#i want to give the mutants i made happy endings where they put eyeliner on for fun

[sc4bpuppy]

The new eyeliner hits different bc I purged my old expired makeup and it's really fucking good it's the blackest black kohl waterproof eyeliner by joah which I think Is a newer drugstore brand that's mimicking/marketing lots of kbeauty products [glass skin foundation mainly] [I also think it's either owned by or is KISS cosmetics under a new name] but the kohl aspect intrigued me. This shit is really good. It come with a sharpener but is a retractable pencil so you can have thick or thin liner depending on what you like. It also comes with a smudger. And I don't know if it's just because I have sensitive skin but it really hurt my eyes and there's actually no smudging this liner. Apply scarcely at first. I can remove some excess better with my spit than with water or micellar jelly though. Here's the liner I'm gonna sleep in tonight and see if I can wear it tomorrow. Don't worry, I dont sleep with mascara I make sure that is removed. Cuticle oil seems to take it off without a lot of friction. I might get an eye infection. I'm kind of okay with this. For science. I'm incredibly bored during this period of quitting smoking but I also feel like my mind is being freed. To think about experiments or anything else besides sit there and want a cigarette

[fridays--child]

A Lesson in Vulnerability

Was going for smut, ended up with the feels. Please enjoy(?) another rough, unedited post, including baby's first lemon in a decade.

Prompt “Of course deacon has a lot of disguises. One for each personality.”

Rating: 18+

“I’ve never met someone who has so many clothes. Except, you know, me.”

Galatea huffed a laugh. “What, you’re not the only one that has a different disguise for each personality?”

Meeting her eyes through their reflections distorted by the cracked full length mirror, Deacon placed his hand over his heart.

“You wound me. But seriously, did you swipe a whole Fallon’s store?”

Rolling her eyes at him, Galatea responded, “Is that where you got yours from?”

Deacon had never met a person who could transform herself quite like Galatea, who could change her whole being to attract or deflect attention as needed. With her hair up and under a hat, shoulders slumped in a man’s shirt and slacks, she was utterly unremarkable. Just another grimy wastelander, trying to eke a living before the rads, raiders, or bigots dug you an early grave. With a little lipstick and dark curls around her face, she was a bombshell come to life, a pre-war Aphrodite in a wiggle dress and heels. A magnet with a dimmer switch, pushing and pulling those in her wake. A human chameleon, no face change needed.

If he could choose a favourite (and he knew he had no right to), he’d probably say this incarnation was his. In her tiny green Goodneighbor apartment, with her shoes and jeans kicked off, analysing every item in her wardrobe before lovingly folding them, packing the chosen items into their shared duffle bag. She had kicked her shoes and jeans off as soon as she walked in the door, her makeup nearly worn off from the days travel back north. Even after a two week sabbatical, the closest thing to R&R he could offer, she still cackled with a nervous energy, a soft but increasing hum indistinguishable to those who didn’t know her.

It felt almost domestic, a wink of his long-forgotten earlier life. A false intimacy between two liars and secret keepers, ignoring the gulf that still existed between them despite the stings and firefights and sex.

But if he was about to put both of them in just stupid amounts of danger, he would take it greedily.

Galatea scrunched her nose at an old fisherman’s sweater, throwing into the bag before picking up a modest evening dress. She whistled at Deacon to pause shaving the two week’s growth from his face, holding it up to his mirrored eyeline.

“Do you think Mags would like this? Or is it not,” Galatea mimed a triangle from her collarbones to sternum, “enough?”

“Probably a little conservative for her.”

“All good, I’ll send it to Piper then. Unless,” she smirked, “you were planning to gender bend again next time you face swap?”

He snickered at her, bringing the straight razor back to his jaw. “‘Fraid I don’t have the decolletage for that doll, I’d never do it justice. Why, would you like that?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “It wouldn’t be my first rodeo with a woman.”

Temporarily stunned, Deacon gulped as the blood left his head and headed south, earning a dirty barked laugh from Galatea.

“Oh, now you’ve nicked yourself, you degenerate. Mind out of the gutter.”

She threw him a face cloth from across the room, before dragging one of the two dining chairs across the room to the small basin and mirror before straddling it backwards. Pushing her two long braids towards her back, she looked up at the older man expectedly.

“Go on then.”

“Beg pardon?” She kept staring. “If you’re after a steam and shave, you might be knocking on the door. I gotta tell ya, if that’s your stubble, you’ve gotta teach me how to get such a close shave.”

