#i was in a cave Christopher and you were my flashlight!

[extasiswings]

That episode left me a broken woman.  Here, have a continuation of the boxing scene.  Also on ao3.

Buck hits the bag a few more times, but it’s harder without Eddie there to keep a foot on the edge of the frame to hold it down. The bag swings wider, the punches don’t land as strongly. And Buck finally just catches the bag and holds it in place until it stops rocking, feeling...feeling…

Tired.

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. That for all his bravado not five minutes earlier that he could punch his way to clarity or healing or justice—for the kid he was, for the man he is—he can’t even keep it up. Can’t keep going. He doesn’t want to fight—not really. He’s not even sure he wants to try. He just wants to fucking sleep, to crawl into bed with a flashlight like he’s ten years old again and pull the covers up over his head and make his own little cave. Pretend that nothing can touch him there. Hide until it feels safe to come out again.

He’s so. Fucking. Tired.

Tired of not being good enough. Tired of trying. Tired of backsliding every time he thinks he’s finally in a good place. Months of therapy and he just—

“Hey.”

Buck looks up as he steps away from the bag.

“Thought you left,” he says quietly.

Eddie shrugs and holds up his hand to show off the two wrapped protein bars he’s procured.

“Haven’t seen you eat all day. Thought you should,” he replies. He nods at the gloves on Buck’s hands. “You can take a break. The bag will still be there later...if you really want it to be.”

There’s the faintest edge of concern and disapproval in his tone, an echo of I’ve been down that road, I don’t recommend it. But it doesn’t feel like judgment. It doesn’t sting.

Buck sighs and strips off the gloves, scrubs his hands over his face as he collapses onto the bench. His eyes burn and he bites his cheek, swallows back the tidal wave of emotion threatening to drown him.

(There’s another piece to it as well—the nasty whisper that he needs to run away, that he’s too open, looks too honest, that he shouldn’t be showing it, sharing it. But thankfully, he doesn’t seem to have lost everything from months of therapy in one fell swoop, because when Eddie sits down next to him, close enough that their shoulders press together, he doesn’t shy away.)

“They asked what I expected them to do,” he confesses, leaning into that pressure, the warmth and solid muscle of Eddie’s arm. “I said things I’ve been keeping inside for years about how I’ve never been good enough for them and they asked what I expected. Like it was my fault. Like it’s still—like it’s always been my—even when I was a kid, Eddie, I was never enough, and I don’t understand why they don’t—”

Buck takes a shaky breath and lets it out. “I didn’t think it was too much to expect your parents to give a damn. I definitely didn’t think it was too much to expect them not to blame you for it when they don’t.”

“It’s not too much,” Eddie says firmly. He presses the protein bars into Buck’s hand and although he doesn’t feel at all like eating, Buck tears one open anyway.

“It’s not too much to expect your parents to love you,” he continues. “Or to expect them not to be hypocrites. It’s not too much to expect them to apologize when they’ve hurt you.”

“They’re never going to do that,” Buck interjects, bitterness clawing up his throat like bile. “They won’t use the name I want them to, and that’s not even difficult. God forbid they ever actually admit they were wrong about something.”

Eddie’s quiet for a moment. Then, he says—

“You know, I’m not a therapist—although, for the record, you should probably call yours about this—but I’m pretty sure if they don’t apologize, you don’t have to forgive them. Pretty sure you don’t have to forgive them even if they do.”

“They’re my family.” It feels trite and hollow, an argument that Buck doesn’t even feel connected to, but is somehow compelled to make anyway. An echo of the words he’s had thrown back in his face a million times over the years.

Eddie just shakes his head. “They’re people you’re related to. This place, here? Bobby and Athena, Hen and Karen, Chim and Maddie...me—me and Christopher. We’re your family. The family you made. The family you chose.”

Buck’s eyes burn again and he glances away as he clears his throat roughly.

“Is it—is it stupid that I still want them to care anyway?”

Eddie shifts, moving away in favor of curving his hand around the back of Buck’s neck, his thumb pressing gently into tense muscle and working in small circles to dig the tension out.

“I don’t think it’s ever stupid to want someone to love you.” His voice is soft—it matches the look in his eyes, a look that Buck hardly feels worthy of. “But if they never do, that doesn’t mean you aren’t still loved. That you aren’t worth loving. All it means is that they fucked up and missed out on the best opportunity of their lives. And that’s their loss. Not yours.”

Buck’s stomach squirms but it isn’t uncomfortable exactly. More like he’s being pulled in two different directions—the one that’s still a mess, spiraling down into the dark, and the one that wants to press back up into Eddie’s touch, to drown in his eyes instead of that ocean of grief. The one that wants to upend everything and risk it all, that wonders if he knocks whether Eddie will let him in just like this.

The one that wants Eddie to love him back.

The one that wants.

“Worth loving, huh?”

Eddie’s lips quirk up. “Yeah, I guess.” His tone is light and teasing, but his thumb strokes gently down Buck’s neck in a way that makes him hold back a shiver.

Buck wets his lips and glances back at the bag.

“It really doesn’t help. Does it?”

Eddie follows his gaze and shakes his head.

“For a little while,” he admits. “For a few minutes, an hour maybe—it can help you get some tension out. But at the end of the day, whether you’re fighting a bag or even another person, you’re not going to solve anything that way. Especially if you’re not even fighting the person all of those feelings are directed at. But, I know something that works a little better.”

His hand withdraws and Buck bites back a sound of protest. Eddie stands, holds out a hand to pull Buck up as well.

“Come on,” he says. “Shift’s over anyways--you’re coming home with me, and no, you don’t get to argue. Chris and I started a new puzzle last night and barely managed to get the border together. On god, I’m pretty sure it’s a lost cause without you.”

Buck’s startled into a laugh. For the first time all day, he smiles and doesn’t feel like he’s faking it.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

#chapel writes #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie fic #911 fic #911 spoilers

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

I’m Always Curious Part Thirty Eight

Previous Part |  Masterlist Notes: I hope everyone’s having a good week 💕

So this is technically the last chapter of this story, but there’s going to be,,,,,, Another Chapter next week that’s a Separate Story Under A Different Name. You’re gonna have to trust me okay just trust me BUT this is technically the last chapter of I’m Always Curious (but there will be something else next week under a different title please let me know if you’d like to be tagged and you’re not already on the tag list. (It will also go up next Thursday, why break the posting day tradition). 

Thank you all so much for reading this!! Writing it has been such a journey and if you've stuck with me, I truly appreciate it. Thank you so much 💕💕

Warnings: Fluff. That’s it that’s the warning (I mean there’s an angst hint but it’s just a hint). Summary: “Do you ever think about it?” Christopher murmured, resting his forehead against mine. “What?” “The future.”

“How long until we drop out of warp?” “Twenty minutes, Captain,” Number One answered.

