Archive of Our Own ^beta

Officially, he wasn't invited. That much was obvious from the beginning. Having ears all around Krakoa meant he knew of Warren’s planned Halloween night out before he even sent the first batch of invitations, knew every club and hotel in L.A. that had been considered and then scratched off the list as Warren whittled down his options. Did he check his emails more than usual that week, eyes peeled for a message from his winged friend? Did he click into the spam folder and scroll through all the hot singles in his area to make sure nothing had ended up there by accident? Did he move a little too eagerly to check whatever notification had pinged up on his phone, only to exhale in frustration when it was just Domino and Quire sending incomprehensible images to one another in the Whatsapp group chat again? Maybe so. But by the end of the week it had become clear that whatever Warren had planned, Hank was not to be counted amongst the invitees.

Unfortunately for him, Warren clearly had not explained that Hank was left out for a reason, because Bobby Drake, dear old Robert, cluelessly invited him along about three days til the planned event. “He probably just clicked the wrong address, you know how flighty he gets,” Bobby assured him with his slightly gap-toothed grin. At the time, it seemed amusing to go along despite how clearly he wasn't wanted. A little bit juvenile of him, maybe, but what self-respecting adult past 27 plans to go clubbing across L.A. for Halloween? They deserved to be made fun of. And for all they wanted to ignore him, there he would be, a sore thumb amidst the happy group. A constant reminder of what sacrifices had to be made to ensure Krakoa’s existence, how not all of them were free to go off and do as they please. Some of them had jobs, and proper ones at that.

Of course, now he is here, Hank is certain he’s never regretted something so completely.

The place is loud, swarming with attractive people with too much time and too much money on their hands. The floors are that horrible sticky texture of a place that hadn't been properly cleaned, and the music… the music is just awful, seemingly just a Spotify algorithm playing anything, not even an actual curated playlist. He’s sat right at the edge of the booth they’ve all squeezed themselves into, and he has to strain to catch anything that’s being said, overexposed to the dun-dun-dun of the bass.

Not that he thought these people had much worth saying, frankly. 

Like some sort of prince or king, there sits Warren in the centre, his wings clipped together but exposed behind him, to make sure there was room for everyone else in the curved black booth. He's dressed as some kind of air force pilot, with a brown bomber coat and a large, cumbersome green ring on his right hand. Hank’s sure it’s a reference to something, but to what, he isn’t sure. He’s speaking half-illegibly to Dazzler, who sits to his left and, as always, is absolutely gorgeous. She’s dressed up in what Hank imagines to be an exact replica of a Dolly Parton stage outfit, complete with her hair done styled in a voluminous beehive-shaped fashion. It’s orange, spectacularly bedazzled with silver rhinestones and silver tassels all down her arms and legs. She even affects her voice to do a slight southern drawl, that he’s sure Rogue would not be amused by but is delightfully entertaining to everyone at their table. The first time she performed it for the group was also the first and only time he felt himself genuinely smile the whole evening.

Beside her sits Jean Grey, who pointedly does not look at Hank once during the evening. Not too long ago, Jean had him suspended halfway in the air, her considerable telekinetic might focused on choking him–but not too hard. Leaving him open to speak to her, to remind her the truth of the work they were doing. We are a nest of lies. He knows of Jean’s hypocrisy, and she knows his. Like a game of chess, both dancing around the issue, leaving out bait for the other to snap at, but never quite committing to exposing one another. She smoothens the neckline of her silvery jumpsuit, avoiding even glancing in his vague direction. Well, if he can ruin her evening, then perhaps this wasn’t all for naught.

She arrived dressed as Dazzler, which he imagined would have been funny to him in the X-Factor days, but now just seems ridiculous, with how uncomfortable and tight the disco suit seems to be. She didn’t wear Alison’s shiny roller skates, but she did wear a pair of chunky-heeled platforms that she’s complained about at least 5 times after they left. 

The final person at their side of the table sits Lorna Dane, who Hank hasn’t talked to in oh , some time. Despite being the one to discover her, as so to speak, he and Lorna weren’t particularly close friends, certainly not in recent times. Nothing much to say on her, and he imagines she doesn’t have much to say on him. Perhaps, he ought to have tried more to build that relationship, but–no, no use ruminating on what if’s. He knows better than that. 

She’s dressed as… a sort of Barbie palaeontologist? He’s not sure, but it’s his best guess with her blonde wig and dinosaur printed button-up. He’s not entirely unconvinced it’s not just clothes she already owns, with a wig slapped on. It’s slipped down slightly, and he can see strands of green sticking to her forehead in the low light.

On Warren’s other side sits, of all people, Stacy X. He knows they were on the same X-Men team with Bobby and Kurt and all the rest while he, Jean, Scott and Emma were dealing with Genosha, but he hadn’t known they’d been that close. Looking at how awkward Warren was, maybe they weren’t. Possibly, Bobby had accidentally invited along not just one, but two undesirables along. She appears to be dressed as Biblical Christ, which is by far the most interesting costume anyone at this table has. He’s not particularly familiar with the mutant prostitute, but seeing her dressed as the lord and saviour almost makes him wish he knew her better. Certainly, the him of times past would have loved the confidence.

Beside her, Northstar, who he’s certain has better things to do with his time than waste an evening at an overpriced and overfilled L.A. club, but there he sits at Stacy X’s side. He thinks the man would have preferred to sit next to Alison (they all would have), but there he is next to Stacy X, garbed in a low-effort Dracula costume. His finger slowly circles the rim of his glass, a tall Mojito, looking slightly unfocused and uninterested in Robert’s endless stream of babble next to him. Ah, Bobby . Hank supposed he’s grateful to be next to his old friend, who seemingly is still clueless at the bitter atmosphere in the party. He’s almost completely covered himself with silver bodypaint, and he’s squeezed his head into a bald cap–an attempt to homage Norrin Radd, of all things. Why? That is only known to Robert Drake and the mysterious inner workings of his mind. Hank’s certain some of the paint is going to rub off on his fur before the evening is over.

“He said, see, he said ‘I got nothin’ against muties, I just hate that fucking island’, and I said ‘Hey man, I’m just calling them as icy them’”–

“Absolutely hysterical,” Northstar says drily. “You would have thought you ran out of ice-related puns in the first year or so of being an X-Man, and yet you continue to scrape the barrel. Spectacular. ”

“Icetonishing,” Bobby corrects, flashing his toothy grin at the man. Lorna and Jean groan in unison. Alison giggles, then mindlessly curls one of those stray curls of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. 

“God, alright, me and Lorna are going back to the bar,” Jean announces, wriggling into Lorna’s side until she moves to get up. Yet again, Jean tries to smoothen down the neckline of her sparkly disco suit. “Do you guys want anything…?” Her eyes pointedly do not look in the direction of Bobby and Beast.

“Another rum and coke, actually Jean!” Robert yells, waving his hand to catch her attention. She smiles at him, which immediately slips off when her eyes float briefly over Hank. He stays silent.

Warren asked for something, but Hank couldn’t hear what over the din. He didn’t really care to focus so he could find out. The two women leave, leaving a gap over where Alison sits. Her elbows move upwards to rest on the countertop, silver tassels splaying all over the black surface.

“Ooo dun ‘ve koftune,” Robert coughs next to him, now looking at him with a slightly accusatory expression.

He stares blankly. “Pardon me?”

“Allo-een ootfoot!”

Hank has to lean in closer, because he has absolutely no fucking clue what Robert was on about.

“YOU AREN’T WEARING A COSTUME!” Robert yells right in his ear, Hank throwing his head back and rubbing his ear with a glare directed at the man. He can smell the spiced rum off his breath.

“I am the costume, Robert,” Beast grumbles, trying to sound as patronising as he can muster. He’s right, of course–why should a man covered in blue fur dress up more than he already inherently is, just by nature of his genes? He’s even developed tusks in the new Krakoan age, and the usually acidic yellow eyes he felt he only just got properly used to have turned into completely blackened holes, almost lifeless. It’s as if his body is turning itself into the Beast he’s become inside, poisoned thoughts resulting in a poisoned body. No need to dress any more like a Beast.