For the first time in the months they worked together, Galatea’s voice wobbled.

“Cut my hair please.”

Deacon frowned down at her. “Are you sure?” When she nodded, he added, “why are you so nervous? I’ve seen you destroy coursers and super mutants practically laughing.”

Huffing slightly, she undid the buttons of her shirt. For a minute, he was momentarily lost for words. He had always been aware of the mottled skin that ran from the edge of the left-hand  edge of her jaw down. Had wondered once or twice if the reason she always wore a high neck or scarf was to hide it, perhaps selfishly wondering if it made her too recognisable to go undercover with him. Each button she undid revealed a greater expanse of burnt flesh, melting into the soft cognac of her untouched skin and disappearing underneath the worn bra she wore. Galatea’s eyes flicked down to it.

“Well, there’s no use hiding it now, and it’s not like I’ll have time to do this mop.”

Deacon nodded, gulping. “Where, ah.. How long do you want it?”

“Whatever, so long as I can still tie it back.”

Flicking open the mounted first aid kit, he grabbed out the rusted scissors, before carefully lining up the two plaits and snipping them in line with her scarred chin. Galatea’s eyes dropped to her lap, murmuring.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to infiltrate the Brotherhood of Steel.”

Deacon scoffed, fervently lining up the dark layers of her locks to make sure they’re even.

“I can’t believe Des thought we were the ones to do it.”

“Mmm. I mean, are you even able to still pass the fitness test, old man?”

Deacon pulled a face in the mirror, moving around to tame the waves around her face. “Careful with the guy whose cutting your hair, sweetheart.” Galatea gently slapped his arm in response.

“I swear to God, if you give me a hack job and I need to get a buzz cut, I will utter your recall code.”

A slightly awkward, but common silence fell between them. Deacon cleared his throat, pushing the edges of her shirt down her shoulders so he could blow off the stray hairs around her neck.

“I, uh,  was wondering what you had hiding under there. Got to admit, slightly disappointed it wasn’t the Death Bunnies chest piece I was imagining.”

Galatea choked a hint of a laugh, betrayed by the wobble of her voice, pretty mouth hiding behind her fist.

“Trust me, even this,” she motioned to her chest, “would be preferable to tattoo Deak.”

Resting his hands on her neck, he gave her hair a final appraisal, catching the tremble as she swallowed. Meeting her glassy eyes in the mirror, he lifted her head up to meet his.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’re offended about the Death Bunnies tattoo. I told ya, I’m happy to be matchies if you are.”

She didn’t answer, shaking her head.

“Is it about this?”

“It’s stupid,” she muttered, shaking her head once more. “I should be used to it by now, but it still bothers me. It’s a reminder that this is real, and that I can’t go back.”

Staring into his glasses, she added, “Do you ever cling to the old parts of yourself, Deak?”

Galatea had a habit of getting of close, of nearly drawing the parts of him he kept buried deep to the surface. A pandora’s box of ugly truths that would mark him as a sinner even to the faithless. He could offer no words of comfort without incinerating them both.

So when she leaned into the fire, he responded with igniting the only common ground they both held.

Sliding one hand to trace her jaw, the other hand’s finger tips traced the edges where her smooth skin turned rough. These fingers were replaced with his lips, chaste at first before her breath hitched. He mouthed at her neck, wishing his tongue and teeth could heal the residual sting. She rolled her neck at his touch, lips catching the hand on her jaw and sucking the fingers there.

Deacon knelt in front of her, continuing his ministrations down her breasts and abs, roughly pulling at her shirt and bra to continue his pilgrimage along the mottled cognac. Galatea melted in the chair, sliding forward as he lifted her hips to pull off the unneeded garments, along with her faded, once pretty underwear. He ran a thumb down along her heat, and the egotist inside him cheered at the wet dripping from her lips.

“Spread your legs for me,” he growled, nipping at the strong thighs. “I want you to watch yourself.”

It was an undeserved gift to watch this woman above him, undulating and moaning as he mouthed her cunt. Something only fitting for a man with a less blasphemous tongue than his. But they both worshipped at the altar of liars and cheats, and if there was one good deed within his power that could push him towards redemption, this would be it. To grant Galatea a taste of heaven, despite the purgatory she had wandered for years.

Jesus, he was getting sentimental in his old age.

Deacon fucked his tongue into her, lapping hungrily at the soft pink folds. She seldom came when he was inside her (something she assured him occurred with all previous partners), but her thighs shook around his shoulders, and damn it if he wasn’t going to try. He slipped one thick finger in, then a second, searching and crooking as he doubled his attention on her clit.

