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allegra-writes · 4 years

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“Teeth”

Peter Parker x Anti-hero!Reader

NSFW

Warnings: Smut, chocking kink, rough sex.

Part XI of the "Mercy" series

SERIES MASTERLIST | MY MASTERLIST

"Something in the way you look into my eyes... I don't know if I'm gonna make it out alive"

Teeth - 5SOS

Peter was going to be sick.

He hadn't felt sick in years, ever since the spider bite, but he was sure his stomach was about to turn any second now.

It was all in front of his eyes, the darkest, most confidential of S.H.I.E.L.D's files. Project Lazarus. Nick Fury’s unethical, insane scheme to get the original six back together, using the kree blood running through Captain Marvel's veins to reanimate the fallen ones. And you had been the ultimate guinea pig, the final test.

And Peter had been the one to authorize it.

The name on the files was your father's, but Bucky had only consented after Peter…

He ran, barely making it to the ensuite on time to empty the contents of his stomach into the sink. He let the water flow to wash the foul liquid away.

That wasn't even the worst. Oh no, that was barely the top of the iceberg. The most horrifying part, the part that was going to give him nightmares for weeks, was that protocol. The T.A.H.I.T.I. protocol, a machine wired directly to your brain, with your skull splitted open, erasing everything Fury considered you didn't need. There were even fucking reports about how much more docile and happier you were after forgetting your mother's death, and your subsequent murderous rampage.

And at least half of it was bullshit. They had told you about Natasha the very same day you had woken up, asking for your mommy in russian, breaking their hearts in a thousand pieces once they understood what was going on.

He sprayed some cold water on his face, trying to regain his composure. As bad as he was feeling, it was probably nothing compared to what you were feeling. He had to get it together, for you. He rinsed his mouth and dried his face with a towel, stepping back into his room.

But you were nowhere to be found.

His heart fell to his stomach. He scrambled to put on a pair of sweats, cursing the valuable seconds he was wasting, before running at breakneck speed through hallways and flights of stairs until he reached your floor. By the time he barged into your room, he was out of breath.

“No” It came out as a whisper, a barely audible gasp at finding his worst suspicions confirmed.

There you were, fully dressed, a backpack open on your bed with a few clothes thrown haphazardly inside as you raided your bedroom for weapons.

“No” He repeated, more firmly, when you passed by him. He was met with more silence, as you took your small Glock 42 and checked the magazine. You wouldn't even look at him. You couldn't. You knew that if you as much as met those warm coffee eyes, bright with tears, you wouldn't be able to bring yourself to do it, you wouldn't be able to leave him.

And you had to. Peter didn't know, you were certain, he didn't mean to do so, but he was playing right into the role director Fury intended for him to play: A distraction and an anchor, something to stay for, to keep you loyal to the avengers.

Just like Hydra had used your father to keep your mother in line once, a long time ago. She had told you that story, told you about your dad's face, frozen inside a cryogenic pod. And she had taught you, with tears in her eyes, the motto you had lived your whole life by, up until now: ‘Your first and most important loyalty, must always be to yourself’

You counted your bullets, and tucked the gun into the thigh holster under your skirt. It was time to honor that law.

Peter stepped in front of you, halting your advances,

“Y/n, stop, talk to me, please!” He reached for your hand, but you avoided his touch. You knew what would happen if he touched you.

“It’s over, Peter” Your voice washed over him like a bucket of cold water, chilling him to the bone, “I’m leaving”

The words knocked all the air out of his chest, like a physical blow. He knew your first reaction would be to fly, your mother had raised you your whole life to make self preservation your first instinct. He had feared you would leave him behind.

But somehow, Peter had never pictured you would want to leave him.

He could feel his eyes burn, smell the salt of his own tears. He choked on the question that wanted to escape his throat, it was useless questioning why: He was still pretty much a stranger to you, all of them were. You weren't one to trust easily in strangers, and you had just been proven right. But comprehending didn't make it any less painful.

