#( ⬛ ) 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!"

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"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?"

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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?!"

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@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?"

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@fiddlingonthetympanic sent an ask (in September) (I am very grateful) (I wish I had the ingenuity and energy to match this):

Eventually, Krakoa spat out seasonally temperate zones; the island grew as the mainland shrank beneath the rising tide of seawater. 

They’re too tired to party all night–Krakoa’s seasonally temperate zones developing really sucks the energy out of everyone–no matter how wonderfully batshit the Thoroughfare of Masks was throughout the month, or how much of a distraction Bob-Cat needs with all his kids grubbing for candy with their other parents. The last straggling trick-or-treaters were skulking their way through the trees, many of them darting out to snatch bits of candy from colorful platters before older members of the Wild Hunt could leap out and catch them with a swipe of the claws. (That was all part of the game.) 

Woolf’s fending off Bob-Cat and Daken in the gnarled ‘doorway’ of the pod, but in that annoyed, half-hearted manner that really means ‘you’re both still getting laid.’ 

“Go–off, you two idiots!” She writhes between them, batting Bob’s clawed fingers away from the white fabric of her dress with a huff of exasperation and a gentle shove to Daken’s side. (The latter is sniffing at her. Right time of the month.) Another authoritative push sends Bob-Cat into the pod after him. “Start without me. Put the tape on or something.”

“Thanks for pulling me out of my dad-funk, you guys.” He pauses, reconsidering his  language before giving an apologetic grunt, slinging one hairy arm around Daken’s neck as the other gnaws at him like a chew toy. “‘You two’.” He gives a little sigh, a chuckle, and a laissez-faire shrug, allowing himself to be pulled deeper into the pod. “My bad. We’re never too old to check ourselves, are we?”

“Hey. Bob-cat. Blow me.” Daken’s voice faded into the background, as did the telltale swish of the Krakoan biomattress beneath their weight. 

Woolf lingers  in the doorway, breathing deep the crisp, sugary air and smoke. Ghoulish candlelight flickers from behind the carved faces of fruits, vegetables, and G-d knew what else. The laughter of children rises and falls within the shadow of the trees. ‘A good night,' she decides, reaching to brush her fingers over the warped turnip jack-o’-lanterns she’d hung outside earlier.

When she glances down, the child is there at her feet, smelling of overripe pumpkin and moldering leaves. Her eyes widen beneath the white, wide brim of her hat, a seasonally appropriate breeze rustles the hem of her dress.

Kid’s carrying a giant orange sucker, and it’ll be a miracle if they don’t choke on it before the night’s done.

Her brows draw together in an apologetic frown. “I don’t know if I have any candy left, honeybee.” 

Black button eyes gaze up at her from a burlap sack–face. They’re so–expectant that she tips back the brim of her hat and sighs. ‘How things are done,’ she realizes, then sighs. ‘Gifts for the children.’ 

“Let me get something from inside. D’you like spicy n–” A pumpkin sails past them, exploding against the trunk of a nearby tree with a wet, hollow thunk; Woolf makes a garbled sound of shock and frustration as one Raw Dog–newly reborn as a teenager, as all mutants are eventually-stops his shenanigans,  raising one hand in a not-so-apologetic wave.

“Sorry, ma’am!” A pause stretches between the three as Dog Howlett shifts. “You smell–uh– look nice tonight?”

Fire Knives raised him to be polite to women at least. She glowers at him, then darts back into the pod, briefly hissing at the men inside to ‘keep it down, there’s a kid!’ before returning with a little bag of spiced nuts from a leftover party bag, dropping it into Sack-Child’s treat basket. “Here,” she murmurs, reaching out as if to pat them on their burlap head before pulling her hand back. “Sorry. You caught me a bit late.” 

The child scurries away without a word, and she feels a weight leave her shoulders as she foils her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at the teenager vandalizing his way past.“You should have some respect for tradition, Dog,” she calls disapprovingly “The roots of this sort of thing run deep!”

