#it’s been sitting in a big bucket in my bathtub and the smell is brain damage inducing

[floral-hex]

Denim jacket soaking in bleach and water overnight and now it’s the color of piss.

Good thing I love piss 😏

[fishmongeringstudies]

six: wandering the city while waiting for a train that'll never come, you stop to wave at a dog on the street only to realize you have mistaken a crumpled bag of mcdonald's for a chihuahua

i almost slipped and died in the shower today. luckily i didn't, because i read somewhere that slipping and dying in the shower makes it a little hard for you to finish writing a manuscript for a novel fictionalizing the events of your freshman spring semester that's definitely going to become a new york times bestseller in about four years' time, but i came pretty close. for a moment i had my hand on the wall and my legs splayed like a barbie doll stuck to a stripper pole and the matchbox world behind the shower curtain was slipping steadily south and heading lower still. and then i caught myself.

several minutes later i heard scuffling beyond the pale, soapy shower curtain and thought there might be someone creeping on me. if someone was creeping on me i had an idea of who it might be, which made the prospect all the more likely and infinitely more convincing inside the grapefruit-sized thing i called my brain. then i heard the clap of god's hands in an ashen sky, and i knew. this was no man made disaster-in-waiting. it had begun to rain.

it didn't rain for long. five minutes at best, two if my grasp on the spatial-temporal continuum is worse than i'd imagined (this is very likely; the stars pass me by faster than i can count them these days), but long enough that anyone who happened to be outside when that first teardrop fell from the sky got a little wet. a little fucked up, if you will, which, hey. good for him. he deserves to get a little fucked up.

but i get carried away. please excuse my personal grievances. this is not a lament, it is a swimming pool. full of tiny colorful fish which flit around at its bottom, chasing strands of sunlight like children on a playground.

the weather forecast says it'll rain again tomorrow, and maybe the day after, too, if the world stays sad enough to let it happen. it makes me nostalgic. when i left in february monsoon season was in full swing, tearing trees from their roots with big meaty hands and making every fleeting boring moment into the kind of gray sunday afternoon on which i imagine the directors of romantic dramas like to shoot break-ups. rain in singapore looks different. it's not a bucket full of water, it's a room. a blue room against a silver sky. your socks stuck to your ankles with the kind of grim determination that makes you almost a little sad to peel them off, to toss them in the washing machine behind the kitchen. there's a little balcony behind the kitchen in the house you left in february, with a washing machine and a ledge for sitting on and a dryer that doesn't work. you used to go there when you wanted to check on the restaurant across the street. from here you can make out the round, blue-rimmed tables that attract students, biking enthusiasts, three am brawls between red-faced european men and their red-faced european friends. if there's noise on this side of the street, it's probably coming from there.

summer. summer reminds me of home. so far i've been telling people that the association is a bad one, and it certainly isn't a lie, but it's not a whole truth either, if one believes in the matter of whole truths to begin with. i'm starting to think maybe there are only skim-milk truths, clotted cream truths, 0% fat yogurt truths. truths that change shape when you aren't looking. we aren't looking most of the time, after all. we're very busy people. all of us. we're trying to change the world.

and for what? who are we trying to save? do you want to live forever? that's the goal, isn't it. i mean it's definitely mine. i won't blame you if the concept of death sits on your shoulder like a fourth generation ipod touch with a broken home button, whispering really fucked up shit into your ear when you're alone. i mean it definitely does for me.

puzzle-girl is in new york now, last i checked. good for her. i hear new york is full of lights and electricity and car exhaust. maybe one day she will learn that friendship isn't an emergency help-line. probably not. my friend thinks she will, thinks we'll come back around in our junior year and everyone will see us stuck to each other again like two grotesque modern art pieces drilled back-to-back into a museum exhibit wall only with a firm mutual understanding of what boundaries are, but i have my doubts.

