#kate’s sinuses suck

[ofduskanddreams]

I hope y’all all had a lovely new years! It’s time for another little personal update below the cut :)

I know many of you won’t care to read and that’s fine, I’m just putting this here because it’s the easiest way for me to communicate with everyone who might want to know. Here is the previous personal update for context.

With the holidays happening, things have been moving slowly on the medical front.

The bad news: I have another sinus infection, but what’s new 🙃 it feels like I’ve had one for half a year.

The good news: the ENT got back to me about my CT results and I’m just waiting on a call from their scheduler to book the surgery! Unfortunately, my CT results also indicate the need for the more intense of the two surgical options we were considering.

(I have to have a hard cast on my nose? For like a week? And can’t get it wet? RIP to my religious skincare routine ig 🥲)

Fortunately, once I have the operation the recovery is fairly quick. The first week I’ll feel like an out of commission, sad and blob-like imitation of a human. Then I get the cast off my face and 2-3 weeks later should be starting to notice an improvement in my quality of life compared to how things were before the surgery.

I’m hoping I’ll be able to have the procedure as soon as possible, realistically meaning I’ll be happy if I can get it before the end of February because that’s how things tend to go in my experience. I’ll update you guys once I know.

I can’t adequately describe just how much I’m looking forward to having energy for fandom again. I miss you all so much and I miss writing as frequently as I used to.

I miss being able to get through every day without basic things (sleep, cooking, working, existing) feeling like an uphill battle. Which, honestly, is really saying something because I’ve lived with Ehlers-Danlos my whole life—I am no stranger to battling through hard days (and sometimes waving the white flag because I can’t win them all.) When every day is a “hard” day though it’s not a very good time.

TL;DR I’m excited to have my sinuses surgically altered and get back to you all. I hope you all are well and that this new year brings you joy and peace 💕

[argotmagazine-blog]

The Art Of Being A Unicorn

“Look, all I’m saying is that I don’t believe for a minute she really wants to fuck women.”

Our first round of drinks arrived five minutes ago and already the conversation is on Candace and her recent induction into the Sapphic Sisterhood. I take a deep gulp of my Riesling. And another. Empty glass in forty-five seconds. Self-preservation in the form of wasted wine.

“It’s just some kind of phase. Maybe she skipped the ‘experimentation’ stage in college and wants a round two. Either way, no way she’s suddenly a dyke.” Kate takes a deep swig from her bottle of Magic Hat, confident she’s made her point. The alcoholic equivalent of dropping the mic.

“It’s just so weird.” Lisa tries to fish the cherry out of her Cosmo with the swizzle stick. She slowly pulls it up the side of the glass, and then loses it, the candy red sphere tumbling back to the little well in the bottom of the martini glass. She purses her lips as she stabs it and then pops it into her mouth. “She’s only dated guys, before. Though, I mean, it’s not like Dana is much of a chick. She’s so...” She trails off, twirling her hand in the air in front of her as she tries to find the word.

“She’s ‘so’ what?” I press, knowing the answer, my tone sounding more frustrated than I planned. The others at the table don’t seem to notice, but out of the corner of my eye I can see Kevin lean his head on his hand, so his face is ‘casually’ pointed my direction.  He raises his eyebrows, his eyes reminding me of my promise to be nice to his friends. I give him my best ‘I know, honey, but I kind of want to stab them in the face right now’ smile in response, my lips almost painfully pressed into a thin, curved line, my eyebrows raised to mock his.

“Oh! Butch! That’s the word I was looking for!” Lisa looks satisfied. She turns toward her husband. “Right?”

Mark shrugs, dipping the complimentary pumpernickel directly into the included ramekin of butter. He scoops the off-white cream onto a corner of the bread, takes a bite, and double dips.

“Maybe she’s bi? Or pan?” I bring out the smile I usually reserve for annoying customers, hoping it will keep my voice even and friendly.

Kate scoffs. “People only say that as an excuse to be sluts.”

“I dunno, Kate. She was cheating on David with Dana before they broke up.” Mark points at Kate with his second piece of bread, his mouth full.

“Bisexual doesn’t mean slutty. And even if it did--“ My voice comes out an octave higher than I’d have liked. The customer service smile is not so much put back in its neat little compartment in my mind, as violently ripped away. Kevin takes in a sharp breath which evolves into a heavy sigh as he leans back in his seat, finding something interesting about the ceiling.

Kate speaks over me. “Yeah but David hadn’t had sex with her in, like, a year. So, that’s kind of his own fault.”

Mark helps himself to another scoop of butter. “You think Dana tricked her, somehow? I mean, like, Candace is lonely, vulnerable, and then this person swoops in and makes her feel desired. Yeah, the parts are different but if you close your eyes, it all feels the same.” He looks up at the rest of us, noticing the sudden silence. “What? It’s only gay if you give.” He pops the last bit of bread into his mouth. “Well, I guess except for butt stuff.”

I eye Kevin’s Captain and ginger ale. The server could come back any time, now. I really should have ordered something stronger than wine.

“Lesbians don’t do ‘butt stuff’, Mark.” Lisa rolls her eyes at her husband. “They use, I dunno, dildos and shit.”

“Cos all ladies really want the D.” Mark’s voice is smooth as he purses his lips in a cocky mockery of seduction, motioning with both hands to his crotch in the universal, ‘suck it’ sign. “Right, Kev?”