“Excellent. Is the away team prepared?” I looked back to see Pike glancing around at us. I gave him a small nod before turning back to my station. We would be dropping out of warp to Tarpus R526 and beaming down. The Hutton had been able to observe a few pre-Warp civilization’s cave writings, but hadn’t taken them down— they’d been more interested in surveying the planet itself. But once we were all aboard our respective ships safely, the Captain of the Hutton had passed the information on— apparently I had a reputation for being something of a fan of pre-warp texts. We were set the beam down in four teams, paired off in groups of two to scan the four separate caves that the writings had been found in. -- The caves were chilly and damp. I raised my flashlight, glancing up. The crew of the Hutton had warned us that a few of the caves had bats, but that they were harmless so long as they were left alone. I turned toward the wall, eyeing the texts that had been carved into the wall. I stepped a little closer, running my fingers over them. “Look familiar?” I tipped my head back toward Christopher a little, eyes still set on the wall in front of me. “Familiar would be a stretch,” I said lightly, “But at first glance, it looks like there are Peshurian roots, some Epelean influence— and considering the conquest of Epelea in this region around the 22nd century, that would track…” “This is like Christmas for you, isn’t it.” “And my birthday, rolled into one.” “Nerd,” Christopher teased in a murmur. “Hush, you,” I huffed out a laugh, nudging him with my elbow before I took a step back, “We should be scanning.” -- “Are you still doing that?” “Mm,” I hummed softly, hardly drawing my eyes away from my PADD. I heard Christopher huff before I felt the bed dip beside me. I pouted a little as the movement shifted my notebook. “Careful,” I muttered. “Would you stop for five minutes,” Christopher groaned, resting his head back against my thigh. I glanced down at him, arching a brow, unable to keep my amusement from twisting my lips. “Just five?” “You’re going to have to sleep sometime.” “You’d be surprised how long I can go without sleep.” “...I am not touching that conversation.” “Probably for the best,” I agreed. I set my pen aside and reached down, running my fingers through Christopher’s hair. His eyes fluttered closed, and I smiled, massaging his scalp softly. “You can do more of this tomorrow,” He mumbled. “The hair thing?” “The translation.” “Not as much. Paledore gets to have all of the fun these days— Not that I’m not having fun— Don’t look at me like that,” I rolled my eyes as Christopher peered one eye open and looked up at me. He grinned, winking at me, and I chuckled softly, shaking my head and looking down at my PADD. “You’re infuriating,” I mumbled. “You like it.” “It’s fine.” I glanced down as Christopher rolled onto his side, nuzzling against my stomach. I let my hand drift down to smooth over his nape. “Are you staying here tonight?” “I can,” I nodded, “You want me to?” I shivered as Christopher lightly lifted the hem of my shirt, lips brushing over my side, “I always want you to.” -- “I take it you and the Captain have made amends?” I glanced over at Spock as he looked over glass containing the Vulcan mint. “Did you ascertain that from the three hours that I had the conn?” Una asked. “Alright,” I grumbled before turning back to Spock, “Yes, Christopher and I are...Fine.” “An undersell,” Una accused. “Okay,” I muttered, then, “Door,” As I heard the chime of someone nearby. I looked over as I saw Christopher come inside. “Are we having a party?” He glanced around, arching a brow. “Your invite must’ve gotten lost,” I smiled. “...What is this?” Spock asked. “Hm?” “It’s in my handwriting, but I’ve no recollection of this envelope.” My stomach swooped as I turned to see him holding the envelope that Mr. Spock from another universe had given me. “It’s...Mine,” I said lamely, suddenly acutely aware of the feeling of Christopher and Una watching me. Spock’s brow raised. “It’s unopened.” “I know.” “What is it?” “...A secret.” “A secret in my handwriting?” I sighed softly, “You remember when I was beamed elsewhere.” “I believe the word you used was ‘blipped‘.” “Yes, thank you, Una.” “I recall,” Spock confirmed. “Well— I wasn’t on the Enterprise. You were. Apparently I wasn’t at the Academy, either, so...The Spock that I encountered there went out of his way to find out what had happened to me.” Spock lowered his eyes to the envelope, turning it over in his hands before he lowered it gingerly back into the box. “Thank you,” I mumbled, turning back to my desk. “...Well,” Una said, “Shall we get dinner then?” “Yes,” Spock nodded, “Let’s.” “You two go on ahead. The Commander and I will join you in a moment.” Una shot the both of us looks before she and Spock left. I frowned, leaning back against my desk. “What is it?” I asked, watching Christopher. He walked closer slowly, eyes on the box that Spock had set the envelope back down in. “You...Never told me about Spock’s looking into your future.” I glanced back toward the box before lowering my eyes. “Well...Whoever I am in that universe is already so...Vastly different from who I am here. I already know that I never attended the Academy there.” “Could be interesting.” “Could be awful,” I retorted, eyeing the envelope. Christopher’s hands settled on my shoulders, squeezing softly, and I looked up at him. He offered me a small smile. “It doesn’t matter,” I tacked on softly, “I’m here, not there.” Christopher nodded, dipping his head and brushing his lips along mine. “Do you ever think about it?” Christopher murmured, resting his forehead against mine. “What?” “The future.” My stomach churned uneasily. I smoothed my hand over his jacket, lowering my eyes to the fabric. I thought about it— I thought about his. “Sometimes,” I admitted, “Do you?” Christopher nodded, nose nudging mine with the movement, “Often,” He muttered. I knew that he’d seen something— on Boreth. He’d told me that he’d been faced with an inevitability, but he wouldn’t tell me what. He’d told me that he simply couldn’t. I couldn’t jump to the conclusion that it was what had happened in another universe. Things may not be one to one. I turned my head, resting my forehead against his jaw. “...You can open it,” I offered softly, “If you want.” I felt Christopher tense against me before he drew back, “...Do you want me to tell you what happened on—” “No,” I shook my head, “No, but,” I cast my eyes toward the envelope, “Someone ought to know who I might be.” Christopher eyed the envelope for a moment before he shook his head, “You should be the only one that takes your future into your hands.” “You’re the only one I’d trust with it.” Christopher smiled softly, dipping his head and kissing me softly. I smiled, leaning into him before I sighed, patting his chest softly. “C’mon. If I have to hear Una complain about having the conn for three hours again, I’m gonna lose it.”

 Tag list: @angels-pie​ ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta​  ; @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo​ ; @how-am-i-serpose-to-know​ ; @onlyhereforthefandomandgiggles​ ; @inmyowncorner​  ; @tardis-23​  ; @paintballkid711​ ; @katrynec ; @hypnobananaangelfish ; @elen-aranel​ ; @blueeyesatnight​ ; @hotchswifey​ ; @carbonated-beverage​​ ; @lunadegitana​​

#I'm Always Curious #Captain Pike x Reader #Captain Pike x You #Captain Pike/Reader #Captain Pike/You #Captain Pike fic #Captain Pike imagine #Christopher Pike x Reader #Christopher Pike x You #Christopher Pike imagine #Christopher Pike fic

[ms-maj]

Do You Hear What I Hear

All the thanks in the world to the amazing @theheavycrown​ for the incredible header. I think I’ve said it before and surely I will say it again but, Sarah is best. This is for prompt #29- A very special present has a fluffy, four-legged surprise inside requested by the lovely @reinhartdeyes​. Enjoy!

“Do you see anything?” The flashlight shook in Betty’s hands, biting cold working through her mittens as she tried to illuminate a path for Jughead.

“Do you?” Her husband questioned back from deeper inside the garage. 

She took a step in, the snow and wind blowing at her back. “If I had seen anything, Jug, I wouldn’t have torn you away from your last-minute wrapping.”

At that he stood, shined his flashlight at her and sighed. “I’m not saying you were hearing things, Betts, but...maybe you were hearing things. It’s not exactly a nice night.”

The snow had been falling steadily for a couple of hours, turning their very green Christmas Eve into what would undoubtedly be the white Christmas everyone had been dreaming of. “I was not hearing things, Jughead. I heard a very specific sound. It was crying!”

“Then why haven’t I heard anything? We’ve been out here for fifteen minutes and all I can hear is your teeth chattering,” he took a step toward a pile of haphazardly stacked boxes, carefully trying to weave his way through the maze in the dark.“Betty, it’s close to midnight,” Jughead took the first box down and set it aside. “It’s nearly blizzarding, and we still have to get everything ready for the morning. Five more minutes and I’m…”

Squeak. 

“Did you hear that!?” Betty moved closer to her husband.

“No, I didn’t, shockingly enough,” he muttered, heaving another box off the pile. An old plastic dollhouse sat between him and the wall; his boot caught on it as he tried to turn in the dark space. “Shit!” 

Keep reading below or check it out here

Jughead managed to keep his balance but had apparently stirred something in the darkness.

SQUEAK.

Betty’s light cut a swath in the dark before them, his boot now purposefully tapping at the dollhouse.