“Still, I mean, everyone else dressed up…” Robert almost childishly retorts, but he has the dignity to look a little embarrassed, turning back to bother Warren and Stacy with his needless babble. 

Alison is staring at them. He’s only ever known Alison to be infallibly, fundamentally kind, so the penetrating sharpness in her eyes when he goes to meet them catches him momentarily off guard. He is so used to watching himself, keeping himself guarded around the many telepaths that populate the mutant nation, but he’s never thought to defend himself against Dazzler’s gentle, and yet punishing gaze. The sensation of being studied, the layers of him being stripped and thrown aside in search of something underneath makes his fur start to stand on edge. It’s disquieting. 

He leans in. “I know it’s meant to be Dolly, but what era of Dolly, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Deflection, always a great weapon to have in one’s arsenal.

She leans forward too, so she can hear him. “Which era… oh!” She smiles again, her gaze softening. Despite himself, Hank smiles ever so slightly back. “It’s from her Blue Smoke World Tour. Gosh, but I hope I’m still performing like that at her age. She’s an inspiration, and so talented–”

“You wear her outfits well,” Hank says before he can stop himself. “To be honest, when you first showed up, I wasn’t sure if you were actually in a costume–”

“Oh, shut up ,” she says, but there’s a humorous sparkle in her eyes and a grin on her face when she sits back to fold her arms in mock anger. Hank sits back, satisfied.

Jean and Lorna arrive back, oddly empty handed. Weren’t they off to collect some exotic brand of tequila being sold at the bar? And Jean has this great big smile on her face, and– oh no .

“You’ll never guess what I just overheard,” Jean starts, sliding back next to Alison and gleefully looking at Warren. He leans in to hear her better, as Jean brings a hand to cup the side of her mouth like she’s about to divulge a secret. Beast’s ears twitch to listen in.

“ Apparently , Mary Jane Watson is having a party near here, as a kind of wrap party for a new series she’s filming, and some superheroes are already there! Didn’t say who, but from the sounds of it, some Avengers–”

“You’re not suggesting we crash someone else’s party, Jeanie?” Warren takes on a teasing tone, but he leans in with unmistakable interest.

“Of course not, but it would be good PR, the X-Men and Mary-Jane Watson…”

“It would be excellent PR.”

You can’t be serious, Beast wants to say, but before he can, Alison pipes up. “Oh, I’ve met MJ before!”

Jean whips around to look at her, and he takes a small amount of joy in the way Lorna has to spit out some of her hair. “Really, Ally? When?”

“They were going to hire me to sing the opening to a show she was a recurring character in, a hospital drama, I think,” Alison says with a hint of smugness to it. “It didn’t turn out in the end, but we did spend an afternoon together. She’s sweet!”

Jean turns to Warren with an almost manic look in her eye. Beast glances at the three empty glasses of differing sizes and shapes in front of her.

“We’ll check it out,” Warren says with assumed authority. “Worst comes to worst, we can head back to the Green Lagoon.”

Hank can’t stop himself from scoffing. Luckily, nobody seems to hear him over the wall-shaking sounds of… is that Fresh Prince of Bel Air they’re playing?  

Well everyone, it’s been a pleasure quietly ruining your evening with my quasi-offensive jokes and thinly-veiled insults, but this is one function I shall not follow you to, Hank practises saying in his head as he gathers his brown overcoat into his arms, shifting to the side and then pulling himself out of the booth, which takes more effort than he remembers. Out of the corner of his eye, Jean stumbles in her heels and has to catch herself onto Lorna, almost sending them both into a neighbouring table. Hank grins to himself. Alison and Warren edge out tentatively after them, and Beast wonders if he needn't give an explanation after all, if he could just slide off through the back entrance while their attention was focused on checking if Jean was steady.

Bobby, Northstar and Stacy X all move behind him to follow him out of their booth. Northstar especially seems disinterested in the prospect of crashing some party of acting elites, even that of the renowned Mary Jane. It’s probably all old news to him, socialite he once was. Vaguely, he wonders what it is that Ms Watson is filming that took her from her home in New York. She isn’t dating that photographer anymore, his mind helpfully supplies, before he aggressively shakes it to dispel those thoughts. What is he, a TMZ columnist?

“You’re coming with us, right?” Alison interrupts from behind him, apparently foreseeing Beast’s plan to slip away while their attention was focused elsewhere. She’s standing in front of all of them, but her eyes meet Hank’s first. 

He’s changed his mind. She’s as bad as the rest of them.

“I, well…” Hank flounders, hoping an excuse will surface in his mind. But nothing other than fuck you, Blaire comes to mind. “... I’ll tag along,” he relents.

She grins, like she’s actually happy at the prospect that he’d be there with them, which gives Hank a stack of feelings he’s not sure how to analyse. He supposes they haven’t spent enough time together in recent times for her to fully realise the extent to which he’s changed from the harmless blue kitten everyone seems to remember and miss.

It does make him feel a bit remorseful, that people like Alison will have such allusions so roughly shattered. Other X-Men, he couldn’t really muster up the energy to care about what they thought, but Alison has only ever been an angel to him. And he’s always tried to be good to her, accordingly. 

Ah well. Eggs and omelettes, afterall.

—

If the first place had been Hell, this must be some kind of inner circle of it. It’s abjectly awful. There truly isn’t any other word for it. He thinks the other X-Men (does he even get to call himself an X-Man anymore, or has that been stripped from him along with his dignity and respect?) have purposefully left him in the middle of this place, surrounded on all sides by the semi-famous who say their names like Beast should know them, but he hasn’t the faintest clue who any of these people are. There is music blasting out from the bar through two double doors, which are propped open and despite being in the next room, it is still deafening mixed with the rumble of intoxicated conversation. At least earlier, a certain amount of sound was bounced off by the high walls of the booth, so he wasn’t constantly picking up snippets of other people’s conversations. Trying to maintain focus here is a lost cause, and Beast’s resigned to sort of floating about with a salted martini in his hand. Even that’s pissing him off –the glass looks tiny in his oversized hand, fragile and minute. It makes him feel more like a Beast than usual, makes his skin feel too tight around his flesh, like he needs to moult it off, like the shedding of snakeskin.

The one silver lining is the gruesome enjoyment he gets from scaring off the few who work up the courage to talk to him, usually by making a guttural snarl, or baring his oversized canines, or even just flashing his inky eyes in a particularly threatening way… that gasp of fear, it almost makes standing in this hellhole they call a hotel worth it.

Almost. 

He could just leave. He knows this. And he can’t quite figure out why he hasn’t. Alison has clearly ditched him with the other X-Men, so there’s little point in staying around, is there? Seeking her out to say goodbye would be… ridiculous, sentimental, and in all likelihood look desperate. So why stay? He can’t answer his own question, and the frustration he feels curdles into a quiet fury.

He takes another sip of his martini, pulls a face as his tongue makes contact with salt. Swivels the glass, watches the liquid inside form a vortex with the movement. He then knocks it all back in one, sets it down on one of the tables decorated with foliage in overexpensive vases, and sets off to find a waiter with some kind of booze, or failing that, he supposed he’d brave the bar to pick something up. Something strong . His eyes look around, then land on a lonely waiter picking up the remnants of finished drinks. 

Perfect.

He silently wanders up to the man, then clears his throat, loudly. The man, small, with a face that he’s sure normal people find handsome but to Beast is woefully forgettable, jumps at the sound, and positively blanches when he actually turns to look at him. His face contorts in a shocked grimace, then tries to smoothen back to a professional smile.

“Sir? Can I… help you?” 

Beast grins, baring his teeth with the movement. “Yes, actually, good man. I’m woefully without a drink, and even more woefully sobering up. Won’t you be a good fellow, and fetch me a drink from the bar? Something with punch, understand?”