Galatea swore incoherently, a rambling rant of “ Deacon, fuck, Deacon!” as she gripped the arms of the chair. A broken sob ripped through her chest, and she slumped against him, roughly pushing him away while her breathing laboured. He could feel wet salty tears against his neck, and he held her face in his hands.

“Hey hey hey, shh. Galatea, it’s okay, okay? It’s okay.” He kissed her gently. “Was it too much?”

She nodded slowly, consciously trying to control her breathing.

“Just got a bit overstimulated. Give me a sec?” He nodded. He had been a tender man once, attentive, and he allowed the ghost of that man kiss her softly, letting her taste herself. She licked herself off his mouth, reaching towards his glasses as they bumped against the bridge of her nose.

“Take them off for me, Deak.”

A secret for a secret, a fair trade. He hesitated for a second, then let her remove them, her dark eyes analysing his face with the same intensity she held whenever she faced a new problem. It was a bit like staring into the sun. He wished it would burn him until there was nothing left but ash.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Pretty. I wouldn’t have guessed your eyes were blue.”

He groaned, silencing her compliment with a kiss before resting his forehead on hers.

“You were so fucking close.”

“I know.”

“You taste so fucking good. Tell me what you want. Anything.”

She kissed him again, hungrily, small hands gripping this throat. They could count on one hand the times he had kissed her before this, even if he had lost count of the times they had slept together before this. He moaned into her mouth, resulting in a breathless chuckle.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Deacon lifted her up roughly, carrying her to the bed. He was an older man, sore, with a crink in his back and knees that throbbed every time it rained. And yet, he bargained, he would take this small act of self-flagellation for the sweet prize it held. A little death, and, more importantly, his best agent at her best.

She giggled at his involuntary grunt of pain, and shooed the small calico kitten off of her bed Deacon stumbled towards. Pushing him back towards the pillows at the head, she straddled him. He felt thick, hot and throbbing beneath her, and distracted hands pulled off his jeans whilst he ripped his holey white t-shirt off. Licking her palm, she pumped him slowly, before lowering herself onto his cock and hissing at that sting. Even if she was no longer 210 years untouched, she still savoured the stretch, the feeling of him filling her. Deacon growled, gripping her hips and fighting the urge to fuck up into her. Grabbing her wrists in one hand, he moved them from where they covered her chest to grip the metal bed frame.

“No more hiding.” He used the other to roll her hips against his, steadying the jerky rhythm she was finding and meeting her thrust for thrust.

Galatea picked up her pace, rising and sinking, punctuating each snap of her hips with a breathy moan. Deacon busied his mouth on her chest, sucking and nipping at her full chest, tracing the small inked shapes and initials that littered over her ribs and arms. Galatea rode him wildly, intimately, containing none of the usual composure she usually held, even in their most perverse moments. He mouthed the S.A.M, italicised in black on her wrist, desperately trying to ignore the lick of fire in his filling his belly, racing Galatea to their release. She huffed desperately, ungracefully, as his fingers traced haphazard shapes around the bud between her thighs.

“Deaks, Deacon , I’m so close. So close.”

“I know baby, fuck. What do you need.”

She sobbed. “My name, please. Say it. My real one.”

Her cunt contracted around his cock, impossibly tight and deliciously hot, and he fucked up desperately into her, crushing her bodily to his chest. He could feel that familiar pull, stretching and teetering on the edge, and he sunk his teeth into her neck, bruising the unharmed side of her through

“Jesus, Gene. Imogene . I’m gonna, shit, I’m going to come!”

Galatea unravelled around him, sobbing, splendid and terrible in her climax. Deacon pushed her off him, letting her fall against the mattress and pumping himself as he spilled over his stomach and her thighs. He fell back against the mattress, breathing heavily, as his partner’s slowly steadied. Pushing the hair off from her face, he met her eyes, before wrapping a lazy arm low along her back. His muscles burned, and he longed to sleep. When was the last time he slept in a bed?

“You okay?”

Galatea nodded. “Yes.”

“Mmm.”

A beat of silence, then. “Deacon?”

“Mhmm?”

“Thanks.”

“S’all good.” He yawned, stretching his spare arm above his head. “Thanks for letting me see you naked.”