The squeaking amplified; not just in volume but also in frequency. 

“Jughead, if you try to tell me you still don’t hear anything I’m going…”

“No, Betty, I hear it. I can’t unhear it. I think that if I move—oh my god.”

Betty rushed over with her flashlight. “What? What is it?”

“It’s a little...” Leaning over the dollhouse, after a little bit of a struggle, Jughead pulled up a very small, very loud puff of fur. “...kitty.” 

Betty had set her flashlight down on the snowblower before rushing over to her husband and taking the very tiny kitten from his hands. “It has no tail! Oh my gosh, Jug, we need to go get milk and bottles and—”

“Whoa, whoa, it’s Christmas Eve, Elizabeth,” he said, retrieving their flashlights and walking back to the door. 

“Fine, Forsythe, you take it and I’ll go,” the too-young-to-be-alone kitten is held out in front of her, nearly lost in Betty’s hands. It was blizzarding now with at least six inches covering the driveway and sidewalks. The one store that was sure to be open was a good thirty minutes away on a good night, but Betty knew that if she continued to look at him in just that way he’d cave. Jughead craned his neck back, gloved hands pulling his well-worn beanie back over his head.

He sighed. “Go start a fire, get it warm or find something for it to sleep in. I’ll take care of everything else IF you finish my wrapping for me.”

“Deal!” Betty lunged forward, cradling the small creature to her chest as she kissed her husband in thanks. Unzipping her jacket, Betty stuffed the kitten inside and ran off to the house, her less than enthusiastic husband following behind her. 

“I’m gonna start the car, maybe shovel a little bit, you’re not listening to me at all so I’m just gonna go and hope to God I make it back before daybreak.”

Betty waved him off, too busy trying to figure out where to put their newest little friend for the night. The door closed in the distance, taking a resigned Jughead with it when she spied the tote full of presents by the tree. Of course, not one of them was wrapped. She nodded to herself in acceptance, she could make short work of that and have a place for the kitten to sleep. The kitten, however, had different plans. 

“Fire, right,” she mumbled to herself, setting the kitten down in an attempt to set up the wood. The small, terrified cat began to cry as soon as her paws hit the hardwood, crawling back up Betty’s still-booted foot before she could get any logs laid. “Okay, okay, I’m not going anywhere.” Betty picked up the whining fluff ball and realized it could do with a good cleaning, it’s bright blue eyes searching the room for something familiar and only finding Betty. 

Softly she smiled as she kicked her boots off next to the fireplace. They made their way up the stairs, kitten firmly pressed to her chest so she could grab throw blankets and old towels from the linen closet. It was careful dance to not instigate the kitten into alerting the neighborhood of their presence. 

It was well after two but the fire was lit, the kitten was bathed and currently curled up in an old blanket in the tote and all the presents wrapped and arranged under the tree. Betty was starting to fill the stockings when the kitchen door blew open, bringing with it her snow-covered husband with multiple bags of supplies. 

“Jesus, Jug. You look like the abominable snowman!” Laughing, she steps into the room, garlands still lit in the windows and takes the bags.

He shakes off the snow, mostly on his still laughing wife, and drops his coat over the back of a kitchen chair. “Well, it’s a blizzard, Betty. I’d say a good foot of snow has fallen since I left.”

Grimacing as the bags transfer from him to her, Betty sets them down quickly before she grabbed Jughead’s slippers and threw them to him. “Wonder if we’ll be leaving the house then.”

“Hopefully not. Which is why I also grabbed extra food,” he dropped into the recliner, pulled the lever on the side and groaned.

Betty was getting the morning coffee ready when the crying started.

“Uh-oh. Someone knows the food’s here,” Jughead sing-songed from his reclined state. Betty just smiled, dealt with the groceries and checked out the directions on the kitten milk replacement. One of the many bags he walked in with also held some toys, a bed, and a collar with a bell that looked far too big for the hungry kitten in her living room. 

“Just like a Jones already,” Betty muttered to herself while readying the bottle. She grabbed the rest of the kitten’s gear and walked into the living room where the scene before her had her heart catching in her throat as she spied her husband with the tiny cat curled up on his chest. 

She pulled a blanket from the sofa and draped it over their two sleeping forms, Jughead’s gentle snoring provided the soundtrack as she finished the last of the stockings and ensured the fire was out. The bottle was sat next to him on the side table in case it woke, but, knowing her husband, they’d be out until first light.

“Mooooooomm, come on!” In his excitement, their five-year-old son Christopher practically pulled his mother down the stairs Christmas morning. He had been sitting on the edge of her bed for nearly an hour, prodding her to wake, but having gone to bed past two, Betty managed to convince him to wait for his sister.

It was just after six-thirty when the three descended, Jughead still asleep in the recliner by the tree, the kitten now nestled into the crook of his neck. 

“What’s on Daddy?” Adeline asked, peeking from behind her mother.

Betty placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulders and guided her and their son over to where the kitten had begun to rouse. “That is your very special Christmas present.”

As if on cue, the kitten began it’s wailing, so loudly that Jughead nearly flew out of his chair and into the tree. Unable to contain their excitement any more, the kids ran from their mother to the small grey puffball that cried out from their yawning father’s embrace. 

“What is it?” Christopher asked.

“It’s a kitten!” Adeline pushed in front and climbed up the chair to sit on the arm, pulling the cat off her dad and holding it up for her brother to see. 

Christopher looked at it confused. “Uh, where’s the rest of it?”

“It’s a baby, bud, we’re going to have to take real good care of it too because we’re it’s family now.” Jughead sat up in the chair and pulled his son up on the other arm. 

“Why’s it squeaking?” 

“And where is its tail?” 

“That squeaking is because it’s probably very, very hungry. Your daddy fell asleep before it could eat. Do you two want to help feed it?” Betty walked back into the living room, cup of coffee in hand that Jughead took from her gladly. She swapped the old formula for new and handed the bottle to her husband. “And we don’t know, sweetie. It doesn’t look like anything happened so maybe she was just born without one.”

Jughead fed the kitten who greedily slurped down her bottle as his kids watched enrapt. “We’ll find out when we take her to the vet?”

Eyebrow raised in question, Betty turned to her husband. “Her?”

“Just a hunch,” he shrugs as the bottle falls from the kitten’s mouth. It mewled loudly, pawing at Jughead’s practiced hand before the bottle found its way back to where it was most needed. 

“Do you guys want to open any presents?”

“Not right now, Mom,” Christopher said mesmerized. 

Addy waved her off and laid her head on her father’s shoulder. “Maybe later.”

Betty nodded, swooning at her husband before grabbing her phone and uploading a picture to InstaGlam. Her family was completely caught up in the kitten with the tree glowing behind them. Cinnamon and pine and snow in the air, Betty, though extremely tired, had never felt more blessed. The picture was pretty, but it would never do justice to what she was feeling at that moment. 

Meow-y Christmas from the Joneses! Baby kitty is currently nameless, but the kids have just met it so I doubt it will be that way for long.

Update: Kitty is named Meowth. Of course.

#Bughead #bughead fanfiction #riverdaleevents #riverdalereindeergames

[liamakorn]

Spoopy Love

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader (Ghost-Hunter AU) 

Warnings: None. It’s a fluff fest y’all. Seriously, hand me Peter Parker, and watch my heart explode. 

Words: 5,092

A/N: GUYS!!! I had so much fun writing this, you have no idea. Somehow, it turned into a Buzzfeed Unsolved AU, and I aint even mad lol. This is for the August AU Writing Challenge by @after-avenging-hours . Hope y’all enjoy it as much as I did, our smol awkward boy deserves all the love! 

I tried to keep it as short as I could, lol, but uh....I think I failed. Sorry XP 

------

“I am so not going in there.”

A small whine that sounded vaguely like your name left his lips, brunette curls shifting in the small autumn breeze.