Kevin looks away from the lights on the ceiling. “Hmm? I, uh--“

“Oh yeah,” Mark interrupts, giving a slow, knowing nod, “Kevin knows.”

“Look, why--“ I clear my throat and lower my voice as Kevin gives me a light kick under the table. “Why do you care so much about Amanda’s love life? She’s dating a woman, now. So what? I mean I’m--“

“Wow, the salmon looks awesome!” Kevin interjects. He points at an expertly crafted photo of perfectly air brushed pink fish in the menu.

“Dude, you can’t order fish at Outback, that’s just weird.”

“I’m having the chicken.”

“Oh come on, why would you go to a steak place and not get steak?”

“I like chicken.”

“Blasphemers, all of you.”

I leave them to their bickering, reaching across Kevin to snag his drink. I stare at the side of his face as I down it in two chugs. Fuck it.

Later, walking to the car after goodbyes and promising to get together again soons are exchanged, I let out the hot, writhing put of snakes that have been in my stomach most of the evening.

“Dude, what the fuck was that?”

Kevin doesn’t even look at me as he pulls out his keys, pressing the button to unlock the car. His green Camry beeps, the interior lights automatically illuminating the cabin. “What the fuck was what?”

“Cutting me off like that when they were talking about Candace! I know they’re your friends, but they were being fucking assholes.”

He opens the passenger side door, stepping back and waiting patiently for me to sit down and reach for my seatbelt. “Because I knew you were going to play the bi card.”  He pushes my door closed and walks to the driver’s side. His door dings when it opened.

“Excuse me? ‘Bi card’? Are you actually serous right now.”

The overhead light dims into darkness. He shrugs, inserting his key into the ignition. “I just don’t see why my friends need to know that about you.” He turns the key, reaching for the radio volume knob as the CD player come to life. Death Cab for Cutie pours from the speakers. “It’s not like it even counts, right now. You’re with me.” He turns up the volume and puts the car into reverse.

#

“Care to explain this?” Meredith throws the pink and blue notebook onto the black marble coffee table. It slides across the smooth, polished surface, before coming to rest in front of me. Half of it hangs into void between the table and the couch. The 3D yellow flower on the front bounces slightly on its small spring. Meredith glares down at me, the angry lines around her mouth betraying the age her perfect make up tries to hide.

“My journal? You bought it for me for Xmas.”

“Don’t be a smartass.” My dad’s voice holds barely controlled anger. I know that he will end up yelling by the end of this confrontation--he always does. And I will end up matching his volume as my words devolve into rage filled sobs. It’s a very specific script. But for now, he’s holding onto at least a shred of civility.

“I really don’t understand what’s going on right now.”

“What’s going on,” Meredith’s voice drips with patronizing contempt, “Is that you got ‘hot and heavy’ with Hope. What are you, some kind of dyke now?”

Pressure starts to rise in my sinuses. “You read my journal? What right do you have--“

“What right does she have?!” Dad jerks forward in his chair, his face red. “What right do you have?! You don’t own that journal, little girl. It’s under our roof, it is our property.”

“Why is this such a big deal to you?” My throat is tight and my words come out in a strange croak. I am determined not to cry this time. I won’t give her the satisfaction. 

“The big deal,” Meredith’s lips purse in disgust, her coral lipstick fluorescent against her overly tanned skin, “is that it is wrong. And we will not have it under this roof.”

“Technically, I wasn’t under this roof. We were in Derek’s car.” I want to delete the words from existence as soon as they’re out of their mouth.

My dad sighs. I’m impressed with his composure thus far. I expected my inability to keep my mouth under control to spark the shouting portion of tonight’s entertainment.  “You’re not even old enough to have sex with men, how could you possibly know if you want to have sex with women?” It’s the same line he’s given any time I mention my various gay friends.

“I’m sixteen.”

“Exactly.”

“The fact I exist proves that teenagers have sex, Dad.”

“I called her mother.” Meredith interrupts the debate on teenage sexuality to bring us this important breaking news. She crosses her arms over her off-white sweater, smirking.

Panic rises in my throat, followed by the acidic taste of bile. This panic is not for myself. “Are you serious? How could you do that?! Her parents held a freaking laying on of hands at her birthday party! They wouldn’t allow her to attend sex ed! What do you think they’re going to do with her when they find out she likes girls?”

“That is not my problem, but she assured me that this will never be an issue again. And you two are forbidden to see each other.”

There is a low buzzing in my head as my mind fills with a white, blank space. I don’t realize I’ve left the couch until I find myself sitting at my desk in my room. I’m surprised they let me leave without further judgment. I don’t even know if I’m grounded.

 Later that night, long after my dad and stepmom go to bed, I sneak the cordless phone out of the living room, and dial Hope’s cell. It goes directly to voicemail.

The next day an overly polite computer voice informs me that the number has been disconnected.

Hope isn’t in school that Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Then, through the Humphrey High rumor mill, I hear the news.

 “Her parents Baker Acted her!” I shout as I walk through the door leading into the kitchen from the garage. Meredith is at the island putting the finishing touches on a sandwich. She doesn’t bother to look up.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Hope! They lied and said that she’s a danger to herself! She’s in an institution because you told her mother about us! This is your fault!”