Then, she leaves him to mull the importance of the old ways in favor of watching an old mummy-themed porno while eating Hunt-jerky off of washboard abs. 

“When I told you to get started, you really ran with it…”her voice fades away, and “Raw Dog” Howlett and the strange, solemn trick-or-treater are left relatively alone, one with an oversized sucker and candy bucket, the other with his general douchebaggery and disrespect for the holiday season.

A bare foot punts a jack-o’-melon like a soccer ball.“Go to bed, yo,” is all Raw Dog–whose birth name is Wild Dog–tells him, sniffing loudly and rubbing a hand over his runny nose as the sad remains of fruit rind and candle wax drips down the side of a stone ledge.“The grown-ups have things to do.”

Black button eyes glint.

___

Woolf wakes up in a pile of man-flesh in the middle of the night, her nostrils flaring at the scent of drying blood. She grunts, spitting out a mouthful of Bob’s hair even as she runs a hand along a sleek, bare thigh. (Daken’s, judging by the thick pelt of manfur.)  Blood. Too close. 

Don’t like that.

“S’mone g’see what that is,” she mumbles, less concerned about the vaguely familiar smell than its proximity to her ‘autumn-summer home.’ “Bob. Up.” At his rrroooorrwl of protest, she nudges the thigh-haver. “You. Fang. Up. No kids vandalizing my porch tonight.” 

Daken eventually does drag himself outside, muttering and bitching about family. The blood smells of Raw Dogging, you see.

So does the severed head hanging strung alongside  the turnip jack-o’-lanterns, its eyes glassy and staring, lips split wide by the bright orange sucker jammed into its mouth.

“Tell your nephew to clean up his mess!”

[fferal-archive]

@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."

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@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 --"

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@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]

@fiddlingonthetympanic​ sent an ask (about @defyxoblivion​):

"Hey. So, uh--" Woolf is rarely uncomfortable around Dak--FANG, much less embarrassed. Mark the occasion down on a calendar. Or with a little notch on a tree. Those are becoming increasingly popular. Very old-school. "I might have..." Honest to G-d, she fidgets. (Someone nearby lets out a meanspirited snicker, then whispers a loud 'Hey, Ignis. Look at Woolf.') "Your... RAZE... might know about your porn career. Because I tried to break his spirit."

He does that little jerk-head back motion in response, looking up at her from his seated position over his little cup of Huntpresso ( a new brewing method he hasn’t made up his mind on yet ).

“Wow, so you’re into revenge porn, now? What are you doing, a heel turn?”

Fang doesn’t know why he said that, he doesn’t even watch professional wrestling. Or like, he did, but would never admit it. He just likes the niche joshi puroresu stuff.

“Nevermind. I mean, as fucked up as it is for you to invoke it on my half-brother -- surprisingly bad, for you -- you should’ve known it wouldn’t work. You know what he does for a living, right? The fuzzy blue badger freak is worse than me -- he’s like his mother.” One-by-one, he plucks the pseudo-pine needles out of his coffee. “I feel like we don’t talk about how awful Raven is enough. Did we just collectively forget that to hate on me?”

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@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.

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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!"

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@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]

@erosoftitan sent a meme: “I don’t even know you.”

"Right, right. Well..."

He loathes the concept of invoking Logan as a 'You know that guy? I'm related to him." thing, so he doesn't, but it is yet another annoying factoid in the back of his head that his father gets around and would probably know the Prime Eternal. So to speak.

( Wait -- does he know him from somewhere? Maybe? No, no way. )

Anyway, Fang is kneeling close to the stone in the throne room. Did anyone tell him to? No. Does he know what customs these faux-Greeks even have? Not at all, so he plays it safe, looking up at the Prime Eternal.

"Fang is my mutant name." Still feels weird. "Consider this my introduction: The Quiet Council said I'd be 'appropriate' to act as emissary with you. I have no idea why."

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@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...

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@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?”