“Oh, c’mon, where’s your sense of adventure?”

Glancing at Peter, you must’ve made a face, because now he was chuckling, bumping your shoulder lightly with his own. A small, handheld camera hung by a cord on his wrist, swaying to and fro with every movement.

You focused your gaze on the house in front of you, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. It was cold, the sun was setting, and you really didn’t want to be here. How you’d managed to let him drag you on this “adventure”, you’ll never know. Oh, wait, that’s right, he’d flashed those puppy dog eyes and you’d just melted.

However, this was a little beyond your comfort zone. The house was huge, three stories in all. But what it had in grandeur was ruined by the state of the building itself; exposed wood paneling, the rotted porch with hardly a pillar left, shutters barely clinging to their windows. God, you could smell the mold from here. You noticed a few rats dart beneath the cracked walls and nearly fainted.

After another nudge, Peter finally grabbed your attention, pouting at your expression.

“Oh c’mooon! We’re about to catch the only known footage of Eliza Cartwright’s ghost! Aren’t you at least a little excited?”

Allowing yourself one last sigh, you managed a nervous smile, readjusting the heavy bag slung across your shoulder.

“This is a health and safety hazard.”

Somehow, you put one foot in front of the other, forcing your steps closer to the hell hole you were about to spend the majority of your night in. After a few seconds, you noticed Peter wasn’t following, glancing back with an eyebrow raised.

“Well, c’mon, Dimples. This ghost aint gonna catch itself!”

The crooked grin you received was worth every discomfort this house could throw at you.

It’s not like you didn’t want to believe in ghosts. You would’ve loved to have had the same enthusiasm for the supernatural that seemed to flow through Peter every time someone uttered the word “haunted”. It just seemed like there was always a more logical explanation, an answer that made more sense than the supposed “paranormal activity”. Banging in the walls? Faulty pipes. Scratching noises and flickering lights? Mice. Doors closing by themselves? Wind.

Yet, somehow, you ended up a moderator on Peter Parker’s ghost hunting blog, staring up at a dusty old house, on a Saturday. Life sure did have a sense of humor.

Stepping through the creaky front door, you were met with a wall of what could only be described as old people smell, kicked up to eleven. You couldn’t help but cough, taking stock of your surroundings. Dust hung in the air, catching the last few beams of sunlight creeping through the slats of decaying boards, which were haphazardly secured to the windows with rusty nails. The walls were nothing special, decades old paint flaking from the plaster, faded and worn from years of neglect.

The furniture was coated with a thick layer of dust and dirt, making it nearly impossible to discern what color each item had originally been. The cushions seemed to be missing; you counted that as a blessing. Who knows what would’ve been living in there.

A sudden achoo! startled you from your thoughts, shattering the silence of the otherwise abandoned house. Spinning on your heel, you just caught Peter’s wince, the brunette lifting the camera as you pressed your hand to your chest.

“Give me frickin heart attack, why don't’cha?”

His smirk was almost shy as he apologized, chuckling when you lightheartedly shoved his shoulder. You plopped your bag onto the couch, a cloud of dust kicking back into your face. You dug around for your own camera, hiding your face from view and trying to calm your blush. Jesus, how had he wormed his way under your skin so easily? You’d only known each other for a few months, having become fast friends after you’d transferred to his high school at the very end of the year. It was an odd experience, walking into this new school the first day and having Peter and Ned bombard you with greetings.

One minute you were the weirdo loner girl who couldn’t keep up with the new curriculum because she’d moved in fricken June, and the next, you had two amazing friends who actually wanted to hang out with you. Hell, it was that first day of school where Peter had nervously approached you and asked if you wanted to come with him to check out this stupid house in the first place. 

You’d been inclined to say no, but after looking at his expression...you just couldn’t. He’d sounded almost scared, like you would make fun of him or something. Well, needless to say, you’d caved, and here you were, the day before Halloween, hunting a ghost. And, despite your best efforts, enjoying yourself.

Heaving out a sigh, steeling yourself, you turned to face Peter, unable to keep the smile from your face at his fascinated gaze raking the dilapidated living room.

“You ready, Parker?”

An excited grin stretched his features, brown eyes sparkling in the dim beam of your flashlight. His enthusiasm was contagious, and you soon found yourself just as impatient to explore as he was. Attaching a go-pro to the side your head, you noticed Peter staring at you with an expression you couldn’t read. He quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat and fiddling with the camera. You could’ve sworn you saw pink dusting his cheeks.

As happy as seeing Peter this excited made you, that was quickly dwindled by the borderline dangerous nature of your surroundings. Everything was either rusty, dusty, moldy, or all of the above. You noted the exposed wood of the walls, some of the panels rotted away completely, other rooms visible in some places. Meanwhile, your companion continued to monologue, recounting on camera the details of a grisly death.

“The first spirit we’ll be covering is Christopher Requaitt. He came from the incredibly small town of Seboeis, Maine, and had a relatively poor upbringing. And yet, somehow, he managed to graduate at the top of his class, earning him a job in the household of one James Cartwright. It was rumored that he had been working off a debt to Cartwright, and that, after it was paid, he was hired full time due to his incredible culinary ability. However, these claims were never officially documented.”

You hardly realized you’d stopped scanning your surroundings, completely enraptured by the way Peter’s lips moved as he recounted the tale. Even as you started fiddling with various settings and EMF machines, you kept an ear on him, glancing up every once in awhile, enthralled by the story he was telling. Although you were a skeptic, it was hard not to be interested in the lives of people before you, hearing their history sending a shiver down your spine.

Peter continued, the confident edge to his voice catching you by surprise.

“One night, Cartwright’s wife, Cheryl, became incredibly sick. It would soon be known that she was pregnant with her first, and only, child; but, at the time, she claimed to have food poisoning, contracted from undercooked chicken. Due to Requaitt’s incredible reputation and skill, many have speculated that the accusation was meant to get Christopher fired. She had made her distaste for the cook obvious, never missing a chance to denounce him to her friends and acquaintances.

It is widely believed, by both residents and historians, that James and Christopher had been in the midst of an affair, an incredibly taboo subject at the time. Cheryl, either jealous or afraid for their reputation, might have wanted to take drastic action to halt their activities. Although he was saddened by it, Cartwright had no choice but to fire the cook. Finding himself wracked with woebegone, Chris-”

A snort escaped your lips, earning a playfully annoyed look from Peter. You coughed, trying to disguise your giggles behind your hand. He raised an eyebrow, directing the camera at you, catching your amused expression.

“Something wrong, munchkin?”

You chuckled again, shaking your head.

“Nope, nothing, I’m good. Please, continue.”

Rolling his eyes, he readjusted the camera, a soft smile on his face.  

“Anyway. Finding himself wracked in woebegone-”

He stared directly at you as he emphasized the word, setting off a new round of giggles, prompting a wider grin to stretch his lips.

“-Christopher found he couldn’t live with James’ decision, stuffing his face in the deep frying, killing himself and burning his face off before they could make him leave.”

“Christ, Parker!”

He halted, furrowing his brows in bemused confusion. You tried for an aggravated expression, only just managing a mildly miffed look before a smile broke out.

“Could you be a bit more blunt?”

He chuckled, pink dusting his cheeks even as he shrugged.

“What? That’s what happened, what d’you want me to say?”

You released a huff of air.

“I dunno, Pete, just...you can’t speak ill of the dead, man, that’s like, rule number one in the ghosty handbook.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up, an amused smirk on his lips.

“Oh, there’s a handbook now? Miss (Y/N) ‘I’m sure it was just the wind’ (L/N)?”

A flurry of giggles interrupted your sentence, covering your mouth to try and contain them. “I’m just saying, have a little respect, Parker!”