once someone told me with the kind of half-fake half-genuine smile that makes you wonder if AI technology has advanced far enough to mimic the complexities of stupid hormonal teenagers with really bad interpersonal issues after all that i was blooming. coincidentally all the flowers on campus had suddenly decided to poke their heads out of the dirt like babies busting their way out of refrigerators, guns blazing, hearts shot to pieces, so it's not like he was completely bullshitting me. he was only ninety-eight percent bullshitting me. the two percent is why he comes up in my writing as often as he does, all this time later. like i think he was ninety-eight percent clown but two percent circus, two percent red-nosed reindeer trying to unionize behind a striped curtain, two percent something real. or at least i like to think that way. i'm a writer. we have to pretend there's something to write about. or else what will we write about?

so yeah. one time someone told me i was blooming. at the time i was embarrassed. and then after the story put an abrupt end to itself i was madly obsessed with the idea of flowers jutting out of cracks in the earth, gold pouring forth from blood-wounds, poinsettia eyes, whatever, whatever, and then the flowers started wilting. standing on the path outside my dorm i was like what the fuck? why the hell is everything dying? it's been like three days, god, what are you guys made of, tissue paper?

i was talking to the flowers. which died in spite of my indignation, so that's one for nature, zero for me. good for them. see you next spring, when things will, hopefully, be different. i don't have a plan as much as i have a dream i'd like to see walk into reality on three legs and a pitchfork. but it's a good dream. i promise.

the sky's clear as glass now. it's so bright i could probably stick my hand up there and stir vigorously and then an angel would emerge from the ether, rubbing her eye sleepily with the back of her hand. that's the kind of clarity i'm talking about. making metaphors about christianity-clarity. i am lonely and my dreams are full of beautiful people-clarity.

that's a lie-clarity. loneliness is, as mentioned in a previous installment of the meandering car accident i call this blog, a choice, and i'm too lazy and full of my own slew of interpersonal issues to commit to something like that. but summer is new, and it's like i'm getting used to the body in my basement all over again. how do i step around it, how do i make sure i don't look at its face? and its eyes, oh, those eyes. how terrible. how full of absence.

there will be exactly two hundred students on campus when summer move-ins are finished next week. this school has a population of nearly sixteen hundred. what are we doing?

research. academia. learning a new language. road trips. plane trips. horse riding lessons. research. academia. learning a new language. relationships. spaceships. building a ladder to the moon.

it feels like the sun never sets sometimes. the hours slide into one another like tectonic plates beneath the surface of the world and yet the sky remains just as it looked this afternoon, milk-white and pale as death. a hot summer wind blows and sends the clouds careening sideways into each other, and yet from this distance nothing changes. drop a body in a bathtub and nothing changes. beat someone up and nothing changes. survive thirteen weeks of bad mistakes and then worse ones, midnight mistakes, thursday evening mistakes, the kind of mistake you don't think you'll ever be able to write about, and still nothing changes.

they say there's always a silver lining but what if i want fur instead? let's say i want a fur-lined sky with fur-lined clouds and a little heart-shaped toy that makes a sound when you step on it. let's say i want to be fifteen again. the sky doesn't care. it still looks like a damn sky. the sky doesn't do things out of sentimentality.

it's just kind of there. today i'm just kind of here. today we're all alive. good for you. good for me. good thing my hand was on the wall when i slipped in the shower, so i could get out and dry my hair and then sit down in this shitty weird-smelling lounge with my laptop with the cracked touchpad and my cool elmo slippers, and tell you about this solitary life on mars.

05.26.2021

[sergeanttpoliteness]

➹puppy love➹(peter b. parker x reader)

Requested by @connorshero➝  “Something fluffy and sweet: Peter B surprises Reader (his best friend, who he's in love with) with a puppy after Reader lost their previous puppers.”

Forget listening to sad songs as you eat pizza that burns the roof of your mouth— Peter B. Parker believes a puppy is the medicine for a grieving heart.

word count: 3.5k

a/n: finally, i wrote something short. hello! i’m sorry this took so long, @connorshero , i’m going to be 100% honest and admit that i struggled quite a bit lol— i wrote the entire thing but i decided to delete it and start over bc i wasn’t happy with it. but i finally finished and here it is! requests are open, so feel free to send some if you want (: hope you enjoy!