“Take me with you” He was conscious of the futility of his request as he said the words but he had to try. He had to.

You stopped your packing, meeting his eyes. But he found nothing in yours. No warmth. No trust. Nothing but the cold fire of your barely contained rage, algid and terrible. Peter had seen that look before, back in a barn on a stormy night. He regretted, for what was probably the thousandth time, not running away with you then, instead of asking you to stay with him.

“I was there” He tried again, “the night you tried to kill Clint”

“I know” You interrupted him, “I just read the file”

“I asked you to stay that night. You wanted to run and instead of asking you to let me go with you, I asked you to stay. I’m not making that mistake again. Let me go with you”

Unknowingly, Peter had just confirmed your worst suspicions. He had been the key piece in Fury's chess game from the very beginning, sending him after you over and over again despite his failures, he had set the bait. And you had fallen straight into his trap, forgetting all your training, giving up your own freedom… for a boy.

You weren’t making the same mistake twice either.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

He watched as in slow motion how you grabbed your bag and headed for the door, realizing then that the only way to stop you from leaving was to physically stop you. Desperate, he let his instinct take over in one last attempt to keep you there.

He tackled you, your body hitting the floor hard, all the air knocked out of your lungs at once. Your wrists hurt where his hands pinned them to the floor as he straddled you, a feeling of deja vu washing over him as he looked down at your furious face, but you weren't the same girl he had webbed down to the faded hardwood of that dingy apartment almost a year ago. Not anymore. Six months of training with the winter soldier, the handler of widows himself, had made you even deadlier than you already were.

You tangled your ankle around one of his own, bucking your hips up, pushing him out of balance as you rolled him over, landing on top of him, hand firm around his throat.

“You think you can stop me?” There was venom, and contempt, in your words, his spider sense flaring up. But tried as he may, he couldn't move, couldn't even look away. He was a fly, trapped and defenseless, in your web. He had always been. How foolish and conceited of him, calling himself Spider-man, when there, laying underneath you, he finally understood what a real predator was.

“You think you can get on top of me? Think you can dominate me, boy?” You felt Peter's gulp under your palm. It was tempting, so tempting…

So you squeezed, just a little, watching his pupils blow wide with adrenaline, equal parts crisp trepidation and desire. Peter’s head was spinning, and it wasn't just from lack of oxygen. He didn't know the exact moment you went from fighting him to claw at his clothes, but you were, and he was aiding you, ripping yet another one of your panties, another casualty in the warfare of your relationship, guiding your hips down as you braced yourself, one hand on the floor, the other one still around his neck. Unlike him, who was hard from the moment he felt your hands on his skin, you weren't ready, nowhere near wet enough, but you didn't care: The slight burn grounded you, made everything sharper. This wasn't about placer anyway, this was a punishment. For Peter, for making you feel the things he made you feel; and for you, for allowing them to grow and fester in your heart.

He seemed to like it, though, hips bucking to meet yours, breathless sounds leaving his lips as you fucked yourself on his cock.

“You like this, don't you?” You marveled, “Like it rough, boy?”

It wasn't your old ‘baby boy’, the one that belied your tenderness as you did the most depraved things to him. But it was close enough to get his heart racing.

“Pathetic” You decided, as you felt his pulse pick up under your hand. He whimpered, tears pricking at his eyes, and at last, you let go of his neck, placing both hands flat on his muscular chest for leverage. It wasn’t long before you were breathless too, as taking his cock became easier and easier with every downward stroke.

“Shit... I’ll give it to you, spidey… your dick feels amazing…” You gasped, little frown of concentration on your face, lips parted, unable to contain your little moans. How could he ever let you go, when you were the most exquisite thing Peter had witnessed in his whole life?

“Too much for you, little spider?” He could do nothing but sob as you teased him, cruelly, tightening your muscles around him “...Or not enough?”