The waiter takes a step back, despite the air of professionalism he seems to be grasping at weakly. “I, well–do you have a tab with us, sir?”

Beast rolls his eyes a little, and thrusts a $20 and $10 dollar bill together at him, from a wad of which he’d taken out before leaving the mutant island. He’s still struggling to wrap his head around the fact that a drink here could be over $25, but that’s the L.A. tax for you.

“This is just your lucky day, isn't it? And, I cannot stress this enough, something strong, or I’m going to be a most agitated customer, comprende?”

Beast sends the little man off to collect his drink, and feels pleased with himself for avoiding the actual bar. He’s fairly certain that’s where the other X-Men are, and he isn’t drunk enough yet to enjoy crashing their retreat away from him, to revel in upsetting them with snide remarks and a prickly persona.

It occurs to Beast, standing around here and watching the denizens of the Los Angeles middle and upper class mull around on their phones or chatting to one another, that he isn’t completely sure where the nearest gateway is. He didn’t bring a phone with him, because after the foundation of the great mutant nation he’s found he doesn’t really require one, typically using a laptop for sending of emails and messages, or advanced biotech to do what the computers fail at. He can’t search for it, and this bunch of morons wouldn’t give good directions anyway. He stares up at the ceiling, watching the glittering chandeliers as he thinks. I suppose it couldn’t be too hard to slip into one of these rooms and spend the night, Hank muses. It seems quite a lot of trouble to go back to Krakoa and make my way back to my house, and it’s drier here than it is back on the island, my fur has been matting so much as of late…

The little waiter is back, with another tall, wide-bowl’d, slender-stemmed glass on a tray. Beast whips it off, then shoos him off. He stalks back to that random table he’d been mindlessly hanging around, with… he’s not sure what’s in it, actually, but it’s some transparent liquor and a fruit juice of some kind. Probably something else, but he doesn’t particularly care. He takes a mouthful, and immediately grimaces at the pungent sweetness. Why the fuck did he give me bacardí? Do I truly deserve cosmic punishment to this extent?

It takes a moment, but as he handles his overly sweet beverage, he becomes suddenly aware of how quiet it’s become in the room. Not completely silent, but people speak in hushed tones now, rather than deafening noise. And… the music! Next door, that overenthusiastic DJ has seemingly gone home, because no thumping bass echoes through the open door anymore. Curiously–now able to actually form coherent thoughts–Hank peers through the door, but is greeted with inky shadows. He can see the vague shape of the bar, but nothing else.

He turns back and goes back to people-watching, periodically taking gulps of his drink and each time furrowing his brows when the overpowering sweetness hits his tongue. He could throw it away, but despite the cloying flavours, it does seem to be doing its job of thoroughly intoxicating him. Not enough so that it stops him from noticing that everyone seems to be staring at the open doors. In fact, a good few have their phones out, ready to film or possibly having already started. There’s a number of cameramen with Sonys, Canons or Nikons around their necks, eyeing the door with as much barely held patience as the rest of them. For a moment, everything is silent, just him watching other people watch nothing.

An eruption of cheers, clapping and sounds of cameras snapping shocks him, everyone jerking back into action. Bright lights almost blind him, as the camera flashes go off and what appears to be a makeshift spotlight directed right at the doors to the bar his back is facing. Bewildered, Hank spins around, then immediately understands the sudden excitement overflowing into the room. There stands the star of the evening herself, Mary Jane Watson. Who, bizarrely, looks to be dressed up as Columbo? That brown raincoat and tie are so distinctive…

Speaking of distinctive, behind her, comes the sound of a soft, slightly throaty laugh–one he knows very well. His stomach drops. It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be what they meant by other superheroes at this function!!

And, yet, emerging from the inky black shadows is a pair of red shades he knows so well, memorised like the claws of his hand. Then a face, and then–wait.

Vaguely he’s aware of going very, very still. Of course, it’s Simon Williams, but… oh, my stars and garters.

It’s… small. No other word for it. A very, very small black corset, that squeezes tight around Simon’s waist that he already knows is slender as is. His pectorals, which by all accounts are tight, muscular things you could break a hand on, look soft , inviting in that dark fabric. The corset has to be doing something, because it’s almost like cleavage, threatening to spill over those delicate cups. It seems at odds with those thick arms ladened with defined muscles, those broad, unblemished shoulders Hank could comfortably hang off from. The corset bulges obscenely at the crotch, clearly not designed for the form of the man who was wearing it.

But it’s his thighs that might have broken Hank’s brain. Massively built thighs, impossibly defined calves, all wrapped up in delicate fishnets. The damn things are just a touch too tight, letting his flesh spill out slightly from the criss-cross pattern. It feels somehow more illicit than if his legs had been bare, but covered in those dainty tights, God. His mouth’s gone bone dry, his jaw aches from how tightly his teeth are clenched.

Simon turns to the side to stand next to MJ, and Hank is momentarily blinded again by the flash of a camera light, but he can’t even bring himself to shut his eyes for a second. Is that… why does it have a bunny tail? Hank wails in his mind, now glued to the slight movements of the white accessory right above his… above his…

A quiet shattering of glass, his hand stings–the damn thing broke in his hand. He hadn’t kept control of himself, and it–Simon made him–Hank shakes his head vigorously. He’s having some kind of out-of-body experience, untethered to himself and instead hopelessly tethered to the figure of muscle and soft material. His vision isn’t yet doubled, but the sight of his slightly bloody paw with the remnants of that tiny glass stuck in it swims nauseatingly before him. He takes a breath, then yanks the largest shard out of his bluish skin, and sets it down on the table in front of him. He tries to take a deep breath, to steel himself, to try and swallow down the deeply confusing arousal that’s making itself known in his traitorous body.

He shouldn’t be hard. It should be ridiculous, laughably so, the idea of a man as imposingly massive, as muscular as Simon Williams is, to be dressed in some twisted homage to Playboy bunnies. Maybe, if he was more sober, it would be as innocently funny as it was probably intended, but in the drunken sludge of his mind it’s somehow the most erotic thing he’s seen in his life. His cock twitches insistently in his trousers, undeterred by injury. God .

He’s got to sort this out. His head aches from the noise, the booze and the sheer amount of blood that’s migrated downwards instead of where he needs it. He looks up from where the bloody shards of glass are, and–oh dear.

He’s been caught.

The thick red frames make it difficult to be certain, but Hank knows well what it’s like to be under Simon’s gaze, even after such a gap as this one. He’s not sure why he ever thought Simon wouldn’t see him– he’s a blue furry ape wearing a brown trench with a solid gut and paws like dinnerplates, for God’s sake –but his stomach drops all the same. At all angles, this looks bad. He hasn’t reached out to Simon since–well, some time before Krakoa was established. He wasn’t keeping up with any of the latest news, knew nothing about what he was doing, what the outline of his life was looking like these days. It seemed smart, at the time, to isolate away from all of those who might threaten his focus, which needed to be exclusively on Krakoa. But now that he’s here, frozen like a deer in headlights with tented trousers, he’s kicking himself for making such a ridiculous decision. Getting hard over a friend is already decidedly not great, but it’s not the end of the world! You can laugh it off, or make a joke of it or politely take a cold shower. But showing up to a party / impromptu photoshoot after years of no contact sporting a hard-on–not his finest moment.

Out of the din, he hears a familiar voice call his name. Everything inside of him lurches uncomfortably. The world seems stilted, slow-motion.

He drags his eyes away from Simon Williams (still looking at him with an expression he can’t discern, or more accurately, is refusing to discern), and looks in the direction of the shout. Radiant as ever, there stands Alison, a cluelessly happy smile on her face and waving her arm to try and get his attention. A heartwarming gesture of goodwill, maybe. Hank feels distinctly sick.

He glances back to Simon, who hasn’t stopped staring through those red frames. Back to Alison. Back again.

Hank does the cowardly thing, and flees to the nearest empty corridor he can find.