Her eyes meet mine, steel wrapped in brown silk. “I will not be spoken to that way by a dyke.”  She takes a bite of her sandwich and places it onto a dark green plate. She carries it out of the kitchen, through the living room, out the sliding glass door, and onto the patio. She sits on the painted white concrete and dips her legs into the clear water of our pool.

#

“So you’re a lesbian?” My mother’s voice is calm and conversational.  I hear her typing through the other end of the phone, multi -tasking between talking to me and participating in an ‘alternate-lifestyle’ chat room. She recently acquired a computer, launching herself into the late 20th century a year past Y2K. Her internet provider is AOL.

“No, mom, I still like guys, too. I guess I’m bi. I actually kind of like this dude in my Chemistry class. He looks like Ethan Embry.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

I sigh, exasperated in that way only teenagers feel when confronted by their parents’ ignorance of the really important things in life. “He’s an actor, mom. He was in Empire Records? Can’t Hardly Wait?”

“You know I’ve never seen these movies.”

“That Thing You Do?”

“Oh! I liked that one! Who was he?”

“The bass player.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah, he’s cute.” She pauses. “But you like girls, though.” Back on topic.

I slouch further into the fuzzy blue overstuffed chair in the corner of the den. It’s the ugliest chair that ever uglied but I love every comfy inch of it. It was the only piece of furniture left over from when my parents were married. I have no idea why my dad lugged around for over a decade. I am equally confused as to why Meredith allowed it in the house, as it clashes with everything, even if it is banished to the den, the room company is least likely to see. All I know is that I call dibs when I move out after graduation in a few months. 

“How did your dad and Meredith take it?”

I sigh, my breath causing static into the phone. “Not good.”

“Hmm.” She makes a noncommittal noise and I can tell she is trying to decide to play nice or let me know for the eight thousandth time how she feels about my father and his bride. “You know, I’ve experimented with women.”

My mouth could catch flies. “Wha--really?”

“Mmmhmm.” The keyboard continues to clack in the background. “That one convention I went to, I played with a couple female subs. It was okay. Boobs I could play with all day but anything below that, eh. Not really into vaginas. Dicks are much more fun. Oh, and Allen and I did have a threesome with that Mille girl who used to live next door to us. Remember her? She used to keep an eye on you when you were in middle school?”

I shut my eyes tightly, a sharp pain in my temple. My brain tries to process this outflow of information. The play dates with ladysubs weren’t really a big deal--I’d known about my mom’s kinky lifestyle for a while--but Millie? Beautifully damaged, dramatic, soft haired Millie?

“Y-You had sex with Millie?” I stammer when my mouth decides it can once again form words.

“Yeah. Kind of. Allen was there, too--“

“I had a crush on Millie, mom.” Actually, crush was a loose term. I was infatuated my Millie. I dreamed of Millie. She was the first real life girl I was ever interested in. My confused desires previously focused on beautiful actresses like Lucy Liu and Portia De Rossi, what with Ally McBeal being my queer gateway drug.   

But Millie. There was something special about her. Something wild in the way her life was full of emotional turmoil and passion. She was a walking soap opera and it fascinated me.  She was also the first person I ever smoked weed with, so there was something to be said about my mother’s choice of baby sitters.

My mother laughs. The typing sounds stop. “Really? You liked Millie?” Another laugh cuts off whatever I wasn’t going to say. “Looks like we have the same taste in women.”

“Oh god.”

The typing begins anew.

#

“I’ve seen her play five times.” The woman in front of me has dark hair and is beautiful. The dim lighting of the bar shadows her skin a darker brown and she wears her hair naturally, kinky curls springing from her head in every direction.

“And I thought I was bad!” I give a little self-deprecating snort. “I’ve seen her three times, I think? I try to make sure to get tickets whenever she’s in town. She really must love this venue.”

Arms reach around and above me as women crowd the bar to grab a drink before the end of intermission. Melissa Ferrick is already back on stage on the other side of the club, tuning her guitar and laughing at something her drummer said. The stage lights make her short brown hair look blue.

The woman takes a sip of her martini, her maroon lipstick staining the glass. I didn’t know anyone actually drank martinis. Everyone I know makes due with the cheapest beer they can dig up, and wine either in a magnum or a box. One day my friends will realize that being twenty-one means we are allowed to be choosy. I’m tired of pretending I like the taste of PBR.

“What are you thinking about?” Her lips are a smirk. I didn’t even realize I zoned out, staring at the dark green olive at the bottom of her glass.

“I want to eat your olive.” My answer is honest, but I wish I could take back the words. She raises her eyebrows for a silent second before bursting into laughter. It comes from deep inside of her.

“Is that what you kids are calling it nowadays?”

I’m glad for the bar’s terrible lighting as I feel my face get hot. I take a long swig of my Newcastle.  Oh god, new subject. “I saw Doria Roberts open for her a few years ago. She was just fucking amazing. I just oh man so good.”

She gives me that smirk again and my insides feel squiggly. “I was at that show. Too bad I didn’t see you there, we could have met sooner.”

I can no longer meet her eyes. It’s just too much. “I was with my ex then, anyhow. He was reviewing the show for UCF’s newspaper. Trying to get a music column up and running. “

When I look back up, her eyebrows are furrowed. She pulls her head slightly away from me, looking at me out of almost the corner of her eye. “He?”

I shrug, not sure why she’s asking. “Yeah. Didn’t work out. Still friends, though.”

She shakes her head, sighing as she stands. “Sorry, chica, I learned a loooong time ago not to get involved with straight girls. To0 much drama.”