A victorious grin stretched his features, your heart skipping a beat when he let out the cutest laugh you’d ever heard.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Should I mention the fact that the only way they could identify him was by his clothing, because his features had melted together-”

You faked a disgusted face, covering your ears. His snickering sent a warm feeling dancing in your chest, the smile on your face lingering even as your chuckles died. You admired him for a moment, the crinkles in the corner of his eyes, dimples fully on display with his wide grin. Even in the dim beam of your flashlight, shadows dancing across his features; god, he was breathtaking.

After a few seconds, Peter cleared his throat, a touch of shyness flashing across his face.

“You, uh, you alright there, munchkin?”

Snapping out of your daze, you nodded, fiddling with the EMF meter at your belt.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s move on. You mentioned a little girl?”

That familiar sparkle returned to his eye, gripping your wrist suddenly and practically dragging you up the creaking staircase. You fought a laugh, heart pounding at his touch, no matter how minor. You really needed to get a grip on your crush.

You ended up in yet another dusty room, covered wall to wall in what was once a pale pink, but had faded to grey over time. The same confident tone as before overtook his voice, face stone serious as he began his spiel about the area’s most popular spirit.

“Here we are in the bedroom of James Cartwright’s six-year-old daughter, Eliza. She was born barely a year after the death of Christopher Requaitt, leading the residents of the town to question Requaitt’s death. Though nothing came of it legally, gossip and rumors of the supposed affair between Cartwright and Requaitt resulted in Cheryl’s eventual suicide, leaving James with Eliza when she was only four. Tragedy would strike again two years later, when Valerie Peridot would witness one of the many supernatural occurrences in the home. Only, unlike the others, this one was fatal.

“Peridot was the most recent in a long line of women James Cartwright dated after his wife’s death. She had only been dating him for three months before moving in, treating Eliza like her own daughter. But, as she entered the little girl’s room, she was startled to find the large window open, the child standing on the balcony railing and speaking to someone Valerie was unable to see. She seemed upset, screaming at the unseen figure to go away. When Valerie opened her mouth to scold her, Eliza jolted, as if she was pushed, flying from the third-floor balcony to the asphalt below”

Your eyebrows shot up, catching Peter’s attention for a brief second. The crooked half smile he sent your way was enough to catch your breath, hoping to any god out there that he didn’t notice.

“After Eliza’s death, Peridot was obviously suspected, her story of an unseen man shoving the girl out a window seeming preposterous. However, diary entries were found of Eliza’s, mentioning an imaginary friend named “Krissy". Law enforcement thought nothing of it, but spectral enthusiasts disagreed. It was speculated that perhaps “Krissy" was actually the ghost of Christopher Requaitt, enacting his revenge of what was the product of his demise. Eliza mentioned Krissy’s distaste for her family, specifically her mother. Even after her death, the spirit had apparently denounced Cheryl to the young girl, trying to convince her to “remind her father of his sins”. While these claims are somewhat far fetched, is it impossible to believe that Requaitt, heartbroken and betrayed by his lover, would seek retribution in the way of Eliza’s death?”

Peter glanced at you again, tilting his head slightly in question.

“Are you cold?”

You furrowed your brows, confused for a moment. You hadn’t even noticed your own arms encircling your torso, goosebumps rising on your bare arms, too engrossed in his story. Shrugging, you tried rubbing your palms together, the temporary warmth doing nothing to soothe the chill.

“I’m fine. Just a bit chilly is all, let’s keep moving.”

After a few seconds, he nodded, but not before shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders.

“We’ll only be a few more minutes. Just wanna use the spirit box and then we can head out.”

He lead the way towards a narrow hallway, just missing your intense blush. You tailed him, whining slightly.

“Can we not? I fucking hate that thing.”

He snickered, glancing back at you briefly; your heart fluttered at his bashful smile, slipping your arms into the sleeves of his coat. The fabric completely obscured your hands, filling you with a warmth that rivaled the pink on your cheeks.

Leading into the maid’s quarters was a rundown hallway, barely any plaster left on the walls. This area of the house seemed...moister than the rest, a distant leak echoing around the space. It sent shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Well....this is ominous.”

Peter laughed, pointing the camera at you once again.

“You scared, Munchkin?”

You lightheartedly shoved him, shaking your head. It was getting increasingly difficult to be annoyed when he flashed those stupid dimples. Peter began setting up the camera against a far wall, pulling out a small black gadget, explaining the mechanism simultaneously.

“So for those of you not familiar, what we’re about to use is called a Spirit Box. It uses radio frequency sweeps to generate white noise, which theories suggest give some entities the energy they need to be heard. When this occurs you will sometimes hear voices or sounds coming through the static in an attempt to communicate. It basically scans radio stations super fast to give the ghost a chance to roast us.”

Your chuckle is quickly cut off by a wince, plugging your ears to drown out the loud shrill given off by the hell box. After a few seconds of garbled syllables and static, you managed to catch what could’ve been either “starry" or “sorry". You decided on the latter.

“Sorry? For what?”

Peter shrugged.

“Maybe it’s sorry about the house?”

You snorted, trying to contain your giggles.

“Man, it should be sorry, this is a fuckin’ mess.”

Peter had the gall to look offended.

“Hey! Be respectful.”

That set off another fit of giggles, followed by a sarcastic tone,

“Oh, now you care about respect? Besides, what’s a pissy ghost gonna do?”

A sudden smirk found its way onto your lips.

“Ooh, maybe it’ll follow you hooome-”

He shoved you lightly, laughing nervously.

“Shut up! That’s not funny!”

You just giggled, vaguely paying attention to the spirit box. You could’ve sworn you heard something akin to, ‘I don’t want to go’, but you couldn’t be too sure.

After another few seconds of unintelligible nonsense, Peter sighed, switching the device off. Trying to hide his disappointed expression, he fixed the camera on his face, a small smile adorning his features. You began to pack up your equipment while he vlogged his outro.

“Alas, dear viewers, it seems that, while paranormal activity does reside in these walls, we weren’t able to catch much of anything tonight. Until next time, where we take a road trip to the Lizzie Borden Murder Hou-”

All of a sudden, a loud bang! followed by several shuffling sounds echoed from somewhere above you, startling the both of you nearly to death. Peter practically dropped the camera, eyes wide in what could’ve either been excitement or fear. Probably a little bit of both.

“What was that?!”

Your first instinct was that someone else had the same idea as you. Or a homeless man was squatting there. Or a wolf was hungry and craved the flesh from your bones. While some more far-fetched than others, none of those options seemed incredibly appealing.

You tugged Peter’s arm, trying to nudge him towards the exit.

“C’mon, Pete, let’s get outta here-"

Just as you said that, the shuffling got louder, swooping past your face and right past a terrified Peter. As the bird settled on an ancient chair, the two of you stayed silent for what felt like ages. Until the dam cracked, and the giggles you were trying to keep back came spilling out from your lips. When the terror had finally subsided, Peter chuckled a bit too, clutching his heart and leaning against the wall.

The giggles didn’t stop. Forgetting yourself, you’d stopped checking your surroundings, completely focused on Peter for most of the night. So, it’d be just your luck that you’d step right onto a spot of water damaged flooring behind you.

Good news? You’d found the source of that dripping noise. Bad news? Your foot went straight through it, sending you crashing down, banging your head on the wooden paneling. You might’ve heard Peter yell out, but your brain was swimming too much to notice, a ringing settling in your ears. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your foggy senses, only to notice the intense pain shooting up your leg. It was like somebody had taken your ankle and bashed it against a rock a few times. You were almost sure it was broken. You just hoped to god you weren't cut anywhere. The last thing you needed right now was tetanus.

After a few seconds of confused blinking, the rapidly spinning room finally came to a halt; coherent enough to notice your surroundings, Peter came into view, a worried look etched into his expression. His eyes were almost teary as he fussed over you.

Grabbing his hand, you tried your best at smiling, only managing a grimace as your head throbbed. His eyes snapped to yours, squeezing your hand a little too tightly, his free hand checking your head as lightly as he could. When it grazed over the welt right at the top of your forehead, you winced, relieved when he pulled his hand back to cradle your cheek instead.