——

He finds himself stumbling into one of the hotel rooms on the third floor. He may have broken the door just a little on the mad dash in, but that’s a problem he can deal with tomorrow. He’s pretty sure he can wrangle things so it comes out of Charles’ bank account, and not his.

He aims to throw himself on the double bed with white towels neatly stacked atop it, but he must be drunker than he realises because he misses and ends up slumping on the floor, one arm clutching at the white silk bed sheets and the other curling at his side. Have to calm down, he thinks to himself, too aware in the comparative silence of the hotel room of his pounding heart and his uneven gasps of air.

Woefully ignored, his arousal pulses needily in his trousers. His still-bloodied hand curls at the soft sheets. I have to calm down, his brain repeats.

Shakily, his other hand moves down and grasps the bulge in his grey pinstripe trousers. Even through layers of fabric, the relief is immense. A soft involuntary grunt, more of a sigh, really, escapes him.

It’s just to calm down, he’s thinking as he undoes the too-tight belt that’s keeping his belly in, fishes around in his navy boxer-briefs and pulls out his cock, grunting again when it slaps gently at his exposed underbelly. His hand is slow, trying to steady itself as he gently strokes the tip. Fuck, it’s wet. He must’ve been leaking precum without realising.

His head is spinning. He squeezes his eyes shut but the only thing he can see in his mind’s eye is the imagined expanse of impossibly broad shoulders, a slender, muscular waist wrapped in delicate black material, huge thighs in sultry fishnets. Stars . He strokes himself roughly, helpless to the swirling thoughts supplied by his intoxicated mind. 

In abstract, he supposes he knows that Simon’s always been attractive . Tall, with downturned, soulful eyes (when he cared to show them), a strong Aquiline profile that suits his sharp jaw and sculpted cheekbones. Yes, his friend is incredibly handsome, almost painfully so. But whatever vague concept he had about Simon Williams’ beauty feels distant and detached from this , a blood-pumping and insatiable desire. For him. For the way his calves are formed and how they look in those tights he still can’t get over, how high that tight bodysuit went on his hips and buttocks, the plump white tail above an equally plump ass–

His body crumples over like he’s been just been stabbed. His hand works faster on his prick, almost manic. It hurts a little, how fast he’s going without any lubrication but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to go up and search for some. Anything that isn’t thinking of Simon and his tiny costume is impossible.

In his mind, Simon splays backwards, a coquettish, shy look on his face as he spills onto silk sheets that is at odds with the defined stature of him. It looks like if he were to just flex hard enough, the whole thing would come peeling off him, unable to contain the built man underneath, but no such thing happens–he just lays there pleasantly, patiently. Like he’s waiting for him. Simon, he knows, would be a little nervous or even embarrassed at his own display, but in his dreamlike haze the only thing that transpires as is an uncertain waver in ruby red eyes when he spreads his voluptuous thighs, the black of the corset fading away so Hank can imagine the length of him straining against the tight black fishnets. He hasn’t actually ever seen Simon’s cock except for the briefest suggestion of it when he once dropped into his room without knocking while the poor lad was changing–but he can imagine it clearly; long and slender and almost delicate despite its heft and size, beading precum in anticipation. The black fishnets would pull vulgarly tight over his balls, desperate to be let out of the flimsy material, fuck. Everything throbs, with such intensity it is on the verge of painful in his lustful daze.

His hand is smearing blood onto the white silk bedsheets but that’s a distant problem, barely a coherent thought at all. It aches slightly from how hard he’s clenching the fabric, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in his lions, the ache deep in his chest. “Fucking hell,” he mumbles to nobody as he pumps himself rapidly, lost in his task. Is that what he sounds like? It’s almost the voice of a stranger, so guttural and wild, but he has no time to focus on his own behaviour. Would Simon be soft-spoken as he usually is? Tender, quiet gasps in his ear, uncertain fingers furling and unfurling into his coat? Or would he be louder like he does when he’s drunk, letting Hank coax full-throated moans out of him? Is he gentle, is he rough? Maybe instead of a hesitant touch his hands would fist impatiently in his coat, yanking them closer together. Would he want this as much as Hank does? Would he lean in, his usual smooth, soft-toned voice roughened with want, and whisper sweet pleas to be filled–

“Oh,” is the only strangled noise he can make as his cock spills come all over his hand, ropes hot and thick. Caught off guard, he doesn’t move fast enough and some splutters onto the carpet. He’s going to have to scrub that out before he forgets. His very bones seem to pulsate with a distant, heady pleasure. Chaotic breaths make his chest rise and fall rapidly in his afterglow. Finally, after it seems to have abated and the good feeling in his chest is becoming steadily replaced with a feeling of vague fear, he opens his eyes.

His body still is half-crumpled, prone. Both his hands ache, albeit for very different reasons. His knees have been bent in this position too long, and, to his own shock, he appears to still be half hard. For a moment, he considers stroking himself to completion a second time, then decides against it almost immediately–jerking off to the idea of a friend twice in a row definitely feels like it’s breaking some kind of unspoken contract. He quite likes the idea of being able to look Simon in the eye again at some point in his life, if or when this all blows over. He braces himself, then stands, involuntarily groaning as his bones painfully pop back into a more natural position. For a moment, the entire room spins around him, a mix of alcohol and being sat in the same position for too long. He feels quite queasy, and stumbles to the wall to steady himself. He blinks around blearily, trying to will the room to stop doubling and swimming before him like a broken film reel. It takes a moment, but everything refocuses.

Hank makes his way to the ensuite next to the half-broken entryway, laboured and clumsy. Steps are slow, unsteady. His stomach churns uncomfortably and Hank curses himself for not eating more before he left. He’s not quite nauseous yet, but he’s threatened by too much saliva in his mouth and a general queasiness in his gut. Deep breaths. 

Hank pauses at the door, looking down at his hands. Neither blood nor semen seem a particularly fun thing to find smeared on a door handle in a hotel, but he’s only got two hands! He thinks on it for a moment, then slowly extends the hand he was jerking off with a minute ago and awkwardly tries to use just his pinkie finger to twist the handle. A rare instance of something going right for him tonight, it works, and he is met with the dark inside of what he imagines is the same slightly sterile white-gold aesthetic of the whole building, but he can’t see much, eyes refusing to make out any shapes that he should normally be capable of discerning. Henry, the light. Using the same one-fingered technique, he searches for a switch on the wall, the smallish room flooding with fluorescent light. It might be tastefully minimalist, it might be insultingly sparse, but Hank isn’t in a position to particularly care. He makes a beeline for the sink, staunchly refusing to look in the large, backlit mirror above it. He doesn’t want to look at the state of himself, see that sad, accusatory look in his own eyes.

Tap, on. The water is cold against his slightly feverish skin, but he pays it little mind as he first rinses the hand covered in his semen, most of it mercifully coming away fast. He increases the pressure a little of the tap, and as the water gets hotter his entire blue-toned hand is clean. That’s a start. Slowly, he runs his other hand under the tap, wincing at the pain as hot water splashes against the wounds in his hand. The water runs dark red, then light, then clear. He twists the faucet off, then braces himself for his next challenge. Carefully, he starts to pick out the smaller shards of glass that have only embedded themselves deeper, using his almost talon-like claws to tease them out. Blood dribbles out of the wounds left exposed, but he pays it no mind. It takes a few moments of almost surgical precision, very impressive given he has no tools, and is considerably intoxicated, but all of them–or at least the larger ones–are out now, and sit bloodied in the sink. Again, Hank rinses his hand, then starts looking for something to wrap his hand in. But there’s nothing except for toilet paper and small white hand towels stacked on the top of the toilet seat, perfectly symmetrical. He considers, then picks up one of the towels. There’s blood staining the bedsheets, so the damage is already done, he reasons.

