Fandom: X-Men movieverse
Pairing: Bobby/Hank
Rating: NC-17
Archive: with permission
Webpage: http://www.angelfire.com/sk2/mirrorgirl/warning.html
Feedback: Please? Jane so loves attention. 3jane@chickmail.com
Summary: Home.
Disclaimer: All things which belong to Marvel do not belong to me. The story belongs to me.
Sex disclaimer: Never ever have I ever done it in the back of a wood-panelled station wagon. Not for any reason.
Notes: This is for Te, who wanted Bobby/Beast smut, and who made sympathetic noises when I bitched that it was bloody difficult, and who gave me the first sentences I so desperately needed.
Other notes at end.

by Jane St Clair

Blue, furry ... god, the comfort of it. All that warmth and intelligence, all that muscle and. Fur. Bobby's nuzzled deep into that shoulder, which he's far too old to be doing, but Beast just holds him. Tighter and. Tighter. Big heart under that fur beating time-and-a-half and he's not quite not-crying. There's an edge of something in his fur that's probably blood.

Dark here in the Mercedes. The Professor's car, the one he takes to government meetings. Scott driving. Bitter edge of something in Bobby's mouth that he can't quite name, and a lot of horror just under the surface.

Not fair, because six hours ago he was having a good day. Jean made pancakes and didn't take away the cheeze whiz before he put it to the right (the only proper) use. Rogue played basketball with him. He got back his math test and it was actually a good mark, an A (just barely, but real), and it looked like he might finally (finally) have something here. John gave in and leant him those trade copies of Johnny the Homicidal Maniac he'd been drooling over for three weeks. There was popcorn. He got his own pillow in the den.

And then they were curled up in the dog-pile heap watching TV and Jean came in and changed it to the news without asking, and the CNN anchor did the little eye-close thing before repeating that

//Industrial heiress Candace Southern was shot this morning outside her Manhattan apartment. A high-profile fundraiser for mutants' rights, Southern was engaged to fellow-organizer and industrialist Warren Worthington. Three men arrested in connection with the shooting are believed to be members of Empire State Genetica, a radical anti-mutant organization. Southern was taken to Bethesda hospital with critical injuries. Police have not released any further information.//

Jean found Bobby's arm in the pile of now-shocked people and helped him get up, found his jacket and let him grab a comic before pushing him out the door. Storm with her. Scott was getting the Professor from Washington. And through some rip in space-time, they all descended on the hospital in the same five minutes, where the Professor did something that was probably fairly unethical to convince the desk nurse that they should be allowed to go in.

He wonders if anyone's considered how this is going to traumatize his poor young brain. He was scared before they came in, but he wasn't prepared for Warren to be there, covered in blood and curled up in one of the chairs with his knees pulled up to his chin and his back hunched up like it hurt like. Like something bloody. Or no wings. Or all the weight of his wings weighing him down. He wouldn't move for the Prof, or for Jean. Only for Scott, who hunched down in front of him and talked to him very quietly for long minutes until Warren just unfolded and slid onto the floor beside him. Wrapped himself around Scott and. Cried. Like nothing Bobby had ever heard before.

So he sat around the other side of the room divider in one of the smoke-blue chairs. Wrinkled his nose a lot at the antiseptic smell. Read. Got through twenty pages or JTHM before he startled to shake convulsively and had to put it away. Wondered what it said about John that he owned things like this. What it said about him that he was reading it now. As Johnny disembowelled all the patrons of fast food restaurant for gratuitously using the word 'wacky' and otherwise offending the universe. Impact of a random severed head on the counter staff.

Eventually he looked up, probably at exactly the same moment as everybody else in the room, and saw the doctor come in. Covered in blood and looking shocky like nobody still on his feet should. Dark eyes locked on Bobby and for a second made his heart stop. No more psycho comics, ever. And then Bobby realized that the face he was looking at wasn't real, and if he reached out, the hand he caught wouldn't be human-smooth.


"Robert. Is Warren ..."

"He's here." Jean's voice, softly. Somewhere behind the divider, Warren was still crying, almost soundlessly. Mouth buried in Scott's chest so everything he said just barely sounded.

"Is she dead?"

"Warren, I ..."

"She's dead."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

Which they'd already pretty much known, but somehow 'sorry' didn't quite cover the look on not-Hank's-face. More like grief and horror, and what sadist had put him in that operating room, anyway?