You leaned forward, tracing your tongue over his open lips, but quickly withdrawing when he tried to capture yours in a kiss. You changed your pace, no longer bouncing but rocking on top of him, grinding your clit against his pelvis, enjoying the electricity that the friction created on your little pearl of nerves.

Meanwhile, Peter was a mess underneath you, tears now flowing freely, whimpering, and shaking, fisting the fabric of your skirt so hard that you heard it rip. But still not daring to complain.

“You're such a good boy, aren't you? Could do anything I want with you… use you anyway I wanted to…”

You felt him twitch inside you at your words, another whine escaping his chest.

“I could ruin you, ride you so hard… get you so close… and stop right before you come”

He shook his head frantically, desperate, but still, he kept silent.

“You don't want that? But you'd take it anyway, wouldn't you?”

He closed his eyes, unable to meet yours, ashamed. That was all the answer you needed,

“You would. Because you are mine… my pretty toy… to use… to fuck…” You picked up your pace, bouncing up and down his cock, and he couldn't contain himself anymore,

“Yes!” He cried, “I’m yours! All yours!”

“My slutty boy” You praised, legs burning with the strain and exhaustion of the night, but stopping was not an option. You were close, drunk on the power of having such a strong superhuman submitting to you, such a gorgeous man turned into a needy, desperate puddle between your legs.

“Please” He begged, pitifully.

“What do you need, little boy?”

His fingers closed around your wrist, guiding your hand until it was back around his neck, and you understood. You could have mocked him again, humiliated him farther, make him beg for it. But something inside his coffee eyes stopped you. It wasn't trust, no. You could practically smell the fear, the sharp tang of epinephrine coming off his pores, every hair on his body still standing on end, proof of his spider sense still on high alert…

No. It was deeper than that. It was surrender. He knew you could as easily give him what he wanted, as turn on him. Never, not even back it that farm, had been more evident to him that the hand he loved to hold was a weapon.

But he couldn't help never wanting to let go.

“Я тебя люблю” He croaked, throat dry and sore from your manhandling, but still clear enough to make your hips falter.

“What did you just say?” You breathed, stunned.

“Я тебя люблю” He repeated, more clearly, hands sliding up your thighs, till he had handfuls of your ass, “I love you…”

“Shut up” You hissed.

“I won't. I love you” Peter felt as your nails dug on his chest, until he had five bloody crescent marks to match the ones on his back, “I love you…”

You squeezed his neck harder, until he was really struggling for air, black spots dancing in his vision.

“I love you” It was nothing but a gasp.

You made a frustrated noise, but there was no denying the way your walls fluttered around him. And there was no stopping your hips, working him ferociously, fucking yourself on his cock without mercy. You were falling already, falling apart for him.

“Come with me” It was a command. It was a request. It was an invitation.

And Peter knew you weren't just talking about his release.

To be continued...

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x reader smut #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #Mercy series #mercy

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yourwildest-nightmare · 7 years

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“Don’t let them take your heart” (Year 11 Advanced English Creative Writing Draft)

Dear Ella,

I wonder if you recognised my wiring on the tattered envelope decorated with stained stamps which housed this letter you are now reading. I wonder if you opened it straight away, or if you sat it down on your lap, staring at it for what felt like a lifetime. I wonder if you even read it all, if I am even being heard by you. And I wonder if you ever still think about me, about us, about everything that happened. If you wonder where I am, how I am doing, how I got there. This letter is to explain that. I hope you understand where i’m coming from, and more importantly, I hope you find the bravery to try to understand it. This is my story.