He hasn’t completely managed to dispel the vague fear, but his conscience is starting to clear up, starting to ease the pit of anxiety that settled in his chest. Somehow, he still hasn’t softened up yet, and he feels distinctly gross after his time in the club and sweating so much, but that’s nothing an extended cold shower and a brief nap couldn’t fix.

Leaving the small ensuite, Beast goes to the bed and picks up one of the larger bath towels from the neat stack, feeling the soft material against his weathered paws. He’s fine. This whole situation is simply due to a lapse of judgement and self-control induced by overconsumption of alcohol on his part, nothing more. And tomorrow, when he returns to Krakoa and to X-Force, he will fall again into the steady routine he’s been in ever since Charles approached him with his offer. He will continue to act in Krakoa’s best interests, even if her people can’t understand the necessity of his work. He will continue to give Sage her orders, continue to ensure every mission goes accordingly, and continue to keep Logan, Dominio and the rest in check. He will continue to question where his humanity went in the early hours of the morning as his mind becomes heavy with the weight of his actions, will continue to dispel that weakness as much as he can with as many snide, biting remarks to his teammates as they would tolerate, and then some.

He’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Something knocks at the door and Hank panics , grabs the stack of towels and picks them up like he’s going to… throw them? Cover himself with them? Use as a kind of weapon? He ends up just sort of holding them to his chest, and yells “Who is it?” to the door. His voice sounds croaky, a mix of dehydration and being emotionally compromised rendering it weak and warbling.

“Simon,” a voice he knows all too well replies, gentle but far from comforting. “Williams,” it adds, as if it could be anyone else.

Hank feels like the entire carpet has been yanked from under him. His stomach drops. His throat tightens. The world seems to tilt on its axis. To his horror, the door handle begins to turn. His dick is still out .

“WAIT!” he squawks. It’s a far cry from the modulated, in-control, manipulative tone he’s perfected over the past few years. Rather, it’s a horrible, pathetic noise akin to begging and he’s never hated himself more–alright, well that’s a lie, but it’s on the list–in this moment for being so desperate, yet Simon complies. The handle doesn’t move. “Just… wait a moment, I need to, ah, make myself decent. Just a second, please. ” His voice is a little clearer, but still throaty.

Simon says nothing. Hank’s stomach twists.

Unwilling to test how long Simon’s willing to wait, Hank tucks himself back into his trousers and awkwardly tries to do them up again. He initially tries to suck his stomach in as far as it will go so he can do up his belt again, but it seems a lost cause, so he resigns himself for zipping his fly and trying to avoid feeling bad for the way his stomach hangs a little over the rise of his trousers. He goes to self-consciously rub at his face, but his wrapped hand stings in defiance.

“Done?” Simon’s unimpressed voice echoes from behind the slightly damaged door. It looks about as put together as he feels.

“... Yes,” Hank reluctantly says, dread thrumming through him.

The door gingerly opens, apparently unwilling to damage it anymore than it already is. It falls lopsidedly against the wall, and there stands one Wonder Man, and, just because the world is a cosmic joke created to spite Hank McCoy specifically, he’s still in the fucking costume.

Hank stares with raw determination at the door leaning against the wall, and decidedly not anywhere at Simon. How high are they up again? Would jumping out of a window be a possible exit out of this situation?

“So… do you wanna, I don’t know, explain a little?”

Hank swallows thickly. “It wasn’t my idea, I promise you that. Jean wanted to come, if I recall correctly, she wanted to run into Mary Jane–”

“Hank that isn’t–you know full well that’s not what I’m talking about!” Simon snaps, and Hank shrivels. He deserved that.

“Yes, I–I’m afraid there’s not a lot I can say, I–”. Desperately he looks to Simon to find some  sort of familiar ground, and immediately regrets it. Making eye contact like this is a challenge, and one he is sorely losing.

He looks at the ground, and steels himself.

“We’ve all been very busy since the foundation of Krakoa, and it’s left my social calendar very scarce, I’m afraid. I have–well, I’m very… my role is of instrumental importance…”

He searches Simon’s face. His sense of dread, so overpowering earlier, begins to ferment into a thicker shame. What else could he say? I’ve been committing war crimes for the good of Mutantkind except it doesn’t feel very good and all of my closest friends either subconsciously or openly despise me for it? People who I thought were my friends seemed unsurprised at what I’ve been doing, as if they thought that lowly of me the whole time? None of the things that usually bring me joy like art, poetry, writing, music, friendship seems to matter to me anymore and without my passion for life I feel lost and untethered? I need to be completely focused and dedicated to my job and if I’m around you for even a moment, I’m scared I’ll tell you everything because I can’t lie to you?

“I’m sorry,” he surprises himself by saying. It feels too sudden, too raw. It floats between them, heavy in the air. His face feels hot but his chest is cold.

Simon says nothing for a moment, an indiscernible look on his face. Eventually, he gently murmurs “You could have made a phonecall or something, man…”, but there’s no real anger in it, instead sounding passively sad. And then, Hank wants so badly to comfort him, that it had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with the expectations placed upon him and how much he’d been willing to do to meet them, but he squashes the feeling out.

“Still, what was up with you legging it out of the room? You shot out like a bat out of hell…” Simon’s eyebrows furrow. Hank’s been dreading this.

“Yes, I was just… uhm… it was just…” Hank flounders. It’s as if every word he’s ever known has decided to disappear, leaving him with an ineffective tongue growing heavy under the weight of its own ineptitude. Traitorously, he finds himself staring again at the breadth of his shoulders, the shape of the velvety fabric against smooth skin, the shelf of collarbone resting below the shape of his Adam’s apple. “ Uhmmmmm… ” he says uselessly. It’s as if being in the same room as him has just sapped any coherency or intellect he once had. Or maybe that’s all the alcohol.

Simon’s staring at him. He can’t stop staring at the man’s chest.  

“... can I sit down?” Simon graciously interrupts, sounding bemused. He probably looks like it too, if Hank could focus his gaze on anything that wasn’t the solid swell of his pectorals.

Hank nods, and Simon moves away from him to sit himself down on the slightly creased white sheets. If he notices the stain Hank left on the carpet and still hasn’t cleaned up, he doesn’t mention it. What he does do is look at the bloody streak on the bedsheets, and furrow his eyebrows again, take a bit of his lower lip between his teeth to worry at it. It’s actually quite unfair, managing to look so handsome and so concerned at the same time.

“Well, are you alright?” he asks, tilting his head to gesture at the red residue. “You were bleeding a lot, ‘s how I followed you–”

Hank’s sure he would have noticed if he’d bled that much, but evidently the arousal/alchohol that had been coursing through him had been such that he hadn’t noticed leaving a trail of himself through the hotel corridors. A dangerous lapse of concentration, given how many of his enemies have access to cloning equipment, but then again, the idea of anyone wanting a stout blue furry war criminal seems rather silly.

“Yes, I’m quite alright,” Hank tries to assure him, and waves around the hand he’s wrapped in the small white towel to illustrate just how alright he is. Simon has a tendency to worry like it’s an Olympic sport, after all. “It looks worse than it is, I assure you. Just a few problematic shards of glass, but none too deep, so I was really quite lucky.”

“Right. And how, uh , did you manage that?” Simon asks, tilting his head to the other side. Hank wonders how he never noticed the fucking bunny ears before, that follow the movements and curl down just slightly from the movement. It’s a headband, or something. Hank’s hands clench to make white-knuckled fists and pain shoots up his arm.

Hank blanks for a moment, any thoughts he might have seeming slippery and formless, unable to think up anything more complex than Gosh, but isn’t he a good-looking man?

He has to say something. Simon asked him a question. He’ll have to reply with something intellectual, well-spoken, with all the charming articulation that he’s infamous for, that will immediately convince Simon that he’s fine and that there’s nothing to worry about.

“ Uhhhhmmm… ,” Hank says intelligently. Simon looks properly concerned now.

“Okay… how about you sit down yourself?” Simon tentatively offers and moves to the side like he’s making space for him. 

