IS FERAL

fashion doesn't care about the climate. 💅

"Are we talking, like, food-wise or -- anything? Because if it's the former I'm definitely feeling some larb gai, and if it's the latter, I dunno. A gigantic brick of cocaine? A mother's touch? You, maybe? Personally owning Los Angeles?"

He's awfully petulant, despite being the hanger-on around Wanda, interested and oh-so-envious of her power.

do his eyes light up? no, surely not. he slumps further in his chair, an obstinate little mean baby as he casts felicia a narrowed (not entirely unplayful) look.

Whatever it is between the two of them ( a fucked-up non-love affair, sexual blackmail spiraling into who-the-fuck-knows, etc. ), the nature of it tends to either land them in either a hotel or at one of his luxe little apartments, central and mostly secure.

The awkwardly-shaped sandwich is posed halfway to his mouth when Sue asks that, and his brow furrows as he puts it back on the plate.

"Believe in fate?" Fang balks at Wanda, at the nature of the question. His feet swing over the ledge he's sitting on. Bitterly: "I've met some."

The three, the seers, the Norns. These witch-sisters scorned him -- he'd have killed one, if he could have. Preferably, all of them. But that was a long time ago, another unpleasant memory heaped on loads.

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.