A desperate thumping on your front door along with the fierce crackle of the storm roused you from the light slumber you didn’t even know you had succumbed to, your body jerking as you choked on the drool that had managed to slip down your chin. You grimaced, wiping the gross saliva off of your face with one hand while the other rubbed your eye. You sat on your floor, your back against your sofa which explained your sore neck and shoulders, staring at the carpet until the knocking returned and brought you fully back to consciousness. You didn’t know what time it was— it felt as if an entire year had gone by whilst you slept, honestly, but you were certain it was too late for it to be your landlord reminding you about your rent payment. You clumsily stood to your feet, the lack of illumination dooming you to knock your shin into the sharp edge of the coffee table. You screamed, but continued limping toward the door anyway, flinging the door open with a scowl as you held onto your throbbing leg. Your expression softened, however, and your brows drew together for in front of you stood a dripping wet Peter B. Parker wearing a large coat that barely covered the red and blue suit underneath it, and… holding a puppy covered in dirt?

“What the fuck?” You muttered, suddenly fully awake. It was an odd and unkind greeting, but Peter really couldn’t blame you for your reaction. He opened his mouth, laughing nervously as his eyes shifted down to the creature in his grasp.

“Hey? Sorry if I woke you up, I just… kinda had an emergency.” He nestled the puppy on his chest and your attention came back to it. The animal shivered wildly, and so did your best friend who smiled at you while his teeth chattered.

You silently moved aside for him to walk in, your brain working hard to figure out what in the world was happening and trying to arrange all the questions speeding by. Peter briefly studied the living room— images of days prior, when he embraced you as you dampened his neck with your tears in that same spot he was in, flashing through his eyes. A twinge of worry invaded him when he took in the abandoned box of pizza on the couch, and the two empty cans of beer littering your red rug. Meanwhile, you might as well have heard the dog talk, because your stunned face— eyes as big as a full moon, your eyebrows almost reaching your hairline— represented just that as you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the stray puppy huddled against the man. “Oh my god,” You finally said, gasping and your hand reaching out to hang above its head. “Why do you have a puppy with you?”

“It was a surprise, to say the least.” He allowed you to take the animal from him, groaning when he saw the grime on his hands and coat. You didn’t mind much about the dirt, though, as it was a dog; laundry day was tomorrow, you told yourself as you hugged the puppy like a young child with their favorite stuffed animal. “I was in an alleyway when I heard something break behind me and so I went to investigate, but instead of a homeless person or something, I found this little girl right here.”

“And you decided to take her with you?”

“Well, yeah, we… had a connection.”

A lovely trail of footprints and droplets of mud now adorned your floor which you had actually swept hours earlier; not the makeover you wanted, exactly, and it would’ve irked you except that you were too exhausted and confused to save a place for an extra emotion. You glanced back at Peter, studying his shivering body, and sighed. The man could be bleeding out to death, yet he wouldn’t complain nor do much about it unless you physically dragged him to a nearby hospital; it wasn’t an exaggeration, rather a characteristic of his you gathered after having a friendship with him since prehistoric times, but also since (to your dismay) the exact same scenario had occurred many times before. “You had a connection, huh? Alright, dork, I bet there’s a forgotten collection of your clothes in my closet— go get changed while I get the bath ready.”

There was a certain weakness that threatened to attack Peter, and the fact that he was freezing after swinging to your apartment in the ruthless downpour easily might have been the culprit of that; but as bad as he wanted it to be that way, it was evident in his heart that you were the true delinquent— you, with your tangled hair perhaps from the slumber he disrupted, with just your presence really, continued to transform him into a teenager who wrote long melodramatic poems about his crush and doodled their initials on his school notes during class. It was absurd, truthfully, how you managed to do such thing to a fully-grown man. But you were his time machine, his youth potion, that remedy that allowed him to see life as colorful as a pure child did, and he’d never complain about it, because that’s just what he needed all the time.