“Okay, okay okay okay, you’re okay. Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

Blinking a few more times for good measure, you nodded, soothing some of the panic in his eyes. Slowly, as gently as he possibly could, Peter supported your upper back and waist, lifting you to a sitting position, jostling your leg as little as possible. Even then, you let out a slight whimper. The nausea hit you all at once, forcing you to grip Peter’s arm until the room stopped spinning. Although you could barely pay attention to anything but your swimming senses, Peter continued to mumble out loud; whether it was to calm himself or you was unclear.

“God, (Y/N), I’m so sorry, I was stupid to make you come with me, I should’ve just taken you to get some damned coffee like a normal person, now you’re hurt and it’s my fault, Jesus I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Peter.”

He stopped altogether, eyes wide and terrified. Giving him another, more convincing smile, you sniffled, wiping your face on the sleeve of his jacket that you were still wearing. Taking stock of your leg, you couldn’t see or feel many splinters or cuts, which was a plus. However, your ankle didn’t seem to be faring as well, the throbbing having only worsened as the minutes rolled by. Getting it out of the rotted floor was definitely a priority.

“Alright...okay, Peter. We need to get my leg out, yeah? I’m gonna need your help.”

Peter nodded, visibly swallowing, clenching your hand to the point where it almost hurt. He reached down, careful not to impale himself on the cracked wood, and began to clear as much of the debris as he could. Although the thought of shifting your leg was nauseating, you tried to help as much as you could, knocking splinters away so there was a clear passage you could slip your foot through. 

Taking a deep breath, you squeezed Peter’s arm, cautiously lifting your foot out of the floor. Even that minor jostling sent stabs of pain up your leg, an unintentional cry escaping your lips. Peter tried his best to make the endeavor as painless as possible, supporting your leg and back, moving anything that could bump into the injury. You saw his pained expression at your cry, brows furrowed in worry.

Eventually, you managed to free your ankle, a sigh of relief escaping your chest. You hadn't even noticed you were holding your breath. Once able to shift without feeling like you were going to die, you released Peter’s arm, wincing at the red marks you’d left. He barely seemed to notice, cradling your ankle to assess the damage.

Despite the awful situation, you couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he was. Cheeks flushed, jaw flexing every few seconds, a nervous tick you’d noticed over the past few months. His eyes were trained on you the whole time, a softness to his gaze that sent your heart racing a mile a minute.

Hesitantly, you reached up, tracing his cheekbone with your fingertips. His eyes snapped to yours, the blush you earned filling you with satisfaction. You had no idea where this sudden confidence came from, and you were sure it wouldn’t last. Still, you couldn’t help but make the most of it.

Your voice was barely audible when you whispered,

“You’re so pretty…”

If you thought he’d been red before. Oh boy. Now he was like a tomato, a shy smile stretching his lips before he could stop it. Catching your gaze briefly, Peter chuckled, continuing his examination of your ankle.

“You probably have a concussion. We should get you out of here.”

Giggling, you couldn’t help the fond look you gave him, a dopey grin on your face.

“You’re taking me out? Like, on a date?”

He grinned fully, 50 shades of pink, standing to help you up.

“Alright, you definitely have a concussion. C’mon, let’s go.”

Gripping his hands, you allowed Peter to lift you to your feet, shocked by his strength. Careful not to lean on your bad leg, you hardly noticed when you began to fall, the room suddenly spinning. Peter caught you by the waist, keeping his hold on you until you could focus on anything but keeping your balance. 

The both of you were barely an inch apart, your head the perfect height to lay against his chest. Which is exactly what you did, sighing as your senses began to return to normal. You could just about hear his heartbeat, thumping rapidly against his sternum.

God, you must’ve had a concussion. Or some sort of permanent brain damage. There’s no way you’d be acting like this in your right mind. Peter didn’t seem to mind, though, leaning his chin gently against your hair. It was so calming, you almost forgot about your ankle entirely, letting it droop to the floor absentmindedly.

Immediately on contact, you yelped, clutching Peter’s shirt in a vice grip. He sighed, keeping his arm circled around your waist to support you, becoming your crutch and letting you lean practically all of your weight onto him. Still, he didn’t complain, giving you a reassuring smile.

“Alright, Munchkin, let’s get outta here.”

When you showed up to his apartment, banged up from your adventures, May practically forced you into a cab, taking you to the nearest hospital to be checked up on. You didn’t end up having a concussion, thankfully, just some minor bruises and a sprained ankle, as well as a tetanus shot for good measure. You did, however, get what felt like an eternity of a scolding from Peter’s aunt. Which, to be fair, was incredibly valid. What had possessed the two of you to go to an abandoned ass house, on the night before Halloween, by yourselves, was completely beyond you.

You found it hard to be upset though, laying on Peter’s bed, watching him set up a pillow and blanket on his floor. It was far too late to go home, so you’d convinced May to let you stay for the night. You sighed again, pouting at Peter.

“You really don’t have to sleep on the floor, Dimples. It’s your bed, I can take the couc-"

He paused his activities, a tired smile on his face.

“Are you kidding? You think my injured friend is gonna sleep on the couch? We found that thing on the curb, you’d end up with god knows what.”  

He wandered over, fussing for the millionth time with your pillows and blankets, making sure you were comfortable. You rolled your eyes, groaning.

“You’re acting like I’m on my deathbed. A little fall isn’t gonna kill me, Pete.”

He just chuckled, and, after a few seconds hesitation, brushed some of your hair behind your ear.

“I know, I know. Just...let me take care of you, ‘kay?”

A heavy blush settled on your cheeks, rendered speechless by his sudden shift in demeanor. Wordlessly, you nodded, biting your lip to keep the smile off your face. His eyes caught the movement, focusing on your mouth for a few seconds before falling to his hands. Slowly, almost cautiously, he sat at the edge of the mattress, brows furrowing. As if he was thinking about what to say next.

“Listen…(Y/N)... I wanted to tell you something. And I’m not...well, I’m not exactly sure how to say it, but I feel like this is a good time, because realistically, I know you’ll be fine, but if you’d really gotten hurt in there, I don’t know what I would’ve done, I just-"

He cut himself off, keeping his gaze locked firmly in his lap. Finally, he seemed to focus, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“I asked you to come with me on my stupid ghost hunting trip because, well, you’re just-”

Another deep breath.

“You’re kinda, sorta, basically always on my mind. And I wanted to hang out- well not ‘hang out’ but, I wanted to, y’know, ask you out, but I couldn’t find the words, and now you’re hurt and I-"

He kept rambling, but you barely heard it, too focused in on his confession to notice anything else.

Peter likes you.

Jesus, everything made so much sense now! How shy he was, how timid he’d been asking you to go with him. He wasn’t just asking to hang out. He was asking you on a date. Butterflies filled your stomach, a warm feeling settling in your chest. You couldn’t keep the grin from your lips if you tried. Peter likes you. Peter likes you.

Noticing your expression, he finally stopped ranting, an almost terrified look in his eyes. Clearing your throat slightly, you averted your gaze, mumbling softly.

“I, uh, I like you too Peter.”

His expression was almost comical. Eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar.

“W-what?”

You giggled, an affectionate grin on your face.

“I said, I like you too, you doofus.”

He visibly relaxed, features softening into a sweet smile.

“Oh.”

You both sat there, the silence of his bedroom settling over you like a blanket. You must’ve looked like idiots, sitting amongst his Star Wars sheets with lovestruck expressions, glancing at each other from the corner of your eyes. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat, blush never fading.

“So, um...do you, I mean, there’s a movie next week, would you maybe, uh, I dunno, um-"

“I’d love to, Peter.”

His smile widened even more, brown eyes sparkling as he nodded.

“Okay. Okay, good. So, uh...we should probably get some sleep.”

