#( ⬛ ) verse — krakoa.

[fferal-archive]

Krakoa, Year ?? (2+ Years After the Salt)

Finally--! They've finally got "it" going. Found the mood. Got their groove back. Recovered their mojo--although Woolf thinks she heard somewhere it's not actually appropriate to use 'mojo' that way anymore.

Fuck it. Because--

She has Fang bent over the open window, his legs spread apart and his ass bouncing as she rams that vibrating strap-on into him over and over, and it's good, and they're alive, and she's laughing, breathless and dizzy--

In the instant before she sinks her teeth into the back of his neck, she hisses, "you like what I have for you?" Her hips judder as the vibrating 'nub' brushes against her clit. "Mm--gonna--you gonna take every fucking inch? Let me fill you up with my big, fat cock--"

Yes. Fuck. Yes, he is, and right before she sinks her teeth into the back of his neck, she tells him as much--

Their All-Purpose X-Alarm Bleats out a warning, strobing a bright white to demand all hands on deck. This is a serious situation, mutants! Time to defend the Island.

Woolf screeches. Then she swears. Then she curses Charles Xavier with every ounce of bottled up sexual frustration inside her, beating her closed fist above the window frame beside Fang's head. "Fuck!"

THUD. "Fuck!" THUD. "FUUUCK!"

Thank you, empathetic mutants, for the mass-coordinated therapy following a certain horrific tragedy and/or public health incident. He can actually have something in him without feeling like, well. You know the Salt.

( It's so good to be fucked by someone Fang, well, actually loves. And for them to finally be in the moment instead of in their head, or wallowing in grief. )

His fingers of his right hand dig hard into the windowsill, jerking forward with those quick-hard thrusts of that vibe inside him, scraping all the good bits, leaving him so full while he fucks his cock with a lube-drenched hand. Makes his toes curl and even scrabble, where he's trying not to just fly out of the window from Woolf's pace. And all the while, he's laughing, gasping keening, babbling dirty talk.

"Fuck yeah, fuck, I fucking love your cock Woolf, you're gonna make me cum so --," BLARING ALARMS. He jumps, startled, and then immediately bumps his head into the upper part of the open window. "ow!"

All that building desire dissipates in a single whoop of an alarm, and he pulls himself off of her with a straightening of his hips to standing, desperately clutching his head.

"No! No fucking way! They did this on purpose! They knew! It's a -- cock-blocking telepathic conspiracy!"

[fferal-archive]

"Oh, Fang! Carry me away to the semen pool and then fill me with your throbbing member! Let's do it like monkeys, only hotter and in florid prose!"

Krakoan beast-milk drips from Fang’s lips down to whiten his beard, in the frozen second that he stares at Woolf. He’s visibly upset over his ultra-delicious future cereal.

“What the fuck, Woolf? Do you mind? I’m trying to eat breakfast.”

[fferal-archive]

@themckaytriarchy sent an ask:

"You don't have a skin tag," Woolf murmurs, squinting at the salt and pepper hairs on the back of Fang's neck as she feels around with her fingers. "It doesn't match your power set." There's a lot of body hair to pick through, isn't there? More every day. She squints harder, leaning in. "Then again, your dad grew that big thing on his forehead." She brushes her thumb along the skin and--aha. There it is, a loose bit of skin too flat to be a zit or a wart. "Huh!" She huffs out a sound that's not quite a laugh, disbelieving. "I'll be g-ddamned."

Flick flick. She fiddles at his brand new skin tag with her thumbnail. "Hey, let's keep it in a jar when you're done cutting it off. I'll punch a hole in the top and feed it crickets."

Time comes for all. Yes, even them.

Logan is solidly heading into 'Old Man Logan' territory, Romulus is senile, and he, well. Fang misses when his skin was flawless, rather than holding onto the onset of wrinkles and stubbornly re-forming moles. And, ugh, the greys. He's tried plucking. It doesn't work.

"I knew I felt it," he sighs, both in relief -- that it's there -- and in disappointment -- that it's there. "Sure, whatever. It's probably going to be less hungry than that big-ass melanoma my father sliced out of himself."

With that, he pulls the robe over the nape of his neck, turning back to her with a pretty rough sniff. Another thing: Nosehair. "Want me to do yours? Do you know you have, like, ten cherry angiomas on your back?"