Peter had forgotten about the pile of clothes belonging to him that neatly rested on one shelf of your closet. Ever since you two were in college— when he’d pretty much constantly live in your apartment for an entire week— you’d been assembling the shirts and other articles of clothing the man often left behind as if clothes were as expensive as a carton of milk that’s about to expire. So that’s where that shirt went, he thought as his eyes settled on a green flannel he used to wear religiously back before Christ, partially because you always voiced how much you liked how he looked with it. You’d truly had him wrapped around your finger for the longest time, he realized, and yet he’d never had the guts to make a move. That frustration abandoned him, however, when he put on an old shirt and it smelled like you; there was that youthfulness again as contentment pecked his entire face, coloring his skin a rosy tint. Like a new man, he headed down the hallway to the bathroom where he could hear water running. He peeked his head inside, the corner of his lips tugging upwards when he saw you on the floor caressing the puppy on your lap and talking to it. “I see you two already became friends.”

You looked up at him, directing to him a tired twitch of your mouth. “You better be scared, ‘cause your title of best friend is at risk. Could you close the door?” You gestured your head toward the entrance and your wish was his command as a gentle click left the bathroom’s door when he closed it.

“Again, sorry about bothering you. I just didn’t know where else to go, and you’re the best person I know when it comes to dogs.” He shrugged, descending to sit down in front of you, his knees uncomfortably tucked close to his chest to fit his long legs in the small room. The puppy forgot about you, and was determined to snuggle under Peter’s knees as he jumped off of you. “No! I just changed!” He groaned and wriggled away from the animal into the wall.

You giggled, quickly grabbing the excited creature before it tragically attacked your friend’s immaculate clothes. “I don’t really mind, honestly. I wasn’t exactly having the best night anyway; so thanks, Prince Charming, for coming to rescue me with a stray puppy— hic!” You hiccuped, the alcohol finally getting to you. You stood up, waving your hand which you weren’t cradling the puppy with for him to do so as well.

He hummed, amused, his hand on his hip as you closed the faucet. “I’m excellent when it comes to bathing dogs.” You glanced back at him, quirking a brow and narrowing your eyes.

“You sure? Because every time I asked you to help me give Webster a bath you just watched while I did all the work.” A grin may have remained on your features, but the rain cloud of sorrow that showered over you was evident after you mentioned that one name— the one you used to cheerfully call all the time, but now tried to avoid at every chance you got. Peter noticed, his eyes sad, but he elbowed you playfully hoping that it would help somehow, even if just a little bit.

“Lies, I think I did a pretty good job at holding him still.” It was unavoidable, no matter how hard he could’ve fought, the dreamy smile that etched on his face simply as a consequence of your empyrean laugh; such a minor thing that had a tremendous effect on him, and it embarrassed him, but again, he wouldn’t ever complain. It was baffling how you’d never noticed the stares that lasted too long whilst you just existed, or the utter and raw infatuation his eyes burned with as you smirked up at him.

“Sure, keep lying to yourself. I really need you to help me, though, because this girl is a shit ton more hyper than… uh, you know.” Peter recalled in his head the trip to your place and the humiliating amount of times he yelped while swinging as the dog would continuously squirm out of his grasp and attempt to climb onto his shoulder. He nodded, releasing a big puff of air because you had no idea. You grabbed a red a bucket from the cabinet and handed it to him. “Okay, just use this to pour the water over her.”

“Am I going to get something if I do a great job? You know, like a sticker?”

You shrugged, kneeling down before the bathtub. “I don’t know. A kiss, maybe.” You stared back at him when moments passed and he didn’t say anything, both of your faces as red as the bucket he shakily held. “It was a joke. C’mon, get down.”

He waited for you to take your words back, or maybe add something along the lines of “but if you’re down so am I” if the cosmos decided to bless him for once. You remained quiet, though, and a quiet sigh slipped through his lips as he decided to leave it behind for his own sanity’s sake. “Why did you make me stand up if we were gonna get back on the floor again?” He grumbled, following you suit. He looked at you confused when you began to laugh at him. Was he still blushing? You did always make fun of him when he blushed. “What?”