So he followed Hank back through the hospital-sterile doors. Nobody noticed him, the way nobody ever noticed him. Sat by the gym-style lockets while Hank scrubbed down and showered. Hands bigger than they should have been in his lap. Hugged him when he came out, and got wet in the process. There was soaking fur under that illusion of a human body. And Hank wrapped both impossibly long arms around him and hung on.

Two cars to go home, because Warren was coming with them. Jean and Storm driving the Professor, and Scott driving the rest of them. Warren in the front seat like a dead man. Not even really breathing.

And Bobby hasn't cried, yet. But when he got in the car, he climbed pretty much into Hank's lap and he isn't getting off it without a fight. The illusion's gone, at least, so when they slide under street lights he gets the comfort of Hank's blueness. And Hank just holds him. Tight like iron. Would've broken Bobby's ribs a couple of years, before he grew to something like adult-sized, before he started running with Scott in the early mornings.

Thump of that heart against his ear while they drive. Hank's hand on the back of his head steadies gradually, and stays there, holding Bobby against him.

The smell lingering in Hank's fur probably is blood, but under it there's a softer, warm-animal smell that Bobby remembers from his first days in Westchester. Which is (he counts) eight years ago. Since Scott came and got him out of jail and drove him up from Long Island, and he was almost too scared to talk at all. Most people who show up now are a lot older than ten, which is probably a good thing. They deal a little better, and don't end up hiding in shadowy corners with their Game Boy of Ultimate Security. Far, far away from people who can get frozen.

The way he did, until he hid in the lab, and Hank found him. Bobby didn't scream, though he's seen other people do that when they get a faceful of the Beast for the first time. Just stared up with vague thoughts of the Cookiemonster, and then held his arms out. And got picked up by a Hank who was only a bit older then than Bobby is now. Who hid in the lab because he did scare people. Who gave Bobby a place in the ratty armchair in a corner, and stashed extra batteries for his Game Boy in a low drawer.

And that was home for both of them, right until the day the Professor gave Hank the toy that lets him 'pass' these days. He remembers Hank's expression holding the little beeper-shaped thing, getting told that yeah, he could go to medical school if he wanted to. Huge black- on-brown eyes without expression. Until the Professor left, and then Bobby could come over and crawl into Hank's lap and hug him as hard as he could. And not-cry. Because this was his best, best friend, and going away was what Hank wanted, and it would have been so incredibly unfair for Bobby to cry on him then.

And he does come back to Westchester sometimes. Weekends off, major holidays. Bobby's birthday. Once last year in the middle of the night he just showed up, hands in pockets and that big thing-you- don't-wanna-meet-in-the-dark grin. Got Bobby out of bed and drove him into Salem Centre at 2am and bought them both an obscene amount of junk food. Then took them out to a lake somewhere and provided Bobby with a really substantial pillow while he gorged himself on Hostess chemically-goodness and fell asleep, face and sticky hands burrowed into Hank's fur.

He comes back sometimes for reasons that don't have anything to do with Bobby. When he just comes out and sits for a couple of hours by the school's own lake, and stares at the water and the sky. Bobby leaves him alone for the first hour, and then comes out with fruit punch and a book or something, and just sits with him.

Tonight he stays close enough to keep smelling Hank when they finally get out of the car. While they both just stand there, ignoring the fact that it's raining like drowning outside. Watch Warren stalk away across the lawn towards the water. His jacket goes flying as soon as he's off the driveway's pavement. His shirt follows it halfway across the yard. The huge wings spread out and stretch like something locked up for too long, and then just arc out above Warren's body while he stands in the rain with his head down.

Scott goes after him. Stands with his arms locked across his stomach and his sweater soaking up the rain just inches from Warren's wings. Says something and reaches one hand out, resting it between the wings and rubbing gently.

Warren turns, finally, and lays his head on Scott's shoulder. Brings the wings in around both of them. And Hank curls a big arm around Bobby's shoulders and pushes him into the house.

He should probably go to bed. Except that he can't really handle the idea of trying to sleep in the room he shares with John. John's going to want to know why the hell they all ran off like that, why he had to be in charge of making sure all the younger kids got to bed, and Bobby doesn't want to explain. He only sort of knew Candy, but he knows that Warren loved her more than Warren's loved anyone in his over- glossy life. And that his best friend failed to save her.

So he follows the furry blue back to Hank's room instead. Waits while Hank shuffles through the loose papers he left behind last time. Not like he's looking for anything in particular. Just like he doesn't have anything he can do with his hands until Bobby gets up and hugs him again. Then at least he can hang onto Bobby. Rub his back and hug him very. Tight. Very tight. His bones are gonna start creaking again in a minute.