I spin fully towards her on my bar stool. “But I’m not—dude, I’m bi.”

She scans the crowd closer to the stage, making eye contact with someone and raising her hand in the ‘one minute’ sign. “Oh honey,” she says as she picks up her drink. She continues smiling at the woman in the crowd, not bothering to look back at me. “If you’re still calling yourself bi at your age, you’re straight. Sorry to let you know.”

She walks away, weaving through the crowd of bodies towards the front of the stage. Melissa Ferrick readjusts her mic, her black guitar reflecting the shadows of her fans. There’s a squeal of feedback. Everyone laughs.

#

“I’ve liked you since high school, I just needed to see what it was like.” Jane’s fair cheeks are red as she confesses, looking from me, to her hands, to the TV showing the DVD menu for Moulin Rouge. My lips are still tingling from the kiss she surprised me with a few seconds before.

“I--“ Ugh, I’ve never had to do this, before. “Look, Jane, I’m flattered and you know I love you, but not really like that. I just don’t—“

“It’s ‘cause you’re still in love with Ray, isn’t it?” She rolls her eyes, flinging herself against the back cushions of the couch with more force than I thought her tiny frame could muster. She blows an errant lock of blond hair out of her eyes.

“No, that’s not—“

“I liked you better when you were a lesbian.” She reaches for the remote.

#

“What is with you, today?” Kevin hurries to catch up with me as I hurry to keep myself a few steps ahead of him. I should have known better than to come to Pride. This was a stupid idea.

“What are you talking about? I’m fine.” I maneuver around a pretty girl with a pink crew-cut. Her t-shirt informs me that linguists do it with tongues.

I feel a tug on my arm and stop as Kevin uses it to hold me in place while he closes the last few feet between us. “No. I know what okay looks like and this is not okay. This is acting weird. What is going on?”

I gently pull my arm from his grasp and run my hand through my pixie cut. “I just--“ I pause to find the words. “I feel weird. Here.” I look down at the sidewalk. A fried and shriveled earth worm is stuck to the concrete.  “With you.”

“What?” He sounds more hurt than angry. Damn it.

“It’s not really about you, I just feel like--” I shrug, looking up to scan the tops of the surrounding buildings.  I never noticed that there was molding up there. Lion heads. Clichéd.  “I feel like I’m an imposter. That I don’t belong here because I’m with a guy. Okay?”

He scrunches his nose and scoffs. “That’s stupid.”

“What?”

“No one cares that you’re here with a guy. No one is judging you for not being gay enough, okay? Everyone’s been enjoying the parade and the free candy. No one has even noticed. You’re being paranoid.”

I take a deep breath to keep myself from screaming. He doesn’t understand. He didn’t see the raised eyebrow the dreadlocked woman next to us gave when he caught one of the handfuls of condoms that were thrown into the crowd by muscled men in silver shorts. When he gave me a nudge with his elbow, saying “This’ll come in handy tonight!” with a wink. He didn’t see the man in front of us turn to look, pursing his purple stained lips, as Kevin stated with surprise that he didn’t realize the Polar Bear Club supported gay rights. The man rolled his eyes as I explained in a hurried whisper what the term ‘Bear’ referred to, and no, it didn’t mean they liked to jump into freezing cold rivers. He stood out in his black t-shirt amid the sea of rainbows. And it made me stand out beside him.

I slowly let out the breath I’ve been holding and take his hand. There’s no use in arguing. “You may be right. I’m just being insecure.”

We walk a few blocks, taking in the colorful crowd that surrounds us.

“Kev?” A voice from across the street stops our stroll. Candace waves, making her way through the crowd, Dana holding onto her hand protectively.

Kevin waves back and we meet in the middle of the sea of people. Hugs and "oh man how’s it been, haven’t seen you in forever"'s are exchanged.

“Wow, you’re the last people I thought I’d run into here.” Candace states, laughing.

Kevin returns the laughter, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t usually see a lot of straight couples at Pride.”

Jenna Swisher's work has appeared in Chatham University's literary magazine, Minor Bird, as well as Daikaijuzine, The Battered Suitcase, and Beyond Imagination. She lives in Pittsburgh with her boyfriend and their five cats.

[feelingsdusk-writes]

About that horrible period of time right after a vacation

(Art by the awesome @hd-hale ❤❤❤)

Prompted by @riceycloveed: DID I HEAR PROMPTS althoughofcoursejustifyouwantto something about a Steter - Spideypool AU???

----

“You need to take a vacation.”

“Auntie…“

“No, listen to me, kiddo. You’re running yourself ragged. How many pounds have you lost this last month?”

“I-I…“

“Look, this is New York, raise a manhole and twenty heroes will crawl out like cockroaches…”

“I resent the analogy.“

“… so I’m sure the world won’t burn if you take a measly week long vacation, yes?”

“… Okay.“

“Good, because I bought you a plane ticket to Orlando.“

“What?! But work!“

“Nonsense, that’s the beauty of being a freelancer, you can do whatever you want.“

“B-but…”

“You’re leaving tomorrow at sunrise…“

“Auntie, you’re evil, you know I hate mornings.”

“… and I want tons of pictures of you in Danny the Otter paraphernalia, a box of those Betty Boo’s beans…”

“Bertie Botts, and it’s Harry Potter, auntie.“

“… or whatever they’re called, and a picture with every single princess of Disney World, especially Mulan. Lots of them with Mulan. And Jack Sparrow, I want a picture of you in a pirate’s hat, and bring that hat back.”

