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

Spoilers: Ultimate X-Men #1

Summary: Getting clean, getting dirty.

Ratings Note: NC-17

Warning: Underage sex. WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP

Pairing: Bobby/Beast

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

Feedback doesn't make you any less of a man.
janestclair15@hotmail.com, leytelj@gmail.com

*

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
favorite 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 to."

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 pressed *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.
 
 

End
Give us feedback lest we loose our evil on the world!