My fingers ran absentmindedly through her chaotic hair, losing themselves in the tangles and waves of her midnight locks. “You know,” she smirked, gazing down at me, “I could always make you a wig? Or maybe a doll? That way you’ll always have someone to play with, even when you’re cursed with the lack of my presence.” Laughing, I forced myself to withdraw my hands from her mane. Control; I’ve never been much good at it, especially when it comes to her. “Hey, what are you doing?” She grabbed my hands before they had time to return to their position by my side, holding them in hers. Our fingers, touching. Our fingers, interlocking. Our eyes, meeting… “oh, um, you said…I thought…” Blushing dramatically, I could feel myself turning all kinds of crimson. I could only imagine how much she was enjoying this. “I didn’t say to stop, did I?” Her gaze locked with mine, challenging me. Everything was a game with her. Then, with parents and a reputation like hers I suppose it kind of had to be. Slowly, her gaze softened, her hand moving to stroke the side of my face. “How can something so wrong, feel so right?” She sighed, leaning in closer, closer, closer…lips on lips, our tongues danced together, our bodies moving into the familiar pieces of each other. Closing my eyes, I was being swept away into the peacefulness nothingness of the combining of our minds. That was the last moment I remember feeling anything that even resembled happiness.The screeching of the front door; my mind was too lost to process anything but her. Footsteps coming closer; Why couldn't I have heard them? The tapping on my door, the click of the knob turning; Her hair, her back, her face, her lips…The shock, the screams, the cans rolling across the room, the shattered glass in every direction. Her eyes, my eyes. Our mind, tearing itself apart for the final time. If only I had been more careful. Why couldn't I have been more careful?

“Lexa? Hey, Lex, wake up, you’re dreaming again.” My eyes flung open to a set of dark blue ones staring back at me. Nick. As my eyes started to process the images around the room, my body relaxed under the soothing touch of his hand on mine. Sweat was dripping down my forehead, down my back, creating a puddle on the mattress I lay on. I could see Aaron and Sam standing around the bottom of my bed, looking at me in the same worrisome way they always did. Sometimes it felt like I was the child of the family, the one who always needed someone to watch them to ensure they didn’t get themselves into any trouble. Except my kind of trouble was different; it was the screaming in my dreams, the screaming when I was awake. The panic attacks I had during one of the flashbacks from the institute, or the cage of silence I locked myself away in when my brain become too loud. I was the child of the family, but I was a child of chaos and misery and fear. My tantrums weren’t over not getting a toy in the shop, but over not being the person my parents wanted me to be. They were over not being accepted by my family, my friends. They were at the thought of how it used to be before I found my own family, before I made my own family. Looking at them now, huddled around me I knew I had to try harder to be better. We all had our demons, that I knew, but I couldn’t keep letting mine stop me from becoming me; I couldn't let it stop me from becoming happy. “I’m fine, I promise. I’ll be fine. I just need to finish this.” I assure them, heading over to the desk in the corner of the room and picking my pen and paper up where I had left it…

The first person to teach me that loving myself is not a given was Nick. He taught me that who I am had been programmed into me since I was born, and when the day came that I found I wasn’t who my family thought I was, my programmed response was to hate, to hurt, to kill. We spent months in that institute together, nursing one another back to health, back to happiness. He taught me what it was like to feel at home, to feel loved. He taught me what it was like to have a family. You see, blood does not equate to family, at least not in the emotional sense. Nick taught me that. He taught me that we have the power to choose our own family if the one we are born into is not the right one for us. He taught me that your biological family isn’t always the right family for you. You need to find where you belong, where you are accepted, and stop living in the shadows of who they want you to be. And if they can’t love you for who you are, then are they really your family? Don’t let them take your heart, Ella. Remember who you are; Nothing else matters.

“Alexis Zane, it’s 12 O’ clock. You know what that means.”