It’s more of a hesitant question than anything else, but Hank takes it like the most solemn of orders, because never once has he ever been able to say no to Simon Williams, not really. The bed dips slightly from the weight of him as he settles beside his old friend. There’s barely a foot of space between them and yet it feels like a mile. It crosses Hank’s mind how long it’s been since he last got to embrace his favourite person in the world in his arms and the absence almost stings now that he knows it’s there.

He tries not to stare, but he can’t help from hovering his eyes over Simon’s thigh, mere inches from his. It spills wide from sitting down, flesh straining against the black fishnets lewdly. Hank feels like he’s short-circuiting. And, worst of all, his cock is beginning to twitch with interest again, but that is gratefully partially hidden by his stomach spilling a little onto his lap. It’s not much of a silver lining but it’s something .

“I–I’m just confused, is all. You’re busy, I know that, you’ve spent, what, the past 10 years or so being busy , a–and I am too! It’s fine. You’ve got better things to do, I get it. But, like, I don’t even know what you’re doing at the moment! Are you an X-Man still? Or are you with those, uh… X-Factor dudes, or whatever? Are you a politician or something? Does Krakoa even have politicians? Like, I don’t know anything!”

Simon’s looking at him a little desperately now. Hank can’t peel his eyes away from how his legs look. He can’t stop wondering how they might feel against his hand. Simon’s skin is bare, presumably waxed, or, something . A lot of superheroes are doing that these days. And yet he’s never before thought so much about how a smooth, muscled body might feel against his softer, furrier one–

He shakes his head vigorously, like that will stop the route his mind is going down. Yet again, he’s terribly conscious of his self-control rapidly slipping through his fingers, but it’s worse now that the reason for such uncurbed intensity is sitting only a few inches away.

“You’re right,” he starts to say, which isn’t a proper response, but it’s the first thing that comes to him. Of course Simon’s right. Sitting here now, it seems so preposterous that he would ever even entertain the idea of distancing himself from Simon and the few friends like him he has the way he has. Yes, it honestly hurt him that so few people have seemed to care enough to reach out about his behaviour–but partially, that’s because he hasn’t let them. He opens his mouth to try and put some of that to words, to make Simon understand, but Simon cuts him off again.

“Sorry, this is–this is ridiculous. I mean, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation now , I’m just–sorry.” He’s pinching the bridge of his handsomely bowed nose. One of the bunny ears has drooped low enough to hover near the tip of his actual ear. “I’m not very–MJ gave me a lot of drinks before I got changed–”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ve had a good few too,” Hank immediately tries to assure him. For a second, Simon’s glare is downright filthy.

“No way , I hadn’t noticed,” Simon says with so much sarcasm it could be lethal, and maybe it’s the alcohol murking the waters but Hank can’t stop himself from grinning. He almost wants to start laughing , like all the tension has started to slip into delirium, or outright hysteria. But to his relief, Simon smiles back too. Softly, fragilely, but it’s a smile all the same and for a moment Hank can tell himself that maybe everything would be okay after all. Maybe nothing had changed really, and Simon was still his very closest friend. This was just a bump in a road of many, but they were still friends, and no amount of Hank’s ridiculous focus on X-Force or questionable actions he’d taken could change that.

Simon shakes his head gently. “Alright, I’m–I’m gonna go, and I’m gonna get changed, and try to sleep off all the weird cocktails MJ kept pushing at me–and then in like, I dunno, the afternoon probably, 3ish, I’m gonna call you, and I swear, you better pick up, or I’ll fly to that damn island myself and–”

He doesn’t finish his threat, just sort of gesticulates vaguely with his hand, then moves to stand up. Hank panics again. He can’t just leave, Hank still–he still has to make it clear how sorry he is for everything, and also apologise for not being able to speak very well, I’m sorry, my dear boy, I just suddenly was seized by a strong, erotic desire for you that is probably just alcohol and we don’t need to look any deeper into it than that, but I can’t look at you anymore without thinking about it and my brain has seemingly started actively leaking through my ears because of that–

Possessed by some mad spirit Hank’s hands reach out and grab at Simon’s shoulders to try and stop him, like he could ever make Simon do something he didn’t want to. Still, Simon pauses underneath Hank’s hands, and quietly returns to where he was seated, surveying Hank’s blue hands against his impeccably broad shoulders with quiet curiosity. 

An interesting thing about Simon Williams–he is completely cold. He’s more energy than strict human form, without any of the blood and organs that would give off body heat. To some, this is off-putting. But to Hank, who is almost always uncomfortably hot in his own skin and has just learned to tolerate constantly being overwarm in his thick layers of fur, it’s wonderfully calming . Not too cold, but enough that it soothes his oft overheated skin. Indeed, Hank hadn’t realised how hot his hands had been until they made contact with chilled, bare skin. The comfort of it, unfortunately, was a background thought.

His mouth is open. He can’t seem to close it. He also can’t seem to stop fucking staring at Simon. The way his throat bobs invitingly when he gulps. How pinkish his mouth looks. The crevice of his chest, his pecs, his tits, because there’s really no other word for them, and he wants to feel them with his mouth so bad, he needs to push his teeth against the swell of them so so so bad–

“Simon?” his voice croaks. It sounds distant, faraway.

“Hank?”

“Can you ask me to let go of you, please?”

“A–ask you to– why ?”

His head is spinning again. He’s never been so turned on and so afraid at the same time.

“Well, it’s just that, I can’t seem to do it myself,” he says, oddly calm for how his entire body has started to shake. It’s humiliating, to suddenly be trapped by the enormity of his desire. To want so much he can’t control his body anymore. It’s like breaking that glass, but so much worse. “Please.”

Simon’s glasses have slipped down his nose somewhat. He peers at Hank over the rim of them, solid-red eyes looking at him with an expression he’s never seen before on his face. Caught oddly between curiosity and knowingness. “What if I don’t want you to?” he says so softly Hank doesn’t think he’s heard him right. He couldn’t have.

“I’m sorry?”

Simon clears his throat and speaks louder. “What if I, uhm, don’t want you to let go of me?”

The world seems to tilt again. His stomach lurches but for a completely different reason than before.

“Simon, I–what do you mean?” he says uncertainly. He doesn’t understand. He would have noticed, definitely, if this had been something Simon seriously desired–

Simon looks at him like he’s an idiot. Hank stares back, uncomprehending.

“You’re completely hopeless–” Simon rolls his eyes at him and then he leans in close and Hank’s breath gets caught in his mouth and–

Yes, Simon’s kissing him and even with his frustration it’s shy, tentative. Like he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. The angle is all wrong, and his nose is slightly in the way and so are his glasses, but none of this matters to Hank. Terribly awkward it may be, it’s also delightfully endearing. Hank’s grip tightens and rearranges itself across those mighty shoulders so he can kiss him back, become reacquainted with the curve of his mouth. It’s not completely unfamiliar territory but before it had always been Hank initiating, and always as a joke or punchline, or something that could be explained as such. I’m referencing Bugs Bunny, he’d excuse. But in none of those instances had Hank wanted it so much and felt so woefully inadequate to get it. His hands feel slow and clumsy on Simon’s flesh, and they have to twist uncomfortably properly face each other while seated side-by-side like this. Objectively, as far as kissing experiences go, this one would rank poorly, but this is Simon. So it’s perfect in its stilted, uncertain way.

Simon pulls back and on instinct Hank follows after him like he’s got him on a leash or something. His cock twitches, interested, in his trousers.

“What the heck have you been drinking?” Simon says with a grimace, wrinkling his nose a little.

“Oh, I…” Hank remembers the bacardí, and sympathises with Simon’s grimace. “I can brush my teeth, if you want,” Hank offers. He’s pretty sure he saw a small tube of it in the bathroom, along with all those other tiny toiletries.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just so sweet!”

“You’re sweet,” Hank replies instantly. Grins like he’s made a good joke.