"Hey, Blue."


"You wanna let me breathe?"

"Oh. My apologies, Bobby."

"S'okay." Because he isn't actually going to let go, or anything. If they just wanna bunny-hop over and dump themselves onto the bedspread, they could probably sleep like this. He knows Hank's warm enough without a blanket most of the time, what with the fur, and he should be warm enough too, as long as Hank doesn't let go of him. He'd have to sleep in his clothes, but he's done it before, and Hank's just got the Captain Underpants shorts, since clothes and fur are sorta contradictory.

But actually Hank does let go of him, and makes him take his shoes and jeans and sweater off. Takes off his little wire-rims and lays them very carefully on the night table. And only then lets Bobby curl up against him, wrapped in his t-shirt and boxers and the blanket that only Hank's agility could have got around them both.

If he can't sleep still, it's less of an issue, because at least they're both quiet. And Bobby can get his face down into the fur and muscle and warmth and. Nuzzle. Just smelling, at first. Rubbing after. Trying to stop his brain swirling with the feel of the fur against his mouth. Like if he could crawl deep enough into that body, things would stop hurting him.

Wakes sometime later with his hand buried so deep in that fur he's found the skin underneath. Amazing warmth there, but he guesses that's not really so strange, since Hank's warm to touch even on the surface of his fur. Faint slight silkiness of the skin that he can follow, moving his hand sleepily across the big chest, until he finds something small and naked and delicately pointed that he strokes absently while he drifts. Not really awake, yet, only happy and warm and buried in the Hank-smell that's all around him.

"Bobby ..."


"You may wish to reconsider the activity with which your digits are presently occupied."

"In English?"

"Are you aware of what you're doing?"

Just slightly bemused. Bobby tilts his head out of the warm fur he fell asleep against and ratches his eyes open far enough to spot his fingers. Stretched far across Hank's chest and burrowed into the fur just at mid-pectoral and. Stroking the nipple there. And he tries to think for a minute before deciding that yeah, he does want to be doing that if it's alright, and he did sort of know he was doing it, before.


"I don't believe I was." Hitch in the breath. "Objecting. Oh Bobby..."

"Feels good?"


So he goes back to it, and lets his face go back into that fur. Hard muscle under it. Warmth of this person against him. The mind under it that he doesn't always get but that sorts his life out for him when he needs it and heals people maybe better than anyone else Bobby's ever met.

Quiet in the room so he gets to hear the little hitches in Hank's breathing. Might even if his ear weren't so close to the man's lungs. Something almost like panting while he rolls the tiny bud between his fingers, loving the texture of the skin and the pleasure running out from his touch. As good, he's willing to bet, at the brush of fur over his own bare skin. Very, very soft against the thigh he threw over Hank's legs some time in the last couple of hours. Against the small of his back where Hank's started stroking him gently.

The pleasure's evidently enough to bring Hank's arms around him and boost him on top of that huge body. Not as far for him to reach once he's moved, and much more comfortable. Warm-animal and blood smells all over both of them. Hank's fingers work the muscles in his back like something between a massage and molestation. Down his spine to the waist of his boxers and then out to his sides. Not even danger territory.

Maybe just a little closer to it when Bobby pushes himself up towards Hank's face and comes up against Hank's erection. Against his own. Oh. But good, an extra pleasure-spike when he rubs himself, face and body, against Hank. Something to ground him when he tilts his head up towards the eyes shining down towards him in the dark and whispers Hank and then presses his mouth to that big one.

mind the fangs

So. Carefully. Very carefully. While he gets to feel the short fur and very soft skin at Hank's mouth and the faint moisture there. Hank's hands high on his back now, one between his shoulder blades and the other at the base of his neck, holding him there. Not a threat, even with the claws brushing his skin. Just. Very warm. Comforting.

Soft along the inside of his thighs and the insides of his arms. All over his chest after Hank peels the t-shirt off over his head and drops it off the side of the bed. Hard against his own erection. The sheer pleasure of it when he rocks hard. Gasps that push out from Hank's mouth into his. And if sometimes he's whimpering a few begging-animal sounds himself, it's not really unreasonable, all things considered.

Hank's hands slide down inside Bobby's boxers, and Bobby's suddenly arched back, just loving the slide of fur across his skin. Loving the very gentle touch that brushes between his ass cheeks. This is okay. Maybe better than that. And he's figuring out most of the things he needs to know himself. Like that the skin under that fur is super- sensitive. That the ears are too, and he can get a full-body writhe out of Hank just by tracing the rim of one of them with the tip of his finger.