Peter moved to stand up, but stopped himself. After a few seconds of hesitation, he leaned over, gently pressing his lips to your bruised forehead. As he pulled away, you gripped his wrist, eyes fluttering shut to savour the moment. You were here. This was real. You felt his light breaths across your face, nose practically brushing yours. A breathy giggle escaped your lips, opening your eyes to see Peter already staring at you. You could see every small detail in gaze, golden flakes scattered in their chocolate depths. You kept your voice hushed, scared to shatter the moment between the two of you.

“Can you lay by me? Just until I fall asleep?”

His smile could rival the sun in its brilliance. A thrill went through you as he nuzzled his nose against yours.

“Alright.”

Careful not to touch your ankle, Peter climbed beneath the covers, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. Your head rested against his chest, steady heartbeat a little too quick to be casual. You smirked.

“You nervous, Parker?”

He chuckled, squeezing you in a hug.

“Shut up, Munchkin.”

God, you didn’t think you’d ever stop smiling. Closing your eyes, you breathed out a sigh of content. A year ago today, you never would’ve imagined you’d be here. A new school, ghost hunting blog, and sprained ankle later, and here you were, cuddling with the guy of your dreams.

Things were finally looking up.

Tagging: @captain-ariel-barnes @papi-chulo-bucky @after-avenging-hours @occasionalfics @aliciawentzshadows @writing-parker 

Sorry if you didn’t wanna be tagged in this, lol, I just tagged anyone who I thought might like Peter fluff XP 

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #my work #august au writing challenge #my spider son #spiderman x reader #spiderman x you #peter parker x you #peter parker au #x reader

[kilesplaysthings]

We’re all Afraid of Something...

A MidCin fic: Pt. 1

The sewer entrance gaped at them like a gigantic, toothless mouth. Blackness stretched back as far as their eyes could see, and the only sound reverberating out of that cavern was the echoing drip, dripping of water. A putrid stench wafted out, causing the four boys to hold their breath for a good minute before they accustomed themselves to the environment.

Byron Wagner gritted his teeth and clicked on his flashlight. Screw the darkness, screw the gross smells, and screw the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew the answer to his little brother's disappearance lay somewhere deep in these sewers, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. Amidst the bickering and chattering of his three pals, Albert, Sid and Louis, he took a deep breath and began splashing into the dark, dank chasm.

Sid began to follow him. "You guys coming?" He asked, glancing back at the other two. Louis and Albert were hanging back, hesitant to go further.

"No way," Louis quickly answered. "That's grey water."

Sid rolled his eyes. "What the heck is grey water?" He asked tiredly.

"It's basically piss and all sorts of crap!" Louis exclaimed, his voice rising to a higher pitch. "I'm just telling you! You're probably stepping in what is gallons of the entire town's pee!"

Louis was a little guy; thin, short and pale with a shock of light blond hair that fell over his forehead when he got agitated. His blue eyes were wide with an anxiety that went deeper than just a twelve year old who was scared of breaking the rules.

"Wanna find out for sure?" Sid grinned. He picked up a stick and used it to lift a soaked rag from the murky water. He raised it higher and pretended to sniff it. "Ahh, nice and fresh!"

Sid was almost the exact opposite of Louis: dark, stockier and more on the taller side. The screwball of the bunch, one of his favorite past times was messing around with the smaller Louis, though the two were best buds. At this moment, he was doing a great job of freaking the poor kid out.

"Okay, ever hear of a staph infection, Sid?" Louis almost yelled. "Just sniffing that probably carries all sorts of diseases and don't blame me if you wake up tomorrow blowing chunks out of your nose!"

"Oh, I'll show you a staph infection!" Sid exclaimed. He began walking towards Louis with the soaked rag, grinning wickedly.

"Okay, seriously if you bring that thing any closer to me I will kick your butt! Don't you dare! My mom will have an aneurism if she finds out I've been playing down here! I'm serious, man, don't you come any closer!"

Louis talked a mile a minute but Sid just chuckled and inched closer. He then chucked the rag at the smaller boy, causing Louis to yelp when the rag barely missed his clean shirt. Albert, watching the two of them, just rolled his eyes and pushed his thick-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

As Louis was about to have a conniption, Byron's voice suddenly echoed from further in the sewer.

"Guys! Look!"

All attention was focused on the boy as he produced a soaked shoe. It was an all-star high top, colored purple.

"Oh man.. Don't tell me that's..." Albert muttered.

"No," Byron responded. "It's not Nico's. Nico wore galoshes."

"Whose sneaker is it?" Louis asked.

Sid edged closer and peered at the shoe with his flashlight. His eyes widened as he spied a name on the inside of the shoe.

"It's Giles Christophe's.." He announced, eyes wide.

"Holy crap.." Louis hissed. He scrounged around in his fanny pack to produce his inhaler as his breaths turned to gasps. With a few puffs, his ragged breathing began to slow down and he was no longer wheezing. He then exchanged frightened glances with Albert from the cave entrance.

Giles Christophe was a kid in their class. Just two days before school let out for the summer, he had gone missing. Just vanished after heading home from school. No one in his family could figure out where he would have gone and no one could find any trace of him - until now.

"What if he's still here?" Albert's whisper echoed through the tunnel.

"Well that would suck. Imagine running around a sewer with only one shoe!" Sid tried to joke. It fell flat and the others just ignored him.

"We should look for him," Byron muttered, and continued further into the sewer.

"Guys, come on!" Sid called to the others as he began to follow.

"You can't be serious! We don't even know what's in there!" Louis objected. "And what if we get lost?"

"Byron?" Albert called to his friend.

The boy in question stopped and turned to face the others. He took a deep breath and clutched the shoe in his hand.

"If I were Giles, I'd want someone to find me," he said quietly. "And..Nico too."

That left the others quiet and a bit ashamed of their hesitation. Louis looked away, off into the trees and to the safety of the sunlight. He gulped.

"What if I don't want to find them..?" He said quietly. He nervously looked back at the others. "I mean.. No offense, Byron, but I don't want to end up like.."

He stopped and looked down at his shoes, unable to meet the sad gaze of his friend.

"I don't want to go missing either," he whispered.

#midnight cinderella #midcin #midcin fanfic #can you guess what inspired me? #it's a bit different #but please enjoy!

[skymarkventures-blog]

Why is Entrepreneurship Hard

“I can’t possibly do that,” quipped the bartender. “Entrepreneurship is hard.”

After coming back from my consulting engagement in Madrid, I settled down to have a cerveza at my favorite tapas bar in Barcelona. Yoda’s words still echoed in my mind, and on the plane back to Barcelona, I sketched out my business idea on a piece of napkin.

“Muy duro, my friend. Muy duro.” He smiled politely and went back to cheer on the local soccer team with the rest of the crowd.

I held onto that napkin, which had the greatest idea in the world for a startup - at least in my mind. But this bartender thinks it’s too hard. Why bother?

I pocketed that idea of mine. Sipping my beer, I watched the crowds go “ooh” and “ahh” at the soccer match between F.C. Barcelona and Real Madrid. Not only was Yoda’s Spanish voice ringing in my ears, but now it got me thinking:

Why do we think Entrepreneurship is sooo hard?

I get that there’s a lot of financial and business risks to entrepreneurship, especially when you have to quit a good paying job:

But it’s like anything else we think at that moment is hard. Once upon a time, I really thought it was hard to get up and take my first step as a baby. Once upon a time, I really, really thought, writing a 500 word essay for 4th period English was hard. Once upon a time, I thought leaving New York to study and work in a Spanish-speaking country (when I didn’t speak the language) was sooo hard. But guess what? I did it.

According to a published work in the Forum for Research in Empirical International Trade (FREIT), we develop a biased perception of entrepreneurs. Non-entrepreneurs “maintain laudatory portraits of ‘entrepreneurs’,” when in fact they are like everybody else. Hence, we develop this self-defeating attitude of “why me?”