[fferal-archive]

The marshmallow-shaped sponges bob on the surface of Fang’s cocoa, puffed up and jolly. Super absorbent. Recently fished from the used menstrual products a certain shifter hasn’t had a chance to wash yet. That’s right: he’s added that special Woolf flavor to a beloved winter treat.

“Oh, my G-d.”

The last time she gawked at him like that was twenty years ago, right after he quaffed her still warm menstrual cup like a frat boy at a kegger.

Oh, yes. Woolf remembers.

Her lips curl in disgust as she tips her head back, nostrils flaring. “Oh, my G-d.”

She reaches out as if to snatch the mug away, then grimaces and spins on her heel, striding from the room. (No. That’s it. She’s done.)

“You’re a freak, Fang!” Woolf calls over her shoulder, and for just a moment, she sounds like—Logan: done. Done, done, done. “Oh, my G-d!”

Fang's got a steel-gripped hold on the mug, and swerves it out of the way when she starts that grabby-grabby motion.

No, his.

"Hey, what're those? Is this some kitschy arts and crafts thing?"

"Ha ha. I'm trying out menstrual sponges, since you can't be trusted around cups."

"Oh. Interesting."

So, really, he's mostly doing this out of childish spite, intentionally doing it in the living room. They bob, a sinister red-brown, in the mug of lukewarm cocoa.

( It does help that he likes it. )

As Woolf charges out with rightfully disgusted outrage, he cups his hand around his mouth and yells, "I'll clean them for you, okay?!"

[fferal-archive]

"I'm just wondering if you're trying to impress someone." By 'someone', he's implying 'not me'.

( He's being a dick again, antagonizing JM. Aurora would know how to play around, tease him back, play the little game of wandering-eye even though they still aren't really exclusive. This is some easy entertainment, being rude to the uptight alter. )

"Anyone you're expecting to bump into?" Fang's arm wraps around her waist, giving her the up-down with his eyes. "That's more skin than usual, for you."

@fferal​ asked: “Who are you all dressed up for?” @ jeanne-marie

✨ – “For myself. Is it a problem, mon ami?” JM looked at him, wondering what was his issue with her outfit. Didn’t he usually like it when she made an effort? She smiled nervously, not sure what he would respond to her words.

[fferal-archive]

@themckaytriarchy sent an ask (clearly relating to the day I’m replying and not another one):

A lot of the beast mutants are eying Fang on this fine Krakoan day of March 15th, Year ??. There's a certain--charge, reminiscent of the air before a fight or an unexpected celebration. Something is afoot.

"No, I'm not--" Woolf doesn't give Bob-Cat a chance to finish... whatever he'd been saying to her. She has her back turned to Fang. "And I'll tell you why, Bob. It's because it's a stupid prank, and this country is too damn comfortable with casual--"

Silence as they realize he's listening.

The beast mutants of Krakoa ready their claws, fangs, and stingers.

E tu, Bob-Cat?

If Fang had the choice of telepathy or his health... no, no, he’d still choose his health over it. But telepathy would be handy in this case where he’s being subject to an elaborate prank.

Pranks, in the Wild Hunt: To be torn apart, and possibly eaten.

“That’s so funny, guys,” he announces as soon as it dawns on him, eavesdropping. “I am laughing so -- hk!”

Golden Barrel’s big-ass needles driving into his chest is only but the first of many jokes that hit their target.

[fferal-archive]

@fatummortem sent a meme: "If you want to talk, how about you keep your brand of 'charm' to yourself this time?" (bobby)

Krakoa might have changed Fang ( as it has for everyone ) for the so-called better but some things just stay the same.

Like, for one: Trolling, tormenting and teasing the Iceman.

"No. Come on. You like the attention." He's two steps behind him, perpetually following him as he eats a cone of ice cream. No, not in a sexy euphemism way, just a hungry one.

"So, who're you hooking up with nowadays? Like. Other elementals? That lava guy?" A hand reaches out to touch an icy shoulder. "How about ferals? We're pretty fuckable. You into bear-men?"

[fferal-archive]

@verbalissm sent a meme: [ under ]   your muse shoving mine underwater. / namor.

White water, churning in the struggle as the mutant known as Fang thrashes desperately, kicking, pulling, anything, everything. Namor only needs a hand on his wrist to do whatever he likes to him. "No --!"