Gene slapped his aching abs. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

[chromecutie]

Not A Ghost - part 17

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Taglist: @emma-frxst  @ra-ra-rasputiin  @holamor ​  @empressme-bitch  @marvel-is-perfection  @hazilyimagine ​ @marvelhead17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash ​ @whitewitchdown ​ @master-sass-blast ​ @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

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The excitement over lighting the bulb was short-lived. After the first lightbulb, Rhonda had gotten ambitious and stole a few bulbs of various sizes from a supply closet. In her practice room, she laid them in a circle on the floor and stood in the middle. She had worked at it for nearly an hour, and though maybe she should have been glad she could now get them to flicker without touching them, she was frustrated with being hard-pressed to do more than flicker.

She stepped out of her circle of bulbs and paused the top 40 pop song playing on her phone. “Sia,” she muttered with annoyance, “Thinks she’s an artsy Rihanna or some shit.” She huffed and started searching on her music app, “I need something I know.”

Rhonda’s taste in music was all over the place, but mostly gravitated to two moods: Marilyn Manson, System of a Down, and Rammstein, or Missy Elliot, Christina Aguilera, and Destiny’s Child. She found a playlist fitting that second mood and started nodding her head to a bass beat that would have some good thump on better speakers. Without thinking about it, her feet started moving and her hips winding. Her old, worn dance hoodie found its way off her body, tossed carelessly on the slightly dusty hardwood floor. The familiarity of the beat and the sexy, unapologetic lyrics had Rhonda turning and stepping all over the room, whipping her hair and sweeping her arms in powerful arcs. She smiled, and sparks lit from her cheeks and fingers. The bulbs didn’t light, but she wasn’t even thinking about those anymore except to step around them. Movement, and the freedom it gave her, dissipated all her frustrations as long as she could feel the floor under her feet. Song by song, she felt better, until--

“We should find you some twerk tutorials,” someone said flatly from the doorway.

Startled, Rhonda’s rhythm broke and she ducked into a low fighting stance. 

Ellie was leaning against the door frame. Her smile faded when she realized why there was a rule about not startling Rhonda. “Sorry, um,” Ellie edged into the room. “I know I should knock or something--”

“How long were you standing there?” Rhonda’s heart was racing, and she tried to breathe slowly, force herself to calm down, and not let on how scared she was for that split second.

The teen raised her shoulders and answered, “Just...two and a half songs? I forgot how cool it is to watch you go.”

Rhonda paused the music. She wanted to fuss at Ellie, but couldn’t make herself do it. Instead, she asked curtly, “What’s up?” Acutely conscious that her arms were bare, Rhonda snatched her hoodie off the floor and quickly pulled it back over her head.

For someone who kept a stony face so often, Ellie had an absolutely darling smile. When she grinned, Rhonda saw the little girl who used to play with black nail polish and liked trying on Rhonda’s X-Men boots. “Colossus said to come get you, lunch’ll be ready soon.”

Rhonda couldn’t resist smiling a little herself. “All right. Give me a minute to put the tripping hazards away.”

Ellie helped her box up the dozen or so new lightbulbs. “So? Who are you liking on that playlist we made?”

She snickered more than she meant to, “Well, not Sia.”

Scrunching her nose, Ellie shook her head, “She’s overplayed.”

“Panic! At the Disco is fun, though,” Rhonda stacked the boxed lightulbs neatly on the floor by the wall. “I dunno why I wasn’t always into them, they’re great.”

Ellie beamed, “They did get better, though.”

They finished the bulbs and headed down the hall toward the stairs. “I’m not wild about the new Metallica album,” Rhonda admitted glumly, “Nothing tops their old stuff, I guess.”

The younger woman carefully rubbed her eye without smudging her eyeliner. “Nah, but it’s better than St. Anger.”

Scoffing, Rhonda muttered, “Anything’s better than that shitstack.”

“Have you listened to Hozier yet?”

“Who?”

“Ho--” Ellie stopped and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Hozier. Yukio would give me a ton of shit for this, because I tell her I don’t like him, but,” she grabbed Rhonda’s shoulder and stared her hard in the eyes. “He’s objectively good. You gotta try him. The whole album.”

“Okay,” Rhonda chuckled, “It’ll be the next thing I listen to.” She gave a sidelong glance, “Why did you tell Yukio you don’t like him?”

Ellie rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder she didn’t knock herself unconscious. “When ‘Take Me to Church’ first dropped, it was super overplayed and everyone and their mom was obsessed with it. It is pretty good, though.”