"Yeah." Not a question. Not even really a conversational opening.

"Are you --" bucks against him "-- certain this is something you want?" Loud choose now note in that question. Because, Bobby realizes, they're only about two half-steps from actually doing this. And Hank knows maybe better than anybody that it's not something Bobby's done before. Hank knows about every kiss, every crush. About the couple of times he and John. On his bed. And how he didn't exactly deal afterwards so much as freak and not-deal until Hank came home and took him out into the woods and stuck him up in a tree and lectured him for an hour on ingrained prejudices and other things that he already, frankly, knew a lot about, though maybe not in quite that way.

His own nipples are aching right now, which hasn't, as far as he can remember, ever happened before, and the front of his boxers is past sticky. And he feels right now like this is the only thing keeping his heart from breaking loose.

Bobby sits up, settles his ass against Hank's lower belly, and pulls one of those huge hands up to his chest. Holds it there and just stares down. Tries to think of a way to say I want this that'll make him sound adult enough to be believed. Looks and. Looks. And eventually just nods and feels Hank gather him up.

Very warm against Hank's body. Completely surrounded by it as long as he keeps being held like this. Hank sits up and props himself against something and rocks Bobby gently while Bobby rubs his face into the fur in front of him. Finds a tiny nipple in the expanse of pelt and tongues it this time and gets a very serious thrust against his ass in response. Finds he doesn't have the breath to howl when Hank's fingers strip him of his boxers and start stroking him. Nothing in the world like the touch of fur just. There. Newly wet touch, running up along his belly and down along his cock and behind it, massaging him into something like hyper-arousal. Kiss on his neck, very softly.

He forgets, sometimes, how careful Hank is. That in spite of having hands half the size of Bobby's ribcage, he performs open-heart surgery. When he kisses Bobby, it's like that. Just the faintest brush, a little bit wet. Over and over. Along his throat and collarbone and jaw and eyes. He could come just from this. Only. Not quite fair, that. And he needs this to be mutual, like for a change maybe he can give Hank something instead of just sucking up all the comfort this man's ever had to give him.

The shorts are heavier than they look, and they don't peel away easily. Much easier at first just to slide his hand inside and touch. Which gets almost as much reaction out of him as it does out of Hank. Because like the nipples, this skin is very, very soft, and startlingly not-furry. Extra-warm and very hard in his hands and. Big. Which he should have expected, even just to keep it in proportion, but it's one thing to sort of know that, abstractly, and another to close your hand around it.

"Oooooooh, my --"

"Stars and garters. Yeah." Against Hank's mouth. Feels the smile and the next gasp as he tightens his grip just a bit. Slicking in his grasp. And once he's got the motivation, Hank's willing to help him get the shorts loose.

After which they're both a lot more comfortable, and Bobby gets to feel that cock against his. The incredible slickness of it. Huge against his belly. Only he keeps thinking that. He wants it. Which is one of those things he's actually going to have to say out loud, very clearly, if he expects to be believed.

What he actually gets out is, "Would you ... if I asked, would you. Fuck me." And then just buries his face in Hank's chest and breathes hard. Somewhere between humiliated and turned on.


Quite possibly the best single-syllable answer Hank's ever given him. Even once Hank makes him understand that he has to prep himself if he's serious about this. One big finger and its threateningly huge claw trailing down his cheek for emphasis. But he thinks maybe he can do it. Very secure with Hank's arms bracing him while he knees up and slicks himself out of the tube that actually was in the night stand when Hank reached for it.

Soft rumbling breaths in his ear while he slides the first finger in. The angle's awkward and he can't really get as deep as he should be, and it hurts for a minute but. After that it's good. Like stroking himself gently. A little more intense when he slides the second finger in. A lot more when he pushes the third one in, and now he can't actually get very deep at all. But if they do this carefully, it might be okay.

Crawls down Hank's body, eventually, and just looks. Pre-dawn light through the window just enough for him to get a sense of the cock in front of him. Big, yeah, and shiny-smooth. Very black, with just the faintest blue edge to it. Just barely curving in towards his belly. Hot in Bobby's hand, and against his lips when he bends to kiss the head before he slicks it.

After that, very carefully moving in Hank's arms. Fur and muscle all around his own too-bare, too-skinny body while he lets himself down. Long minute of panting before he can stand to take the head in, and a lot of whimpering-animal noises when he does. Cause it hurts. Easier only because Hank isn't asking if he wants to stop, not since that first do you that Bobby cut off by kissing him as hard as he could.