( Just because mutantkind now knows the solution to death doesn't mean he wants to go out like this. Not again. Like when his father drowned him in a dirty shallow puddle. )

Splash! He's under, yet again, shouts disappearing underneath the tide and bleeding into a world of blue panic, losing breath, until he heaves his head back up -- barely --

"I'm sorry --," he's coughing, struggling still, pleading, "Namor, I'm sorry --"

[fferal-archive]

He flings his hands in the air, exasperated at the constant bickering him and his brother seem to be roiled up in. “I never claimed being pristine on my end, you illiterate fucking weasel. Christ. I was pointing out what was the most likely scenario, not flinging out an insult. Maybe you got really fucked up and you brought home someone you’ve never met before. These things do happen.”

“Anyway,” he continues, trying to not fly into a rage, “say someone rooted around your messy, depressing hovel while you were asleep. Why? And why would it be a problem? It’s not like killing’s an option. What are you keeping, diaries?“

fferal​:

@defyxoblivion sent a meme: “Listen to me, someone was in my pod last night.” Raze

“Uhuh.” Of course Raze’s brother is utterly and totally uninterested, unconvinced. Instead, he continues tip-tapping away, engaged in a text conversation with Woolf about the best type of loofah/washcloth/exfoliating material.

Slowly, Daken rambles, distracted: “There’s always someone in your pod each night, you village goddamn bicycle. Just because you were too stoned to remember it doesn’t mean they were some nefarious force trying to get you.”

He can’t help the low, animalistic, growl. Okay, he probably could; but he wasn’t going to bother. “Slut shaming, from the slut who’s still got vids online. Classy.”

“I didn’t recognize the scent, you fucking ragged cunt. And remembering scents is what I do.“ You can’t be a truly effective shape shifter without that knowledge. It’s why, in the end, Raze was going to be the most deadly shifter Krakoa had ever seen.

[fferal-archive]

@fiddlingonthetympanic sent an ask:

"Do you know what day it is?" Monday night Krakoa time, actually. Probably. She's been off on a mission, something involving Logan but not necessarily Xavier, and her sense of time took a real pounding on the trip back. Woolf flexes her fingers, bites back a yawn even as she manages a lascivious smile for him.

Okay, not a lascivious smile. She's too tired. It's diet lascivious.

"It's Peg Day."

"Kwanzaa --? Oh. Oh shit, I totally forgot."

Not the happiest day of the year! He has to prepare!

"How about you," he tells Woolf, gently guiding her to the bed by her shoulders, "take a nap, and I spend one to two hours in the bathroom occasionally doing yoga on the shower floor? Alright? Alrightmybadsorryseeyousoon --"

[fferal-archive]

@emmatriarchy​ sent a meme: a possessive kiss that is meant to stake a claim . (Jealous JM)

What can he say? He’s got wandering eyes. And other parts.

The Arakkan Fang is draping himself over is a marvel: Shining opal and smooth-skinned, curvaceous in the hips, pouty and painted under their scanty layers of sheer clothing. He hasn’t gotten their name; he doesn’t intend to. He tells a joke, and they pretend to find it funny, and laugh. At the very least Martians get meaningless flirtation, if not Krakoan humor.

Then, their pretty irisless eyes narrow past him. “Who do you think you are? Move. You are in my light.”

“Jeanne-Marie,” Fang tells them, not even needing to look behind him to know. The possessiveness is sweet, in a way, but occasionally exhausting. He doesn’t look approving when he turns to her. “What is it now--?”

He’s caught in the curl of her fists in his shirt, and a bold kiss ( more of Aurora’s style, really ), wrenching him away from his unamused companion, hard and insistent.

He pulls away.

“Anyway...” he ignores her, turning back to his original focus, and puts his hand on their thigh.

[fferal-archive]

Another delivery via Cereal-Vision!

"Don't be like that, Fang. Woolf and I, I being Woolf in this moment, have a long-standing arrangement. If she's indisposed, I'm supposed to take on her share of duties and responsibilities! That includes professing her love and affection for you."

Now, tossing her hair back a bit, she put on her VERY best pout/growl/snarl and pawed at him. "The only thing I want to play with today is you! So eat some breakfast, and then put on those white linen pants that hug your balls so we can get going, Honeybee! Chop chop. Or, is 'Snikt-Snikt' better for you?"

Pawing rejected! He shoves her away. Specifically, full hand-over-face push. "If Woolf actually wanted someone to take her place she'd... I dunno, pay a professional, support the industry. Ask someone who I like. Not -- my 'worstie' upon 'worstie'."

Stands up!