“That may be physically impossible in one week, you know?“

“But you’re going to try your best, yes?"

“Yes, auntie.“

“Good. Love you, kiddo.“

“Love you too.“

“And that way I’ll have time to fix all those costumes you’ve ripped…”

“Not a costume.“

”… because you break them faster than I can fix them. I have to find a way to reinforce the groin and the bum…“

“Auntieeee.”

“Don’t mind my ramblings, kiddo, and go prepare your luggage. Remember, no costume and no climbing into places, you’re in vacation.“

“Not a costume!”

And to Orlando goes Stiles, to beat his feet into a pulp walking through Disney World, the Universal’s Islands of Adventure, and the Discovery Cove.

And if he cheats a little and uses his powers to climb to the top of each castle he finds, auntie will never… Who is he kidding? Of course she’ll know, because Stiles tells her everything.

He takes a lot of pictures, he visits as many places as humanly possible and he eats double his weight in food and sweets. And he steals Jack Sparrow’s hat.

And the world does burn in his absence.

“You’re such a over-dramatic child.“

“How could this happen, auntie?! I’m gone seven days (not even that!) and some impostor appears and starts chopping the heads off of the Argent mafia?“

In the front page of the Daily Bugle, there’s a badly taken picture of a red and black spandex clad guy in the middle of a sea of corpses with the headline Spiderman loses it!

—

“Rest is for the puny, Weaklinski! You shouldn’t have taken time off!“ Jackson crows at him the moment he spots him.

“How sad that you have the finest camera on the market and this is the best you can offer, Jackass,” he snarks back, waving the newspaper at him.

“Jealous much?“ he sneers.

“Seeing the entire package?” He gives him a disdainful but brief once-over as he passes him and snorts. “You wish.”

“Fuck you!“

“Think about that much? I wouldn’t hold my breath, Jackass.”

When Jackson’s only answer is a furious finger, Stiles gleefully adds another victory (Stiles ∞+1, Jackson 0) into the tally. He crosses the entire room until he reaches the boss’ office and knocks.

Hope is the last thing you lose, but just as he expected, talking to him is an exercise in frustration and completely pointless.

“But it’s not Spiderman, Coach! It’s not even the same suit!“

“So what if he changed his costume from blue to black! Maybe he felt that he looked fat in blue, maybe he thinks he looks more badass in black? Who cares about that? We care that he killed thirty upstanding citizens, members of the respectable Argent family…“

“Also secretly known as the New York mafia,“ Stiles can’t help but to interject.

“…and that means he’s a fucking menace like I said from the start! And that's what’s going to shoot our sale numbers through the roof.”

“Look, Coach, he doesn’t even use webs and he has two katanas. Spiderman doesn’t have katanas! Much less kills people with them!“

“All psychopaths progress like that, Bilinski! It’s obvious that he now enjoys a more hands-on approach and that he needs to bathe in the blood of his enemies to feel good. He needs to be caught and stopped.”

“But…“

“Bilinski,” Bobby Finstock cuts in,“ this is what happens when you leave for a week. You lose track of what’s happening and things change. Adapt or die. Now get out of my office.” And then he blows the whistle that normally hangs around his neck. “Chop, chop!”

“But…“

He blows it again.

“Coach!”

And again.

“Would you let me talk?!”

The man takes a deep breath and then proceeds to blow the whistle until he runs out of air and his face reddens with the effort.

“OKAY.“

Stiles hates, hates, hates, hates, Bobby Finstock.

Especially since he spends an entire night taking pictures to bring them back to him as a proof and he still won’t bulge.

“But the suit…“

“So he changed his mind again, big deal. His fashion sense still sucks, it’s still spandex.”

“I don’t think…”

“You wear plaid all the time, your opinion doesn’t count,“ Finstock cuts in dismissively. “But we’re not a fashion magazine, Bilinski, so unless you catch him in his birth suit and we can use that as a proof of misconduct or public indecency or whatever, I don’t care what he wears. Now get out and don’t come back until you bring me something useful.”

Stiles grits his teeth frustrated as he exits the office, grumbling under his breath about climbing walls in jeans against spandex. It’s now obvious that ending with this nonsense is not going to be as simple as he thought.

He’s going hunting.

—

Two weeks of scouring the city for psycho guy later, he’s about to climb the walls with frustration… no, he’s already doing that (pun totally not intended) because said frustration is off the roof by now.

Nada, nothing, niente, niets, rien.

No sightings at all, no hide nor hair to be seen, because the guy has been completely M.I.A. ever since the stunt that got him the front page.

Time to pull out the big guns…

(He knows what he wants, after all… and the Argent Benefit Gala is coming up.)

… and to dust off his tuxedo.

(Er, which he doesn’t have.)

(But he’ll worry about that after he gets himself a spot as an official inside photographer for the event.)

—

Stiles gets himself a spot.

(He has to play dirty and put laxatives on Jackson’s food, but sacrifices needed to be made for the greater good.)

(Serves him right. Jackson taunted him for days about wanting to cover a fashion event (which isn’t actually accurate, since it’s first and foremost a benefit) before realizing that as an inside photographer he would get in touch with a lot of important people, and then he wanted the spot. Which he got, because he bribed Coach with a new coffee machine.)