Simon groans. “Oh, gosh, is this what you’re going to be like–”

Hank grins wider and connects their mouths again. Simon’s right, it is sweet, but pleasantly so. He’s got the angle better this time, and even though Simon’s glasses start to press painfully into his cheekbones it doesn’t dissuade him in the slightest. He presses his sweet, open-mouthed kisses to Simon’s mouth repeatedly, holding them longer and closer together until he’s breathless, a little dazed from lack of oxygen and yes, still booze coursing through him, and arousal, and excitement at having Simon relaxed and steady underneath his hands–

Simon groans under him, throaty and low, and Hank grins so wide his cheeks ache with it. Kisses him again. Slow, syrupy kisses, pressed to Simon’s slowly reddening lips. It’s perfect. How could it not be?

And he could do this probably until the end of time, if Simon let him, but something happens and suddenly he’s staring at the ceiling that seems to be doubling across his vision, his stomach starting to cramp a little with nausea from movement.

His entire body had been flipped. Simon threw him over like he didn’t weigh a thing. Through waves of nausea and discomfort, Hank’s straining hard against his trousers.

Simon looms above him, tall, handsome, powerful and yup, still dressed like a bunny. He’s not quite sitting on him but from here Hank can see most of him and he can especially get an eyeful of the outline of Simon’s cock bulging indecently out of the tight black velvet. From here his length looks huge, oversized like the rest of him. Hank can’t remember a time he’s ever wanted to see something more in his life. Simon’s chest looks almost swollen in the dainty black cups, the fabric very slightly peaked from where his nipples would be. Hank might be drooling a little, just at the thought of that alone.

Simon starts to lean down, and he looks slightly dazed, almost giddy, like he hadn’t expected to flip over Hank either. His mouth opens, so tantalisingly glazed with saliva, and Hank wants nothing more than to taste them again. Then those thick red frames finally slip off his face, bounce off Hank's gut and slide down onto the floor with a muffled clatter. Simon looks at the edge of the bed, then back at Hank. He grins all dopily again, so infectiously Hank can’t help but grin back.

Instinctively Hank’s hands ride upwards until they’re resting on those huge, skull-cracking thighs he’s been thinking about so much, feeling the way the fabric of the tights clings to him, the powerful sinewy form beneath their flimsy material. He feels up as much of the thick, voluptuous muscle of his legs as he can get at, cupping and exploring around and teasing with the idea of tearing holes to have more of him to touch, hold and grab. It’s hard to feel him properly with his injured hand but it doesn’t stop him appreciating the structure of him, the generous swell of his ass he can squeeze and grip. He twitches again, and he’s so hard he might just start grinding up into him for just a bit of relief.

“Simon…” he starts but can’t finish his sentence as Simon fully, properly sits on him and rests his hands atop his stomach. Suddenly Hank is nervous, a little self-conscious; Simon is so very beautiful with his perfect skin and black coiled hair and completely muscular form that could have been carved straight from marble by Michelangelo himself, and Hank is a portly blue furry ape-cat-bear man with offputting tusks. Normally Hank tries his utmost to not let his physical form get to him, but he’s put on a good deal of weight since he last saw Simon and it’s, well, embarrassing. He’s embarrassed to be seen by him so openly, his shirt untucked and scrunched above his waist.

But Simon doesn’t back up in disgust, or grimace at him. No, instead his hands just gently explore the flesh in front of him, sinking his hands right down into the fur. It’s slow, with that trademark uncertainty that more and more Hank was starting to realise was uncertainty towards his own strength and not about what he was doing, fingers spreading out across him and disappearing into his fur. They press shallowly, and slowly Simon begins to rock on top of him, so slow Hank might have thought he was just shifting on top of him but he feels the bulge of him brushing up against his own, brushing up against Hank’s underbelly. Simon’s fingers dip further, and then grip his love-handles and Simon starts thrusting against him in earnest, gasping and sighing a little with his pink tongue hanging just slightly out of his mouth.

He’s using him. Using him to get off like a glorified body pillow, like Hank doesn’t even get to touch him properly, but instead just has to lay there while Simon uses him for his own pleasure. Hank is so unbearably hard.

“Simon, please, I want to have sex with you, I’d really, desperately, like to fuck you, please–” he’s spluttering, unable to stop himself moaning every time Simon brushes up against his cock like that, his hips twitching with the intent to meet him but determined to stay still, because if Simon wants to use him, he’ll lay there obediently and allow himself to be used, even as he’s begging for something more

Simon has the audacity to giggle at him, like this is all some great joke that they’re participating in. “No, no, we can’t do that,” Simon is cooing at him as his hips move, gripping and fondling more of Hank’s sides and belly.

It’s not the answer Hank expected, so he tries again. “I’m– uhn –please, do you want to fuck me?” he offers desperately. It’s not something he does an awful lot, but he’d let Simon do absolutely anything he wanted to him right now. Would Simon keep the ears on when he thrusted into him? Would he grip his sides like he’s doing right now as his hips shift, manhandle and manoeuvre Hank however he wants? Hank’s mouth is open and panting.

Simon shakes his head as he grinds down onto him. “Dude, I don’t want you to throw up on me, and I don’t want to throw up on you either,” Simon says breathlessly, gyrating and moving in earnest now.

Hank could sob. He just might. The worst part of it, he could probably cum just like this, being used for Simon’s pleasure and helpless underneath his strength, like he’s 13 again and at risk of busting right into his pants, all because some pretty girl rubbed against him too hard. “Please, don’t call me dude right now,” Hank mewls. Simon giggles at him once more. His ears bob with his movements. Bouncing, like a bunny, Hank realises.

Simon doubles over completely now, pressing his face right to Hank’s shoulder, smushing his face into the fur and moaning into it with every grinding movement onto Hank’s belly. His headband has been knocked askew from the movement so the ears are lopsided, and it’s somewhere between the cutest and hottest thing Hank’s seen. From here, Hank can see the small white tail at the very end of his costume, pert and innocent as before. Stars…

“Are you close, my dear?” Hank asks thickly, his bandaged hand coming up so he can sort of stroke at Simon’s hair as his face presses closer into Hank’s coat. It’s like Simon’s whole body is starting to tremble. It seems to have come on rather quickly, but Hank doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind at all, how much grinding against Hank seems to have spurred him on.

Simon whines something unintelligible, and starts to grind right into him proper, small, tiny rolls of his hips and pushing his fat, clothed cock right into Hank’s stomach over and over. His body quivers, then goes completely still, then starts twitching all over with a garbled wail that might have been Hank’s name muffled by his fur. His hips stop moving but they keep twitching away anyway and Hank feels completely intoxicated by it, all the small involuntary jerks of his body as Simon rides out his release.

For a moment, Simon lays atop of him silently. His back rises and falls rapidly with the movement of laboured breathing but other than that he’s completely still. Despite how close Hank is, despite the way he’s so hard it actually hurts, Hank feels quite content like this, a limp Simon in his afterglow resting above him. It’s nice. He could get used to such a thing.

Simon then moves, and starts to shimmy downwards. He meets Hank’s gaze as he does, biting his lip softly. Hank’s cock twitches again.

“I, uhm, I’ll use my mouth, if that’s okay, to finish you off?” Simon asks all polite and unclear, as if Hank would ever say no to something like that.

“Please, ” Hank groans, and yes, he’s very aware now of the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, from–what, he doesn’t know. Aware, too, of just how close he is, how desperate he is to cum again.

Simon settles all the way down, and Hank has to sit up to see him properly, his akimbo ears looking just so darling as he gently sets around unzipping Hank’s trousers for him. Hank watches in rapt fascination.

Simon looks up at him as his fingers tease open the fly, search around for him in his trousers. He smiles, but still looks a little nervous. “I’ve only, ah, done this, once or twice,” he awkwardly begins as he delicately pulls Hank out of his clothes. The shock of Simon’s cold fingers against Hank’s fevered skin shouldn’t make him shoot a thick wad of precum out like that, but that’s precisely what happens. Hank moans.