“Why are you making those dad noises?”

“Me? Dad noises?”

“Yeah, like—” You let out a low grunt, your lips puckered and your eyebrows scrunched together, and then breathed out obnoxiously loud and heavy. “That’s what you sound like— hic!” You hiccuped for a second time, and he threw his head back as he laughed.

“Shut up, you can’t even handle drinking two cans of beer, look at you right now.” He teased, the many times you’ve flirted with him throughout the years after getting hammered with a ridiculous quantity of alcohol in the back of his head.  He stretched out his arms, making grabby hands at the puppy, the bucket abandoned and floating in the water. “Gimme.”

Your mouth curved into a smile at his childlike actions as you carefully placed the creature in his hold. “I can’t believe you’re such a dad, but also a man-child, it’s adorable.”

He chose to say nothing, lest his voice decided to backstab him and crack like a fourteen-year-old boy during an oral presentation. He took a deep breath, instead focusing on the dog who believed it was a menacing beast as it chewed on his finger, and the grey layer of mud covering its short fur. He frowned, thinking of different scenarios of how the poor pup could’ve possibly ended up such way, none happy. He filled the plastic bucket with water before draining it slowly down its back, revealing its true dark brown color. “She’s so cute, I might have to cry.” He mumbled, his expression strangely serious in spite of his words.

“What are you gonna do with her?” There was a glint of what he wished was hope in your tone, anticipation clouding your features as you tried to nonchalantly squirt a generous amount of dog shampoo on the palm of your hand.

The animal tried to escape as he rinsed the grime but he held it in its place while he waited for you to start washing it. He raised his shoulders, glancing sideways at you. “I don’t know, I guess I’ll take her to a shelter or something.” You almost announced your disappointment, but you nodded, drawing your lower lip between your teeth. “You look disappointed.”

“Me?”

“Uh, no, the fucking ghost in your bathroom.” He said sarcastically. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, of course I meant you.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you massaged the shampoo into the puppy you cared about too much despite only knowing it for less than thirty minutes, creating enough foam that miniature bubbles drifted in the air. “Did you know that my apartment is haunted?”

Peter snorted at your spontaneity. “Oh, is it?” In a mere second, however, he completely tuned out everything along with your response; all purely because of the accidental caress you gave his hand as you scrubbed the dog’s loin. Was it accidental? Your touch lingered for too long for it to be, no? Or was he just overthinking? Most likely. He desperately needed to put himself together, he groaned internally— and if only he’d done so sooner, then he wouldn’t have been too distraught by a hand touch to notice the rapidly approaching mountain of foam on your hand until it was too late. He felt pressure on the top of his head, and that’s when he recognized your hand sliding down the side of his face, lathering the bubbly liquid on his skin. He jumped, pushing your arm away as his eyes widened. “Why did you do that?!”

Your beam was as contagious as a virus as you giggled, your foamy hands proof of your crime. “I asked you something like twenty times and you didn’t answer!” You defended while he wiped his eyebrow with the back of his hand. “Hey, I saw the opportunity and I took it!” Red alarms went off in your head, and you regretted everything when you saw his sly smirk. You lifted your finger up as a warning when he picked up the bucket and loaded it, innocent eyes staring at you. “Don't you— hic!— fucking dare…”

“Your shirt’s kinda dirty. Here, let me clean it for you—” He spilled all the water over your head and you shrieked, wielding yourself with your arms, which was nothing other than pointless as— regardless of your efforts— you still finished entirely soaked. Peter held his fist up to his mouth, wheezing while you glowered at him with wet hair stuck to your forehead.

“You dick…” You chuckled incredulously, giving him no time to feel satisfied before scooping more foam and launching yourself at him, slamming your hand into his mouth.