Control; I don’t think I even understand the meaning of it anymore. At least, I don’t recall what if feels like to have it, to use it, to feel it. Day by day, week by week, month by month I watched my reflection in the mirror become sharper, stranger, unrecognisable. I wonder if she would look at me the same now? Left, right, left, right, left, right. They led me down the endless corridor, as they had done every day since I had arrived. The familiar screeches and scratching filled my ears-I had learnt how to block that out a while ago now. My eyes found the door, towering above me taunting me with the secrets it held inside. I almost stopped. I saw the guard glance at me, their weight shift, preparing, always preparing. Not today. I couldn’t mess up today. I forced myself to place one foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right, left, right. The guards closed the door behind me, leaving me with doctor Sullivan and her soul eating smile. “Alexis, dear! What a sight for sore eyes. Come, come, sit down. Tell me how you’re feeling? It’s a big day for you! You must be so excited.” Her eyes searched mine, looking for any hesitancy, looking for any reason to make me stay. I wouldn't give her the pleasure. Forcing my mouth as wide as it would go, my eyes as bright and alive as they could be, I returned her gaze steadily. “I couldn’t be happier. I can't wait for things to finally be normal again”. Normal; What a word that was. It’s ironic, a girl who has never known the concept of normality using it so freely and confidently as if I know what the hell “normal” is. As if I have any right to pretend I do. It was the right answer though. Sullivan’s smile tightens- there’s nothing she can do to keep me here. Clasping her hands together on the auburn table, her voice softens. “Alexis, I am so proud of how far you have come dear. Not everyone is as willing for the cure as you were. Your family is going to be so happy to see the girl you have become. Keep in touch deary, we are always here if you stumble across anymore…mishaps.” That was the last time I saw Doctor Sullivan. Racing through the corridors I weaved my way around the puzzle that had been my home for the last 6 months. Where was he? I had 10 minutes. 10 minutes until I left. I couldn't go without seeing him first though, I just couldn’t. I wouldn't be getting out if it wasn't for him. Hell, I wouldn't still be breathing if it wasn't for him. “Hey, Princess! Didn’t think you could leave without a goodbye did you?” Spinning around, I saw him leaning against the wall I had just walked past, examining his nails, trying to contain his grin. “Not a chance.” I grinned, running towards him and throwing my arms around his neck, burying my head into his chest. It felt like I could finally breathe again, the bakery stench of his cologne filling my lungs, the strong grasp of his hands pulling me closer to him and further away from the world. “It’s gonna be okay Lex”, he whispered into my ear. “It’s all gonna be okay, I promise.” “There she is. Alexis Zane, it’s time. Please remove yourself from the boy and come with us. Your family is waiting for you.” The voice boomed across the hall, intruding into our world. Nick grabbed my face with his hands, staring into my eyes. I could feel the sting of my tears brewing, threatening to spill at any minute. Keep it together, Lexa. Don’t let them see you cry. “Promise me,” He said, frantically searching my eyes, “promise me you won’t let them put out the fire that curses through your mind. Promise me that you won’t let them take your mind, or more importantly, your heart. Remember who you are Alexis. Nothing else matters.” His eyes held my gaze for a second longer before his lips crashed into my forehead. Before I knew it we were being ripped apart, him pulled one way and me the other. This was not how it was supposed to be. There was nothing wrong with us! I felt like screaming, like kicking, like putting them through the relentless torture they had put us through. But what was the use? They always won in the end. And us? We always lost.

The singing of the morning birds woke me to the joy that accompanied sleeping in a desk chair all night. Stretching out my muscles, I walked down the stairs to where the morning beams sneaked in through the windows of the kitchen view. Aaron was sitting at the table, the smell of his coffee attacking my senses. “Morning love, how did you sleep?” “As well as you would expect for someone writing a letter to their ex” I remarked, taking a sip of his half empty coffee. I scrunched my nose up in disgust, barely manning to swallow the vile liquid. “This crap is disgusting, I still have no idea why you continue to drink it every morning.” “And I still have no idea why you continue to taste it every morning, then continue to insult me about it. Just go get your juice, Lex.” “Fair point. Who knows, maybe tomorrow will be different.” “You? Take my advice? Make a change? Now that would be something i’d pay good money to see Lexa Zane.” “Shut up Wilden.” “Whatever you say, Ma’am.” After pouring myself a glass of juice (which Aaron looked smug as ever about) I retreated back to the study to continue the letter.