(Stiles made sure to toast him with his Starbucks coffee as he run past him… all those six times… in less than one hour.)

(He may or may not have overdone it with the laxatives.)

(But just a little.)

(Okay, he’ll admit that putting them in his drink too was vengeful at best.)

He rents a tux and suffers through an hour and a half of red carpet in the freezing cold until he finally gets to go inside. Add to that four hours of snotty people asking him for drinks and canapés (seriously, he has a camera, in his hands, right in front of them) or rich brats wanting him to take pictures of them making the victory sign. Super. Lovely night. Would do it again.

Not.

And all for nothing, because psycho guy doesn’t show up.

Well, not for nothing exactly.

It goes like this.

1)At about two hours into the event, Stiles decides to go outside and take a breath, because the room is starting to get stuffy and if the decrepit lady with the arachnid brooch (irony of ironies) pinches his ass once more as he asks him for another flute of champagne, he’s not going to be responsible for his actions.

2)So there he is, an innocent bystander, breathing in the cool night air and fiddling with his camera, when he looks downwards… and catches the Argent princess trying to elope with one of the waiters of the event. They stand there looking like deers under the headlights before they catch sight of his camera and panic starts to fill their features. Stiles sighs, gives them two thumbs up in the name of forbidden love, and pointedly turns his back on them. He hears a happily whispered thanks after an incredulous minute and thinks the matter closed.

(It’s not.)

3)Three hours into the event, and three more butt pinches (seriously, the only thing left for him to evade the lady is to hide under the table, how does she keep finding him?), his arachnid senses start tingling like mad. Finally, he thinks as he goes outside and suits up. He locates where the problem is… and nope, no psycho guy. Apparently, Princess and Crooked-jaw-guy have been caught and the rest of the family isn’t happy.

Like holding under gun point kind of not happy.

“Oh my God, it was you! How could you, aunt Kate? How could you kill dad and mom?” Princess cries, big fat tears sliding down her face while Crooked-jaw-guy holds her with a valiant expression.

Bad, bad, stupid move, Stiles thinks, never admit to knowing something like that, especially under gun point.

“You shouldn’t have admitted knowing that, dear,“ a lady in an admittedly spectacular dress sighs dramatically, while a grandpa guy just sighs long-suffering.

His words exactly.

“Take care of them,“ says Grandpa ominously. “And make sure it looks like he did this too.”

So Stiles, seeing where the situation is going, intervenes. He saves the lovebirds and relishes in leaving the rest of the people in the room stuck to the walls after they push him into the pool. And as he waves to the kids good bye with a cheeky remark about enjoying Mexico, he thinks the matter closed. Again.

(It’s not.)

(Again.)

4)He goes home.

5)He wakes up with the mother of all colds clogging his sinuses and to the headline Spiderman kidnaps Argent heiress during benefit gala!

Stiles groans and, directly after, he lets out three sneezes in chain.

“Oh, dear,“ auntie sighs. “I’m going to make some chicken soup for you, kiddo.”

“Thanks, auntie,“ Stiles rasps before letting his head fall into the pillow.

He needs to find psycho guy pronto.

—

Ironically, it’s not him who finds psycho guy, but psycho guy who finds him instead.

Sort of.

He’s searching the city again, not recovered at all from his cold and having to pull his mask up every ten minutes or so to sneeze… and he’s had a couple of close calls about that, so he’s not a happy camper, that’s for sure.

He’s passing beside a skyscraper when one of the windows from a level above bursts noisily and out comes flying a body. He hears a shouted Taxi! before that same body lands on him and holds onto him like a limpet. It takes Stiles three floors of free falling before he recovers enough to shoot a web to pull himself forward and into the rooftop of the nearest building. When silenced fire starts to rain on him, he makes the effort of pulling his piggybacking charge almost eight streets further.

Stiles gapes when he finally comes face to face with his passenger.

“Well that’s what I call a timely intervention. You certainly have a gift, my spandex clad friend.“

“You.”

“Me?“

“You!“

“Yes, we’ve established that already.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself. This is not him, he’s Spiderman, he’s cool and sarcastic and all around badass. He has this. Okay.

“And who exactly are you?“

“Deadpool?”

“Charming name.”

Okay, he has a name, that’s good. Now he needs a picture of them together and that’s it, problem solved.

“Wait a moment,“ Deadpool says tapping his fist against his palm with a sudden realization, “I know you! You are…”

“Of course you…“

“… the guy that’s been taking all the credit for my hard work! What was…”

“… do. Say what?“

“… the name? Antman?“ He gives him a once-over. “Antboy? No, Blackwidowboy? Arachnidboy?”

Stiles makes to talk but has to turn to a side to pull up his mask to let out three sneezes in chain. Of all the indignities, he accidentally presses the mechanism and a web shoots out.

“Eh, Arachnidboy, you may want to…” says Deadpool making a wiping gesture.

Stiles sees red.

“It’s Spiderman, you motherfucker!“

Even years later, Stiles won’t know how it happened. One minute he’s shooting a web in anger, the next another gets stuck in Deadpool’s katanas… long story short, he accidentally decapitates the man before propelling him out of the rooftop and down to the ground bellow.

He stays there in shock for a couple of seconds before jumping to where the man’s body is.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,“ he repeats continuously as he looks at the broken body and then forces himself to look for the head.