“‘S okay,” Hank’s vaguely aware of himself saying, but anything more intelligent than that is impossible for his mouth to articulate as he watches Simon shyly bare the insides of his mouth open and lay a soft, open-mouthed kiss right to the base of him. The cold of it shocks his skin and sends a delighted shiver up his spine. His skin burns, like he could just burst into flames, soothed and tended to by the subtle chill of Simon’s skin. Simon presses another kiss to him, then sits back a little, looking about as wanton and flushed as Hank feels, but perhaps a little intimidated too. He hovers over the tip of Hank, breathing heavy but not moving. His lips wet themselves.

“Is that… I don’t know if I can, uhm, fit all that in my mouth,” Simon mumbles apologetically, his red gaze locked onto the length of Hank’s cock like he wants it but doesn’t know how to get it. Hank thinks for a moment of gently pushing Simon’s head down on him, quietly murmuring praises and encouragement to take as much as he can, unable to take everything but filling his mouth with him as much as he could comfortably handle, all while Hank tells him just how good he’s being. Or, maybe–maybe he’d want Hank to be rougher. Take a fistful of his hair and force him to choke upon all of him, use his throat as a glorified fleshlight and take full advantage of the lack of lungs on the man, facefuck him until he’s satisfied. Hank thinks of how Simon would look with a mouthful of Hank’s hot load and can’t stop a desperate keen escaping him.

It’s just a fleeting and drunken thought, though. What actually happens is that Hank tries to smile encouragingly at him, but it comes off a little lopsided. “You needn’t worry about that, my dear,” Hank hums. He wants to stroke Simon’s hair rather than yank it, now, but he worries about knocking his ears off him. They are just–so cute. “Just, ah, use your hand, maybe–”

“Right, right,” Simon says, drags his slightly agape up his shaft so lightly it’s barely there, then shocks him with his tongue darting past those lips to tease his cockhead. His fingers, long but slender, almost spindly, wrap around the base of him all frail and tentative. He carries out short, fast little jerks with his wrist as he rolls his tongue around the tip of him, never quite taking it into his mouth but playing with the idea as he plays with Hank’s cock. It’s all so delicate, and Hank’s caught between desperately wanting more pressure and more friction and more of Simon’s cool skin against his, and feeling oh-so safe here, being treated so gently and softly. Breakable, but worth not breaking. Worth keeping care of. Are his cheeks starting to dampen a little? Maybe so. It’s just, it’s been a while since he’s actually had a partner for this and even longer since he’s felt so… wanted? Cared for? SImon’s brows are knit in tight concentration and even though his movements with his hand are slightly awkward and he’s too shy to actually try to blow Hank proper and his tongue is fucking cold , he wouldn’t change a single detail about it.

Simon’s dusty pink tongue flicks over the slit of him. His fingers twist just slightly with his motions, tightening just fractionally but it reminds him just how much stronger Simon is than him, really. How much he’s completely at his mercy, at the mercy of a–a– semi-competent actor in a playboy bunny costume. Hank’s spine slackens, then every muscle in him clenches tight and he barely gets a chance to realise what’s happening before he’s cumming, shooting fat ropes of his seed right over Simon and his ridiculous, adorable ears. His thighs lose all feeling in them for a brief moment and then it floods back to him, a warm and tingling feeling thrumming down him. It’s not the hardest he’s ever cum but it’s nice .

The lights seem to glare at him from unfocused eyes. Hank takes a moment to catch his breath, then blinks owlishly at Simon, feeling so warm and fuzzy but without the sense of dread that dropped on him immediately afterwards, like before. Simon cradles his cheek lightly as his fingers drip with the proof of Hank’s release, strands of it all over his very handsome face and some of the ears, partially over his swollen lips. He’d probably be able to cum just from that, if he wasn’t oh-so-very spent as is.

“Coulda warned me there, pal…” Simon sounds slightly disgruntled, but there’s no real heat behind it. 

“Is pal the best you can do?” Hank teases. “No my darling , sweetheart , or even a my love ? Pal is what you go for?”

“That’s your noise, not mine!” 

“Still, not even a babe or something of its ilk…”

“Dude,” Simon grouches, but he’s smiling. Hank grins back.

Simon starts to move, and clambers off the bed. Stretches. From here, Hank’s reminded all over again of just how good he looks, costume be damned. He’s just hot. He’s always thought it but never noticed it like this. 

“Right, I’m washing this off me, and–I’ll see if they have a robe, or, something. These tights are starting to cut off my blood circulation, I think.”

Hank decides to not remind him he doesn’t have a circulatory system. He does, however, notice something else.

“Simon, you did… orgasm, right?” Hank says, puzzled. Not that he was staring at his crotch, but… alright, he might have been stealing a few looks, but he’s surprised at the lack of evidence, as it were. The fabric doesn’t seem very thick, and there’s so little of it, and yet it’s about as bone dry as before, albeit crumpled from movement.

“Did I–oh, yeah, I did.” Simon looks self conscious, now. “I just don’t… like, what am I meant to cum? Ions??”

It makes sense, he supposes, but still–

“How’s that not come up before?” Hank wonders half-aloud. It just seems the sort of detail he’d know about him. The idea of having an incomplete profile of Simon in his mind feels wrong.

“Presumably, you thought it would be a bit weird to ask a man what his spunk looks like?”

Right, that does make sense. “Right, that does make sense.”

Simon shakes his head at him with an affectionate, dare he say loving smile on his face. He ducks into the bathroom, and the door clicks shut behind him.

Alone now, on the slightly bloody bed, Hank gets an actual look at the room and becomes aware of a feeling of penitence. He hadn’t noticed it earlier but there are lingering stains on the carpet of yes, blood from his hand, which now that the afterglow has shrugged off him is stinging again. Maybe he missed a shard. The door is still broken from when he sort of muscled it open, leaning still lonely against the wall. Silk white bedsheets are slightly torn from where his claws have sunken in, not to mention the deep, brownish spread of dried blood against the once-pristine material. It’s a mess, frankly. He’s the one who made it this way. It settles low in his stomach and threatens to eat away at the joy that he’d gained in these precious hours.

Hank gets up. Yet again, the room threatens to start breaking apart in his vision, but it’s not as bad now. His steps feel steadier against the carpet. His stomach settles.

He knocks twice, politely, on the bathroom door, careful not to make a mess of it like he did the front one.

Simon’s confused head pops out. He’s half-dressed in one of the bathrobes, his hair wet from where he’d been washing his face. A few stray drops of water run down his face or hover at the tip of his eagle-pointed nose. “Hank?”

“When, ah, you have a chance, or are ready, could we perhaps–if it’s alright with you–”

“Yeah?”

He’s unnecessarily nervous about this. “I don’t particularly want to stay in this room, is all. I think I accidentally fell into one of the poorer ones.”

Simon makes a snorting sound. “Oh, they’re all poor, like–even the big one me and MJ were given kind of sucked. It’s just not a very good hotel. But their bar’s good, so it’s where the project manager chose–”

His gaze is intense, sharpish. Hank quite likes it whenever Simon shows those glowing eyes of his, but they are full-on. He’s never prepared for it.

“I do have an apartment near here, if that’s what you want.”

He smiles a little too knowingly for Hank’s liking. But there’s also a relief that comes with it. That Simon knew what he wanted, even as Hank stood uhm’ing and ahh’ing like an idiot. Isn’t it nice to be known as completely and wholly as Simon does? To know that someone wll know what he’s really trying to say? To be understood?

“It is.”

As with most things this evening it feels like he’s revealing too much of himself too soon but anything less would be a lie. And lying is something he just can’t bring himself to do when Simon Williams is involved.

Simon smiles again, so gentle and understanding Hank feels slightly dazed from the force of it. “We can head over after I get my clothes. But just so you know–if you shed on my furniture, pacifism or no, I’m kicking you all the way back to the middle of nowhere, Illinois–”

“Oh, my dear man of wonders, I wouldn’t dream of it for a second .”