They started walking again. Ellie said under her breath, “And if he does a show anywhere near here, we’re going.” When Rhonda gave her a sidelong glance, she added, “For Yukio.”

“You two seem really good together,” Rhonda hooked her arm through Ellie’s.

Let the record show: young badass Negasonic Teenage Warhead was blushing. She said through gritted teeth, “She’s the best and I would kill for her.”

Rhonda thought she might rupture a sinus from how hard she was trying not to laugh. “Yeah?”

“Also?” Ellie slowed her walk.

“Hm?”

“She wanted me to ask you if, uh, if you’d let her,” Ellie winced, “Fix your hair?”

Tugging a strand of frizzy, mousy colored hair, Rhonda scrunched her mouth to one side, “It’s pretty crusty, huh? I dunno how all this grey got here.”

Ellie playfully shoved her with her shoulder, loosening their linked arms as they went down the stairs. “You used to tell me you started going grey at fourteen and that’s why you dyed your hair every color you could find!”

“You remember that?” Rhonda’s jaw dropped. “That was a secret!”

“I never told anyone,” she giggled.

“You told me just now!” Rhonda was laughing too.

Ellie laughed harder, “You--but? You’re the one who told me!”

On the first floor, they passed a parlor that was used as an office now. The door was open and Rhonda saw a familiar form. “Hey, Ellie?” Rhonda pulled away. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen, ok? Tell Piotr I’ll just be a minute.” With a nod, Ellie broke away and walked off.

Nerves making her chest tight, Rhonda hesitated by the door, debating whether she should enter at all.

Michelle sighed and without looking up from her work at the desk, said, “Either come in, or keep walking, Rhonda.”

Taking a deep breath, Rhonda forced herself to walk calmly into the room. She cleared her throat and nodded, “Michelle?”

“So you do know my name,” Michelle turned and stood--and looked down at Rhonda with a chilled glare.

Finally giving her a good look, Rhonda realized Michelle was tall. She had to be about six feet tall, built like a mythical queen with long, willowy limbs and a perfect bunch of thick, dark curls bouncing just past her shoulders. Her skin was such a warm, glowing sepia brown, Rhonda guessed she would shine like a human chunk of tiger’s eye if she stepped in the sun. She was gorgeous. It was no surprise she’d caught Piotr’s eye--she looked like an exquisite sculpture in a museum.

Rhonda, by comparison, was shorter, stockier, and though she was looking much better than a few weeks ago, would still compare herself to a pile of dry leaves. 

Michelle impatiently drummed her fingers on the edge of her desk, “Is there something you want?”

“I am...I’m sorry...about before.” Rhonda looked like she was going to choke from trying so hard to swallow her pride. “I should have said thank you.” She stole a glance at Michelle’s face, then looked down to fidget with the hem of her hoodie. “You made Piotr happy at a time when...that probably wasn’t easy. And he, um, ha,” she forced a light laugh, “He deserves every ounce of happiness he can get, right?” She was nervous and uncomfortable under Michelle’s gaze. She sighed and looked up at her again, “You took care of him. Thank you. I dunno if we’ll ever be friends, but...I don’t want to be enemies.”

Michelle gave her a stern up-and-down glance with her golden hazel eyes. “He really believes you’re still some kind of sweetheart. This is the first time I’m tempted to believe that.” 

She moved suddenly, and Rhonda instinctively took a quick step back. Michelle rifled through a few papers on her desk before grabbing a business card, holding it up, but not extending it to Rhonda just yet. “You still haven’t been to see Charles.”

Rhonda’s jaw worked, “Not yet.” She realized Michelle was tense too.

The taller woman shrugged with one shoulder, conceding, “Look, I get it. If you’d rather talk to someone else, this is a colleague of mine.” Finally, she held out the business card for Rhonda.

Both were careful not to let their fingers touch as Rhonda took the card. She fidgeted with the corners with her fingernails, looking at the name and phone number for a therapist who specialized in mutants. “He’s not a telepath?”

Michelle huffed and rolled her eyes, “He’s not, but what do you have against us?”

To retort, Rhonda raised her eyebrows and tossed her head, over-enunciating for sassy effect, “If I wanted to talk about it, I’d say so, out loud, with my noisy face hole.”

“Whatever,” she adjusted back to her seat and got back to work. “I just better not hear about you stabbing anyone else.”

As she edged out of the office, Rhonda grumbled under her breath, “Like you’ve never wanted to stab Kurt. Have you met him?” By the time she reached the kitchen, she'd stashed the card in her hoodie pocket.