“You’re giving me a headache,” it says and then, after he shrieks and shoots for the rooftop again, it snickers and adds. “Ah, that never gets old.”

“What the?“ he mutters as he approaches him carefully. One hand is making awkward grabby motions in the direction of the head and Stiles swallows before making a decision. He grabs the head carefully to place it on the hands of the rapidly healing body.

“I gather by your reaction that this wasn’t your intended result,“ Deadpool lilts from his own lap. “Do you mind?”

“Ah, yeah,“ Stiles nods and reaches to right the leg in the correct position.

“Much better,” he sighs as and audible snap reaches Stiles’ ears. “So, I know I can be irritating and all that, but I’m sensing a deeper reason for all this anger?“

“You’re asking me that after I chopped your head off?“ he asks incredulously and a hand gives him a wobbly thumbs up, the wrist obviously broken.

“Well, you did give me a free ride and got me out of a sticky situation… literally, all that congealing blood…“

“That’s gross.”

“Exactly.“

“I didn’t mean… forget it,” Stiles sighs, suddenly exhausted. “And this happens a lot to you?”

“What can I say? Trouble likes to play Hide and Seek with me. And I tend to lose a lot. Embarrassing, I know.”

“Why do I get the feeling that don’t try very hard to hide… or at all?“

Deadpool blinks, then proceeds to place his head upon his shoulders, holding it there with both hands, and to grin at him.

“Do you want some tacos?“

“What.”

—

Spiderman allies himself with new threat to society, Deadpool? says the headline on the front page of the newspaper. Under it, one of the pictures he took of them, a very ambiguous one, sits.

(Apparently, when he gave that ride to him, he had just killed the rest of the Argent family, barring the princess that he hopes is by now far far away.)

“Hi there, Spidey!“ Deadpool sings as he appears out of nowhere. “I was bored and I thought of you.”

Stiles facepalms.

He’s never taking a vacation ever again.

[bunysliper]

Castle Ficlet: A Persuasive Argument 1/1

A Persuasive Argument

A Reference Material Universe ficlet

This is ridiculous. He's being ridiculous.

She hasn't seen her boyfriend in almost a week, not since a date that had ended in him walking her back to her dorm, hiding his face in his sleeve to sneeze half a dozen times, and frankly the separation is getting a little old.

Fine, he has a head cold. He feels crummy, she gets it. Colds suck; they take days to build up, and then they linger for maximum misery. But he's decided to hide in his apartment and wallow instead of taking some Dayquil and getting on with things. Like coming to class or seeing her.

And all of it with the explanation of "Well I don't want to get you sick, too, Kate."

Her boyfriend is an idiot. He's sweet to think of her and put her health above his like that, but he's still an idiot.

Of course she doesn't want him to get her sick, but wouldn't letting her help make it easier for him to get well faster? She can cook, but he won't even let her come over to make him soup. She could rub his head and pamper him just a little bit, the way he always pampers her. But no. No, he's suffering in silence, save for the occasional text to let her know he's at least still breathing.

Well, enough of that.

She waits to text him until she's outside his building, wanting to see if he'll let her up or if she's going to need to stoop to using the big guns: asking someone else to let her in and sneaking to his door.

How're you feeling?

His reply comes less than a minute later, and she imagines him sprawled on his couch, his feet sticking out from under the throw blanket she'd fished out of his linen closet soon after they'd started dating.

Like crap. Miss you and the ability to breathe through my nose. In exactly that order, I swear.

Her lips turn up. Well, at least he's once again capable of joking. The first day or two he'd been too miserable to even attempt humor.

Miss you too, babe. Can I get you anything? Your homework from the last few days? Food? 'Get well' sex? Gatorade?

Okay, it isn't exactly subtle, but screw it. She wants to help. And if she has to write a persuasive essay to convince him she's not worried about getting sick, then so be it. Because it's not even about sex, as much as she misses that, it's about how her chest has tightened in his absence, how her body misses the press of his at night, how her day isn't complete without him.

She's even prepared to watch some of his stupid movies if he would just quit being so damn stubborn.

Homework's been emailed in, doing okay on food and supplies, and god yes, but you'd probably never want to sleep with me again after this.

Kate rolls her eyes; Rick has his mother's flair for drama, and it's only been amplified with his illness.

Let me be the judge of that, will you?

When no response comes, she types out another message, tapping her foot against the sidewalk while she waits for the door to unlock for her.

Finally, the damn lock clicks and she's able to slip into Rick's building.

He greets her at his door with a red nose and bloodshot eyes, looking every bit as pitiful as she'd been imagining, but he doesn't shy away from the kiss she presses to his cheek.

"Hi," she says, dropping her bag in the entryway and crowding his chest to hug him. His arms band tightly around her, his body sagging, but she doesn't let him go. "Missed you."

With her ear against his chest, she doesn't hear any signs of wheezing when he speaks, which comforts her; it is just a head cold, not something worse like bronchitis.

"Missed you too, Kate," he rumbles.

Lifting her head, she brushes a hand through his hair, smoothing the shiny strands off his forehead. "Why don't you go take a shower and I'll make some dinner?"

"Telling me I smell?" he jokes, feigning shock when her face twists into a grimace.

"You are a little ripe," she admits, thumbing the growth of his beard. He has smelled worse, but she has no doubt that he'll feel better without the layer of oil and the sharp tang of sweat clinging to his skin. "Besides, the hot water will work wonders for the aches, and the steam could help clear your sinuses. Go."