It was the cafeteria food fight you’d always dreamed of having; except that it was just two people (and a puppy playing in the bathtub) in your bathroom instead of a big cafeteria, and food was exchanged for water in an old bucket close to breaking and wasted dog shampoo with enough bubbles for a little kid to have a stroke from the excitement. Not a degrade, but an upgrade, indeed— one you’d accept without a doubt; even if you could already imagine how much your back would hurt after you mopped up the mess you two made, for it was impossible not to as Peter grinned widely at you with his fake bubbly Santa Claus beard, and you held your soaked stomach as you hysterically laughed. Peter’s body tingled when he thought about dropping all his fears and doubts to crash his yearning lips against yours; to hold your chin with the delicacy you deserved, inundate the room with all his repressed lust and emotion, like a volcano that’s been asleep for eons gushing everything out for the first time in forever. He held himself back, though, like he always did, and just admired your sunshine from afar.

You lounged on your couch, your arm hanging off the side while Peter rested on the floor with his head against your knee, ignoring the discomfort just to be as close to you as possible. It was a well-deserved break after your puppy bath-time-turned-into-a-water-fight as you two watched the clean animal almost do a handstand while trying to eat from the larger bowl. You chuckled, your cheek squished against the cushion. “Did you know I named him Webster because of you?” You mumbled, and you felt Peter’s head graze your knee as he glanced at you, humming questioningly. “Webster. Web.”

“And you waited seventeen years to tell me that?”

“Thought it was sort of obvious.”

“I kinda just thought you were really passionate about the dictionary.” He said and you let out air through your nose, gripping the worn Mickey Mouse blanket wrapped around you. You clutched the memory of Peter gifting you the cloth for your dog’s first birthday close to your heart— the cloth which would become the Australian Shepherd’s most beloved possession, even up till to his last moments and as you said goodbye to him. You sniffed, closing your eyes when your vision began to blur.

“Spidey was an option at first, but I felt really lame calling my dog ‘Spidey’. Plus… he also really reminded me of you.”

His eyes softened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, y’know: brown hair, brown eyes, adorable…” He almost had a heart attack. “He was always there for me and I… I really loved him.” You whispered.

Peter’s stare moved down to your hand, and soon you felt his fingers curl around yours. “Hey, Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“I have a confession to make.” You peeked an eye open. “I didn’t just bring the puppy here so you could help me clean her up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I, uh,” He scratched his stubble, trying to find his words. “Webster took care of you when I couldn’t, y’know? Not just that, but I hate seeing how much it hurt you to lose him. It hurt me as well— you saw me bawling my eyes out like a baby when they put him to sleep.” He laughed.

You frowned, giving his hand a squeeze. “Thank you for being there with me. I probably would’ve broken down if it weren’t for you. But why’d you bring the stray puppy here?”

“I know I said I was going to take her to a shelter, but I really just wanted to see your reaction. I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to replace Webster, though, because nothing ever could, and he deserves better than that.”

You then sat up, holding his hand on your lap as you began to understand what he was trying to say. “Peter…” You warned him— you truly weren’t in the mood for a prank, but his voice and features expressed nothing more than honesty. Peter rose from the ground and you immediately followed him, your hands linked as he walked up to the puppy.

“Sorry, bud, but I’m gonna take you for a sec,” He muttered as he bent down and scooped the dog. He faced you, your heart glowing at the sight of his sheepish smile and his giggles whilst the dog began to lick his neck. “I need someone to watch after you now that Webster can’t, and this girl right here is perfectly fit for the job.”

You were aware of how ridiculous you were for tearing up, but it was bound to happen when Peter handed out the puppy— your puppy to you. You gawked at him, taking her gently into your arms, blinking furiously when she washed your knuckles with her tongue. “Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” He scoffed, although showed you a crooked grin. You couldn’t contain yourself anymore, and took a step closer to him before landing a tender kiss on the corner of his mouth, lightly brushing his lips. He gulped when you pulled away, his eyes going round. “O-oh.”

“It’s not a kiss like I said back in the bathroom, but it’s what you’ll get for now.” You murmured shyly, suddenly your feet much more interesting to look at than the flustered man in front of you or the sweet creature you held. However, once again, you missed that stare of his and his growing smile as his whole face lit up.

“I really can’t complain.”