Title: Cliché Part 1: Always On My Mind
Author: Savior Cloud/'Yama/Curt
Archive: Let me know where it's going first, please.
Disclaimer: Sadly, Bobby and Hank belong to neither me nor my friends who inadvertently stuck this idea into my head. If they did, there would probably be a great deal more heat than
Rating: NC-17 for excessive use of hands. To quote Dareen Hayes: "I think you'd better close your eyes, block your ears, this could be the gem of the year!"...Or not. Summary: Hank and Bobby can't seem to get each other off their minds...Bobby POV, Part 1
Notes: This isn't much: just a short little response to another list's Masturbation Month challenge, as originally written on a profanity-censored computer. Please be gentle. >_< Dedicated to Eiluned and Phantasmas, my two good friends, and to all my fellow Iceman freaks who also think he and Hank should've hooked up YEARS ago.
Feedback: Makes a gay Bobby fan happy! Ingonyama70@yahoo.com

Clichés Part 1 of 3: Always on My Mind

Saturday morning.

The den. A case of Pepsi. The first "Superman" movie blaring out at him at full volume. Life was good for Bobby Louis Drake.

But it could still be better. Sure, he had the den to himself for once, and he got to watch what he wanted...but something was missing.

*Hank.*

That was it. Bobby closed his eyes and grinned boyishly to himself, thinking about his best...his sexiest...friend, wondering what he was doing today. Probably in the lab, working on some pet project or other. After all, where else would you expect the X-Mansion's medical technician? In the pool?

*Hey...*

Bobby let himself picture that for a minute. Big, leonine, furry Hank, floating lazily in the cool water, dark blue in the middle of a field of light-blue water, wearing his old uniform trunks... No. Wearing *nothing.* After all, it was his fantasy, and he could think of a naked Beast if he wanted to.

Imagining this, Bobby shrugged off his flannel pajama shirt, his sweats already tented with a straining erection. First things first, though. Bobby's hands started roaming across his taut, smooth chest, hardened to lithe fitness during his years as an X-Man and X-Factor member.

*With Hank*

Bobby closed his eyes, the Superman movie going on unnoticed, the TV's volume drowning out his faint, whimpering moans of pleasure as his hands found his nipples...and more importantly, found out all over again how sensitive to touch they were. He stroked, he pinched them ever so slightly, his pants becoming even more tented, and a slight wet spot growing at the tip as Bobby's member decided it was ready to come out and play. A well-practiced flick of the wrist, and the PJ bottoms were on the floor, Bobby's slender, sculpted thighs and gleaming, crimson manhood springing upwards into his grasp, the head already slick with pre.

Bobby moaned aloud, remembering all the times he'd seen Hank in the shower...massive, rolling shoulders, broad, mountainous chest, biceps the Iceman would've joined Magneto for...and a huge, purple shaft that the Beast could stroke when he was less alone than he thought he was. Bobby's own fist pumped up and down his shaft, slick with pre and moving at a blurring pace already. His mind flashed through the images...Hank nude in the shower...lounging in the pool without benefit of swim trunks...stroking his own huge, beautiful shaft...his face contorted into an animalistic howl of ecstasy as he came, geysering out more of the silvery-white fluid than Bobby had ever seen...

And Bobby cried out Hank's name and clenched his eyes as tight as they would go as his body stiffened, convulsed, and came with wave after wave of orgasm hitting him all at once, like he imagined being mounted by Hank must feel. The fluids splashed across his chest and stomach, landing on his chin as he cried out Hank's name.

It went on forever. It wasn't nearly enough.

Finally, Bobby sagged back on the couch, panting, covered in sweat, but with a contented smile on his face. Idly wiping up the sticky liquids with his shirt, he shut off the TV, got up, and went to shower.

***

Around the corner, Henry McCoy sagged to the floor, leaning against the wall. He'd just heard his name moaned, over and over again, in ways that he never would've imagined hearing it. In a voice he never thought he'd hear it from.

Bobby's voice.

Rising to his feet, Hank pulled his trunks back up over his dripping member just in time to see Bobby head for the shower, shirtless and wearing only his pajama bottoms. A feral grin came to Hank's leonine face. Perhaps Mr. Robert Drake would not be averse to some non-platonic companionship in his hygenic sojourn.

~End~

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