which he really just can't take. He has the kid's come in his mouth and he's snickering?

Hank pounces and starts tickling mercilessly. Ribs, neck, pits, feet, back when Bobby tries to crawl away.

It's a pathetic revenge, but it's his.

And it's also really, really appealing to have Bobby writhing under him like that.

And appealing is putting it mildly, at least according to certain parts of his anatomy. Maybe appalling would be a better word.

"Uncle! Uncle!"

Oh, man, if there's a hell, he's already got a house lined up. A fucking mansion that looks suspiciously like the one he's currently in, peopled with reddish, grinning Bobbydevils with blue eyes.

He needs to sleep.

He really needs to get off.

And part of him does want to hold Bobby down and just fuck him. Damn the consequences and the horror and the pitchforks waiting for him in the next life. He isn't going to, but god it's a wonderful thought. Bobby under him moving like he is now. It looks disturbingly like the heroine on the cover of some bodice-ripper, skinny chest pushed out and tiny nipples demanding attention.

It really would be something.

Though at the moment he'd settle for pretty much anything.

And in spite of everything they've done so far, he isn't quite sure how to ask. He isn't good at asking for food when he's hungry or first aid, even when both are in abundant supply. Better at taking, or just fending for himself.

Half-convinced that he's going to have to jerk himself off before Bobby wiggles out from under him. Pushes at Hank's chest until he rolls over onto his back, and then cheerfully sits on him.

Kiss that makes his hair stand up.

Tiny when it touches him, but it slides deeper than he can quite believe. Tongue reaching for the back of his throat, licking out the inside of his mouth and finally just rubbing along Hank's.

Pulls back and holds Hank's bottom lip between both of his.

Enough of a capital-L-Look to make Hank try to pull his brain back together. Very serious Bobby-face looking for something in him.

Cutting though the haze the important information that Bobby is very young. Not quite pedophile country, but somewhere in the borderlands.

"How old are you, anyway?" Bobby asks.

Fuck. What?

"C'mon. How old are you? Twenty? Eighteen?"

"Nineteen." Been a while since he's thought about it.

Both hands cupping his face. Soft, unteasing Bobby-skin brushing his chest and ribs, somehow that much worse because of the innocence of it.

Bobby kisses him very gently. Shallowly. Once afterward with just their lips touching.

"You wanna lie back?"

"I am."

"Yeah, I know. But relax, huh?"

Rubs his chest until he works on breathing deeply. Brush of that little, soft mouth against his collarbone. Hands on his stomach. Hands on his hips. Hands just framing his cock for a second, which is way too hard and the wrong kind of demanding, pushed up against his body like that. Breathy little kiss in the pubic hair beside it.

And then on him.

Hank thinks he'll lose his mind if he watches this, but he can't not. Lashes dusty shadows on Bobby's cheeks as he licks him. Hot-cold shudder of it and Bobby's pink, pointed tongue.

Just that tongue until he's weirdly both soothed and enervated, and then Bobby goes down on him. Soft wet mouth and a hand around the base of him and Bobby... moves.

Up and down, fucking his mouth on Hank's cock and pumping him steadily and Hank groans when Bobby opens his eyes and just... glitters at him. Wicked and hungry and utterly aware of the effect he's having on Hank. Not that he could possibly be unaware, but it's more than that.

Deeper than that.

Hank feels more naked than he's ever felt in his life. Laid out bare and this close to begging for exactly what he's getting.

Bobby bracing himself on one skinny hand and sucking him off like a pederast's wet dream.

Moaning around him like he's the bestest treat Hostess ever came up with.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

Chuffing laughter around the head of his cock and all Hank can do is lie back and take it.

Which seems to be the signal Bobby was looking for, since the next time he goes down he just keeps going. Moving his fist out of the way and good dear Christ swallows him and Hank.

Whimpers.

And comes until he sees stars. And horn-headed Bobbys, pointing and snickering him into mercifully brief unconsciousness.

Comes to at the feel of someone trying to remove his arm from his socket, and yep, there's Bobby, manfully attempting to lug him toward the bed. Hank fakes it for a while just to watch the kid sweat.

Least he deserves.

And then hauls himself up all at once, sending Bobby toppling, but catching him before he can brain himself on the floor.

"Bedtime."

"mmkay."

Lowercase again. Hank has no idea if he should be worried or not, but it's half-past late and he is very, very far from coping.

Fuck.

Sleep.

Fuck, then sleep. Heh. They had it down.

The bed is the softest, warmest oasis he's ever seen. Bobby this skinny little knot curled up beside him.

Sleep.

It's his stomach that wakes him up. Sun saying it's sometime past noon, body saying it's sometime past breakfast.

No one came to wake them up, which is something that makes Hank nearly cry with relief, considering the unconscionable amount of nakedness going on.

Shakes Bobby awake gently, which is a slow process, made more difficult by the way Bobby only pats him on the head and rolls over.

Finally manages it with a great deal of grumbling and the promise of food, somewhere, with their names on it.

Gets dressed, throwing a ridiculously large t-shirt over Bobby's head and carrying him at a run back to his room, where further seduction is only avoided by Bobby's stomach rumbling at an -- inopportune? Depended on who you asked -- moment.

Kitchen, and Jean tips them both a cheery wave and goes back to the paper.

A clean escape?

Hank's just starting to think so when the professor wheels in, evil overlord cat in tow. Sudden, horrific memory that the guy is some kind of powerful psychic, and Hank feels his ears start to burn as Xavier looks.

And looks.

And favors him with a creepy, knowing smile.

Vinyl, right.
 

Hank focuses on his cereal and does his level best to think of higher math until the man leaves with his orange juice.

Jesus.

Straight to hell.

janete
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