Apparently deciding it's not worth arguing about, he nods after a moment, giving her a gentle squeeze. "I won't be long."

Kate shakes her head. "Take your time. I'll be here."

She watches him go before grabbing her bag and taking in the state of his apartment.

Usually immaculate, the place is in disarray, demonstrating exactly how under the weather he's been. Kate decides to tidy the kitchen first, since she'll need some of the counter space to make their dinner, and once she gets the food going, she'll straighten the rest of the place.

Rick emerges from the bedroom as she's putting the finishing touches on the living room. He looks refreshed, his eyes less clouded, and she blows him a kiss when he gapes at his space.

"Kate, you didn't need to do this," he says, shaking his head. "I didn't expect you to come over and be my maid."

"I know." One of her shoulders lifts. "But I'm here and I could. I know you would do it for me if it were the other way around."

She takes the garbage bag back into the kitchen, washing her hands and checking on their dinner. Rick trails her after another astounded look around, crowding her back at the stove, his arms curling around her waist. He inhales, pressing his mouth to her cheek.

"This is the first thing I've been able to smell since last week. And it is amazing."

"Me or dinner?" she asks, bemused.

"As wonderful as I'm sure you smell, it's definitely dinner this time."

A thrill rolls down her spine. She'd called her mom to get the recipe, deciding to forgo the typical 'remedy' of chicken soup, and now she's glad she had.

"Good. Hopefully you'll be able to taste it, too."

Rick squeezes her, humming in agreement. "Well it looks like it tastes great."

She laughs, palming his now-smooth cheek. "Hopefully it'll live up to the looks. It's my Nonna's recipe. She swore angel hair pasta and spicy sausage cream sauce was better, that it would burn away the cold instead of politely asking it to leave the way chicken noodle does."

He laughs, twisting away to hide his cough in his shoulder.

"I like the sound of that," he says on a groan, making her heart thump with sympathy.

"Me too," she murmurs, tapping the stirring spoon against the edge of the pan and setting it aside. "Come on," she adds, taking his hand and leading him to the other room, "you need to sit so you don't use up all your energy and pass out in your dinner."

Judging by the way he sags as soon as his back hits the couch cushions, he agrees wholeheartedly.

"I love you," he exhales, dropping his head back, allowing her to fuss over him with gentle hands. "And I'm sorry about this week. Didn't mean to disappear on you, just didn't want to get you sick."

Her fingers slide over his forehead, noting with gratitude that he's not warm. She drops a kiss on his lips, coming back for a second peck a moment later.

"I know," she says, pulling away when the timer on the microwave beeps. "I love you, too. And I was serious about that 'get well' sex, you know. The healing power of touch and all."

He laughs, catching her hand. "I was too, but I want you to still be attracted to me once I'm well. There's nothing sexy about a runny nose and coughing fits, especially when they occur mid-coitus."

She squeezes his fingers. There's very little he could do to dampen her attraction to him, even if that mental image does leave a little to be desired.

"So let's see what your Nonna's magic cure can do," he adds, wiggling his eyebrows. "Because the soul is game, Kate. The soul is so game, it's just the pesky body that's the problem."

"Be kind to your body, Rick," she teases over her shoulder. "I'm kind of fond of it."

He offers her a grin instead of commenting.

Despite the talk of 'get well' sex, they stretch out on the couch together after dinner, allowing their full bellies to dictate how lazy they're going to be. As she starts the movie - one of his favorites, no less - Rick's head lands on her chest, his breath warm through her shirt.

"Thank you for this," he rumbles, practically melting into her. Her lips press to his hair, her fingers sweeping along the tops of his shoulders, down his back. "For all of this."

"You would do the same for me," she murmurs.

He nods, blinking away sleepiness. "Of course I would."

"Then never doubt that I'll do it again," Kate insists. "And I'm not going to let you put me off for a week and stand outside poking you via phone, either."

Her boyfriend smiles against her chest. "No persuasive essays next time?" he asks, teasing her about her last text before he'd buzzed her up.

"As hot as I know that gets you," she says, lifting an eyebrow and her lips. "Nope. Just me. And Nonna's recipe."

"Hmm," he starts, pretending to think. "I can live with that."

Her fingers slip into his hair, pressing gentle circles against his scalp.

"Good choice, babe. Now rest," she commands softly.

He falls asleep before the movie is even half-over, leaving her to hold him and listen to him breathe until the pull of slumber is too hard for her to ignore.

This was (loosely) based on the prompt: “TFLN: (978): Would you like me to write a persuasive essay on how you should let me suck your dick?” and I want to say @i-prefer-west-side​, @allylobster​, and @whatifellinlovewith​ are to thank for this one. :)

[polarbeauty-blog]

If you’re a fan of Kate Somerville’s EradiKate Acne Treatment, then keep scrolling cause Emilie’s opinions on this aren’t quite in its favour.

Emilie: Personally I only use this when I get those painful blemishes - the ones that pulse and seem to make a life of its own on your face. I wouldn’t say EradiKate sucks out the remnants of pimples, but it may partially reduce in size. For me, it takes off the edge of a ripe pimple. By the morning, the throbbing is gone and I can move on with my day. Sort of. The sulfuric scent is extremely off-putting, but if you have clogged sinuses then it shouldn’t be an issue.