Almost twenty minutes to slide himself all the way down, and his legs are screaming from the strain by the time he does. He has to stay there for a while, pressed against Hank's chest and whimpering, until it stops hurting enough to make him blind and just gets to be this pressure inside that he can move against. That rubs in him in ways that make his own cock interested again. And while he isn't moving very much, the brush of soft belly-fur against his reawakening erection is amazing.

Fangs against his tongue the next time he kisses. Warm fur all around him. Very wonderful feeling when it brushes against his ribs. Absolutely contained in this body-lock. Safe. Hank whispers in his ear that he doesn't have to do this any faster than he wants to. Source-rumble of those words in the chest pressed to his.

Moves carefully, feeling the cock inside him press hard whenever he shifts a little. Feels it rearrange everything inside him the first time he gets brave to kneel up and thrust down for real. Breathy little scream out of his throat almost wholly swallowed by the animal- howl Hank lets out. Hands on his hips after that, gently urging him to do that again. Again.

At the end, he just hangs on around Hank's neck, kisses him as deeply as he can without actually crawling inside that other body, and kneels up enough that Hank can thrust the way he wants to. Always carefully but very. Hard. And a couple of body-lurches at just the right moment are more than enough, between the pleasure inside and the fur against hic cock, to set Bobby off. He feels himself clamp down, and the howl that it drags out of Hank is almost scary.

Leaves him shaking and still clinging to Hank's neck when the man finally relaxes. Pulls out very, very carefully, cautious of Bobby's whimpers of sort-of pain. And then cradles him. Rolls them both down flat and strokes him all over. Croons to him while Bobby cries for reasons that have nothing to do with the body-shock and a lot more to do with the ache he's been carrying since early evening. Maybe cries into Bobby's hair a bit. Hard to tell while he's so strung-out himself, but he thinks he's soggier than he should be, and the fur brushing against his cheek is definitely wet.

Decides that maybe he's comfortable like this if Hank is, and dozes still draped over the massive body. Nuzzling himself back down into the blue fur, deep as he can. And just vaguely thinking before he sleeps that they're going to be a damn sticky boy and cookie monster come morning.

Bobby wakes up later with the slow dread in the base of his stomach that suggests that something awful's happened, if he could just remember what. Mood-swings violently up to happy at the feel of Hank's body against his, a little to one side now. Remembers the hospital yesterday and whimpers and burrows down and decides not to acknowledge that he's awake just yet.

"Oh Bobby." Something like a sigh. He's pretty sure Hank doesn't realize he's awake. Brush of words into his hair that aren't really meant for him.

Long pause while Bobby snuggles closer and works on pretending the world doesn't exist.

Another sigh something like regretful this time. "Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul."

"Fuck you."

Which is probably the fiercest thing he's ever said to Hank, but for some god-knows-how reason, he actually got that reference, and he doesn't like it. Pushes himself up on both hands and stares down as fiercely as he can into the dark eyes staring at him.

"I was wearing both my goddamn socks the first time you met me and I'm eighteen and I love you, asshole!"

And then flinches, because that last bit sounds like something out of a bad movie script, and he'd like to swallow it. He doesn't have to, but only because Hank gathers him up and squishes him against his furry blue chest again. It smells, right now, like Hank and like sex, and it's comfortable enough.

At some point, though, he's going to have to get up and shower and go back to his room to find different clothes. Get dressed and go downstairs and maybe hug Warren or something. Probably sit with him for most of today and most of tomorrow, just to be safe. Sit carefully, because he's aching in a key sitting place. Sit in Hank's lap if he has the choice, because he doesn't think anyone will actually notice. If he's an adult, it's only just barely, and there's a huge number of things he's happy to still be able to get away with.


Further notes: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac is real (well, comic book real). It's written by Jhonen Vasquez and published by Slave Labour Graphics.
Bobby gets offended at the at Hank's comment ("light of my life ...") because it's from Vladimir Nabokov's "Lolita." (Dolores "stood four-foot-ten in one sock" the first time Humbert Humbert saw her.)
While I'm aware that comics-canon Hank's eyes are blue, I'm playing in something that's far closer to the movieverse, so I can arrange details as I like. As far as continuity goes, I've presumed that Hank and Warren were off doing their own things at the time of the movie (but that they were original X-Men), and this takes place some time later.

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