"I'm going to someplace you're allergic to. I dunno. Maybe a monastery, a narcotics support meeting, or a tent city, or somewhere where people's modesty and banality will make you immediately burst into flames."

Yeah, it's his own pod. It doesn't stop him from leaving her in there.

"Byeeee!"

[fferal-archive]

@fiddlingonthetympanic sent an ask: Krakoa, Year 30... ish

She's laughing so hard that her body shakes, knees drawn up to her chest as she wheezes and coughs. "Fang--" she tries, fails, her words snatched away by the need to breathe. "Fang, you're--"

The handful of discarded flowers she'd been sniffing wilts into the mattress.

Managing a half-assed little flapflap of her hand in his direction, she indicates... him. In general. The need for waxing and the Howlett sideburns. His thick, sturdy body. (Little teapot.) "You're a--DILF."

The un-made blanket, currently being hogged by him as a massive, messy faux-pillow, gets immediately thrown over his head in deep, deep shame.

"Nooo." Fang's voice is muffled, sentiment exaggerated by kicks of his bare (hairy) legs bouncing off the mattress. "I don't wanna be a DILF. I used to be so -- so --" Twunky, really. But she's right. He's bearish.

An arm reaches out of the bunch, flinging vaguely in the direction of the small batch of remaining blooms on the nightstand.

"You're literally a GILF," he tells Woolf, before he grabs a fistful and feeds it back into his pile. "So suck on that, mommy -- granny."

[fferal-archive]

@bothsidesofaquestion​ sent a meme: you’ll never leave me ,  right ? ( hahaha 😬 )

Everyone has good weeks and bad weeks. Kurt’s is just more severe than most.

In his good weeks -- Fang rarely sees him. Of course, he’s still around, they occasionally hang out, hook up, whatever. But the man’s busy, with his support network and religious sycophants and his many friends.

But in his bad weeks, well. He latches to Fang’s metaphorical teat in his most pathetic moments, because he won’t pity him like everyone else does. He won’t plead for him to get help. He’ll be there for him, holding his hair back as he vomits all of the substances and feelings that’ve clogged him up.

Right now, Fang’s fingers rake through his hair as he holds him in bed, bodies close. They’ve had a rough day, left sleepless and unhappy. His hand stills.

They will not be together forever.

So: He doesn’t answer him. Just goes back to quietly stroking his hair...

[fferal-archive]

@defyxoblivion sent an ask:

When James finally found Fang, in the bar no less, he set a hammer down in front of the man. “Come on, pretty boy. You helped trash my place, you’re helping me fix it. I’m building a new bookshelf and you’re coming.”

Was this a booty call? Not by design. But their scrap had left him wanting. James wouldn’t say no. Mostly he just wanted the book shelf made.

Fang is actually too occupied having a cocktail hour with the girls to even pick up on James’ scent until he’s right behind him, and it’s only the little giggle and up-and-down the women give after turning to the guy that he notices him at all.

( Their names are, somehow, totally slipping his mind. The Lagoon starting to get real good at procuring whatever-it-is that can get people like him drunk-drunk. )

“From what I recall...” he snaps in the air right in front of James’ face, “it wasn’t my weight that got thrown too hard into the wall.” He turns to the one mutant -- red-horned, white-haired, big-titted, “We’re friends, but we fuck. I have friends, now.”

“Oh wow,” she tells him, with a completely straight face. He seems to be the last Krakoan to figure out what FWBs are. “That’s so unique.”

“You gonna pay me in something for my effort, BJ?” He’s slurring. “Big James?”

[fferal-archive]

@fiddlingonthetympanic sent an ask: "You've been absolutely insufferable since you got your hair done. You make one more jab at me and you're losing your Woolfblanket--" by which she means his creepy tendencies to treat her hair like a bed sheet--"privileges for the next week. Understand?"

The famed and beoved mutant stylist pair Vidal and Sassoon do fanatastic, fantastic work; no wonder people trade for places on their year-plus long waitlist.

Anyway: He's finally waited patiently for his turn, and here Fang is, rewarded. Life is good. He's not even bothered at Woolf threatening to cut him off from their weird fetishistic kinda-caregiver thing, not when he has a lush layer of his own silky hair wrapped around his shirtless body, feeling that nice on his skin.

"I don't need you right now," he tells her, looking at her through a veil of hair wrapped demurely across his face. "You'd need ten protein treatments to get anywhere near this texture. Mine? Merino. Yours? Nylon, from a torn parachute --"