I kept sipping my beer and watched the crowd cheer the local team. Questions in my mind only led to more questions:

Is entrepreneurship really any different? Why are we afraid of change?

Formal education breeds conformists

“Things were getting to me. Just how people are. How they always expect you to be a certain way…” 

-- High schooler Angela Chase from My So-Called Life (1994)

Rise and shine honey - it’s time for school. Eat your bacon and eggs. Don’t forget your bologna sandwich! Don’t be late. Come home right after. Do your homework! No more TV after 8:00. Goodnight, sweetie.

Sound familiar? It’s a typical day in a student’s life in America. Kids all over America are thought to wake up at a particular hour in morning, be at school at 8:30 and leave at 3:30. Yearbook activities from 4:00 to 5:00. Go home. Then homework. Dinner at 6:30ish. Bed. Wash, rinse, repeat. You can’t blame the parents - they’re even more predictable:

Wake up the kids. Drive kids to schoolwork. Work at desk job from 9:00 to 5:00. Pick up kids. Make them do homework and cook dinner. Eat. Seinfeld and Friends. Turn off TV. Sleep.

We are taught as kids and as adults that there are grave consequences if we deviate. If you don’t get an A, you won’t get anywhere. If you don’t show your face from 9:00 to 5:00, then how can you possibly retire by age 65? You have to be a lawyer. You have to be a doctor. Why don’t you want to be a doctor? Do you wanna be poor?!

According to the New York Times, education is a path to conformity. Pre-college kids are programmed for twelve-hour days, and taught that going to Harvard and having the initials M.D. at the end of one’s name are the ONLY keys to success. Parents ignore how Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and Michael Dell boot-strapped billion dollar businesses from their garage.

Granted, Gates and Jobs are exceptional thought leaders. But the first step - even for Jobs and Gates - was a mental one. They told themselves: I can do this.

I won’t critique how to fix the American educational system, as that would take a research paper that would rival War and Peace. But what we can start doing is telling and believing these four words:

I can do this.

It starts with breaking from that hive mentality from 4th grade. Success is NOT linear.

“The secret of life is to fall seven times and to get up eight times.” 

-- Paulo Coelho

We fear the unknown

We laud entrepreneurs because they are fearless. I can’t possibly do that!

Our fear of the unknown stems from our fear of the dark. There’s an evolutionary reason why we fear the dark. Back in the age of cave people, men and women didn’t have flashlights and iPhones, and they had to hunt for a living. This meant hunting in dark forests, where bigger predators could be hiding in a dark corner.

Moreover, as humans we have five main senses - sight is one of them. Darkness impairs our ability to see; hence, we fear anything that blinds us from assessing our environment.

In psychology, Sigmund Freud posits our fear from darkness stems from the childhood trauma of separation anxiety. Parents would abandon their kids at night (to sleep in their own rooms), leaving their kids to sleep alone. This separation is why we invent monsters under the bed, or the boogie man that will jump out of the closet.

In history, explorers were afraid to sail west to reach India and China. They didn’t have established routes across the Atlantic making navigation difficult. It took the courage of Christopher Columbus (and the Vikings before him) to sail west and discover a whole New World.

We praise entrepreneurs for their fearlessness because of our inability to overcome our own fears. Hence, our own self-doubt leads us to this inevitable conclusion:

Entrepreurship is hard.

Just like we looked up to our big brother who would check the closet for the boogie monster. Just like we loved our mothers for checking under the bed for that oogly, boogly bed monster. In time, we learned how silly we were for having these fears because we learned this:

“Only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” -- Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Entrepreneurs are no different from you or I. We all have the same five senses. 

Why am I special?

We watch movies and read tall tales about Bill Gates, displacing IBM in the 1990s. Then we watch movies of how Steve Jobs resurrected Apple, Inc. to become the world’s most valuable company. We watch Social Network, and wonder in awe at Zuckerberg’s development of Facebook.

Indeed, these entrepreneurs had exceptional skills. Gates was great at software. Jobs is a legend in design. Zuckerberg had the technical know-how to build a social network. Non-entrepreneurs create self-doubt because they think they have no skills.

I can’t possibly do that!

Consider this guy with a niche for reviewing fast food.

In today’s Youtube and Pinterest world, you can do almost anything and build an entire business around it. You can be a Star Wars channel, an SEO blogger, or a fashion maven on instagram. What’s the common theme in all these successful entrepreneurs?

They found their niche.

Do you think your ability to put on make-up without using your hands is silly? If done right, a video on this unique ability could go viral on Vine or Youtube. Do you like eating decades old military rations? Guess what - there is someone out there making money on it.

In this blog article for Skymark Ventures titled “What Startups can learn from ‘shock’ Donald Trump win,” the section ‘Know your market’ details Trump’s path to electoral victory. Peter Thiel suggests “start small and scale upwards.” In other words, Trump picked a niche (populism for middle-America and blue collar workers) and built an entire marketing campaign around it. He didn’t care about the liberals on the east and west coast; he used populism to win the battleground states that helped him secure a victory in the November elections.

Lack of knowledge is no longer an excuse in today’s world. There is a WEALTH of information in how to take action steps to build a business around your niche. How to build a website? Try this. Need SEO help? Go here. How to budget and raise money? Try Skymark Ventures’ FREE budget tools.

At one point in their lives, Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, and Mark Zuckerberg were just like you and I. For them, it just clicked. They identified what they’re good at, what they’re interested in and had the courage to build it.

In short, they had dreams like everybody else. Do you have dreams?

As I sip my beer in that fateful day in Barcelona, thoughts of dreams, fears and wants swirled in my mind, like cream melting in an expresso.

I watched the crowd in that bar go “ooh” and “ahh,” even though the game was at a stalemate at 0-0. THEN - almost at once - everybody stood up...

Barcelona star Lionel Messi broke free from the pack. He zig zagged down the field… Twisted around a defender… Shot a fastball past the goalkeeper for the winning goal. It was a beautiful display of finesse and courage.

Indeed, not everyone can be Lionel Messi. But once upon a time, Messi was just a little boy, like everybody else. He had hopes and dreams, like everyone around him. He had a unique talent, like you and I. He believed in himself.

That last part is muy duro.

In a world, where we’re taught to be like everybody else… where we’re all expected to get Harvard degrees and have the initials M.D. at the end of our name… where we’re expected to go 9-5 for forty years until we collect social security… It’s hard to think we can be different.

This is why we laud entrepreneurs. They think different. They actually believe!

To enact change in one’s life, it’s first important to believe you can be different. You have a unique talent that’s waiting for a global audience. Consider these words from Jobs in a PBS documentary:

“When you grow up you tend to get told the world is the way it is and your job is just to live your life inside the world. Try not to bash into the walls too much. Try to have a nice family life, have fun, save a little money.

That’s a very limited life. Life can be much broader once you discover one simple fact, and that is - everything around you that you call life, was made up by people that were no smarter than you. And you can change it, you can influence it, you can build your own things that other people can use.

The minute that you understand that you can poke life and actually something will, you know if you push in, something will pop out the other side, that you can change it, you can mold it. That’s maybe the most important thing. It’s to shake off this erroneous notion that life is there and you’re just gonna live in it, versus embrace it, change it, improve it, make your mark upon it.

I think that’s very important and however you learn that, once you learn it, you’ll want to change life and make it better, cause it’s kind of messed up, in a lot of ways. Once you learn that, you’ll never be the same again.”

I finished my beer and said my goodbyes to the bartender. I walked out of that bar, and realized the napkin was still in my hand. I looked at it again, thinking it was the greatest idea in the world.

I glanced up at the Spanish sun. I remember thinking: here I am, a New York native, living and thriving in a non-English world.

Who’d have thunk it?

Why is entrepreneurship hard? I guess I’m about to find out.

#entreprenuership #entrepreneur #consultant #why is entrepreneurship hard