Ficlet: Speaking in Tongues -- Hank/Bobby

Title: Speaking in Tongues
Author: Khirsah
Fandom: X-Men
Pairing: Hank/Bobby
Rating: NC-17

Summary: It’s all Hank’s fault.

Disclaimer: They are property of Marvel comics. I’m not making a dime.

Notes: Just a short pornlet to celebrate Mecca’s birthday. This is for you, baffledking.




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As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
–William Shakespeare



Bobby was comforted by the fact that it was all Hank’s fault. Even if they were pressed against the examination table, limbs akimbo and clothing rucked up to expose flesh. Even if (oh my) Hank’s tongue was in his mouth, the very tip exploring Bobby’s molars. Even if there was something very hard and very insistent pressed against his hip... it was Hank’s fault. Completely. Hell, Bobby was just here for a checkup.

A completely innocent checkup. Innocuous, even. That was a word Bobby used to have to look up, tongue between his teeth as he scanned through Oxford English. In the early days it had taken a great deal of effort to be Hank’s friend. Hank spoke an entire language to himself where words morphed into strange, multi-layered creations. Bobby would sometimes curl against him on the couch, listening as Hank monologued about his day. The rhythm was so unique– that’s why he was fascinated. At least, that’s why he told himself he was fascinated and thus why he had permission to listen so closely. Warren talked in long, pseudo-elegant phrases. Scott barely talked at all. Jean followed what Bobby would have called “normal smart” patterns: rat tat tattattat tat rat tattat rat.

Hank, though. Hank went on and on, words growing increasingly complex. Ratta tatttatatat rattattatter tatratnatphat tat tat rattatattattatrattattattertat. Tat.

It was like listening to the rain. Of course, whenever Hank said something that sounded particularly interesting, Bobby had to be assed to get up, search out the dictionary and decipher the code. Sometimes it was a game they played. Sometimes it was a real drive to understand. Sometimes he just found the words... sexy.

Loquacious. Quandary. Undulations.

That’s why it was Hank’s fault, Bobby reminded himself as he arched into the soft brush of fur against his nipples. He moaned, twisting, and Hank slid the fingers of his other hand into the waist of Bobby’s pants and– oh Lord– lifted him up onto a strong thigh. Bobby shifted and rubbed his erection against that thigh, sucking hard on Hank’s tongue.

“Ah, Bobby,” Hank breathed. “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

Shakespeare. Big words and Shakespeare– really, it was a wonder they hadn’t done this before. Hank carelessly quoted all the masters: writers, scientists, philosophers, comediennes. He found the best quote for almost any situation, rich voice rolling the words until they poured over Bobby’s skin. How doth the something something yadda May. God, it was intoxicating. In the earliest days Bobby would grow hard hearing him and would end up running awkwardly to his room to work off frustration. Countless hours staring up at his ceiling and thinking of Yeats. Socrates. God, Curie, and coming into his fist.

It still worked. It worked like a charm, making him writhe and bite at that agile, clever tongue. He sucked it deeper into his mouth and encouraged Hank to fuck past his swollen lips as Bobby rocked against his thigh. A circle of fucking– The Lion King. Hank loved musicals.

“Hank,” he moaned, voice muffled by Hank’s mouth. It was strangely shaped, lips too far around his head, and that just made it hotter. Clawed hands holding his hips, blue fur rubbing against his belly and nipples, tongue curling in his mouth as the other man growled deep in his chest. It sent vibrations through his body– it vibrated all the way up from his thigh to Bobby’s cock to Bobby’s brain and he sobbed as he came, thrashing in strong arms.

When he was wrung out (depleted, exhausted, impoverished), Bobby collapsed into impossibly strong arms. He allowed himself to be maneuvered, pliable, and murmured softly as Hank began to thrust against him. The thrusts came slowly at first, then with increasing desperation.

He twined his fingers in Hank’s fur and tried thrusting back. Bobby closed his eyes and rested his head on the broad chest as he ground down against Hank’s cock, pleased at the howl that produced. He did it again, and again, wringing strange-but-good noises from his best friend.

“Oh! My! Stars! And! Garters!” Hank panted, shifting Bobby’s weight easily and rutting against him. He was growling and breathless and, Bobby thought smugly, unable to utter a single quote or multi-syllabic word. Hank’s vocabulary was now “Bobby, please” and “yes, God” and “ah, ah, ah, yes” as he thrust against the curve of Bobby’s ass, closer and closer and–

“Euphoria!”

Really. That was just showing off. Bobby twisted Hank’s nipples, ending his words in a high pitched keen and smirked as Hank came with a twisting howl. Bobby rode out the tremors, clinging to Hank when Hank was lost enough to let go. His legs wound around the strong middle as he petted soft fur, reading the tremors like braille. Loving each breath.

Finally Hank stilled, arms going around him again. His mouth was soft and damp as he kissed Bobby, trying to wipe away the smug little grin.

He had every right to be smug, Bobby decided when Hank dropped to the medbay floor, drawing Bobby into his lap. After all– it was Hank’s fault.