During my discovery of life, I met a boy named Aaron. While upon first glance he seemed below average, lacking in any extraordinary characteristics what so ever, it was once you got to know him that you realised how special he truly was. He was the third part of our little family. It was him who taught me that society fears what it does not know. It sees someone different, someone struggling with the puzzle of life, and instead of helping them put it together they throw away the pieces. Society isolates you in your differences, in your misery. It makes you think that you are alone, that you are unwanted and unworthy. But the truth is, you are none of those things. You are not alone in your misery; when you are left with nothing, questioning who you are and what you have become, you still have your family. Aaron’s bother died when he was 15, dealing drugs to provide for his parents. I don’t think he ever forgave them for that. He ran away a week later, vowing to never be like the people who had made him, vowing to be who he wanted to be; to be someone his brother would be proud of. Me, I want to be someone I would be proud of. And I want you to do the same. You are not alone, Ella. You are not an outcast of society. But if you are, who cares? Revel in your differences, they are what make you, you. No one can take that away from you, not even your parents.

“Hey, Lex, how’s it coming along?” Sam asked, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, trying to sneak a glance at my writing. “Not a chance hot stuff.” I say, snatching the letter out of her view and slipping it into the waistband of my pants. “Oh, is that how we’re going to play it, huh?” She smirked, grabbing my waist and spinning me around so our faces were inches apart. Slowly, she curled a loose strand of my hair around her finger, never losing eye contact with me even once. I was hyperaware of the paper in my jeans, of her hand on my hip, slowly edging its way down…She was whispering something in my ear, attempting to distract me with her sweet words and passionate kisses. God, it had been so long…It almost got me. Almost. “Sam, no.” I said, ripping myself out of her arms and taking a step back, putting some distance between us. “I just don’t understand what the big deal is? It’s a letter to Ella right? Why can’t I just read it?” “Because it’s personal, okay. Just drop it. You need to trust me more. I thought we’d been over this?” She sighed, defeated. “I do trust you. But you can’t blame me for being a little touchy about you wiring some secret letter to your ex girlfriend. As your new girlfriend, jealousy is sort of a natural reaction, Lex.” “I know, Sammy, I know. I’m almost done, I swear. And then you can have all my attention.” “Yeah well, you owe me big babe. I expect a grand gesture of some kind, maybe some red wine and rose petals?” “Yeah, we’ll see.” I waited for her to leave before I picked up the cold pen again.

There’s something that everyone in my little misfit family all have in common; the question of what it’s like to have somewhere you belong. Samantha was the 4th addition to our family, us meeting her in a club in the middle of Sydney. She really was the life of party, surrounded by girls and boys and everything in between, her aurora just seemed to grab you and pull you in until before you knew it you were dancing right infront of her, screaming for her attention. Turns out, she was the one screaming. Being an orphan, she had never known the concept of family. She had never known what it was like to disappoint someone or for them to love you despite that. She told me when I first met her that she despised me for my upbringing, for my privileged lifestyle and how I had left it so easily. She almost made me want to go back, want to turn my back on everything Nick and Aaron had taught me. But I didn’t. Instead, I concentrated my energy on teaching her. Teaching her about family, about love. Teaching her about pain and about heartbreak. What I discovered in trying to teach her was that it is never too late to start. To start living, start loving, hell, start existing. Because if you are not being yourself, are you really even exisiting? Aren’t you just floating along, morphing into those around you, being told day by day that “Wow, you’re so much like your mother!” and smiling like that was a good thing. Being told you’re so different from your mother, and smiling like that was a good thing. If exisiting means becoming ghosts of the people you surround yourself with, then what does living mean? And wouldn't you want to find out? Wouldn't you want to give yourself every possible chance at a life of greatness, at a life of truth.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss my family. But I would also be lying if I said that being with them didn’t make me feel like I was in a constant state of a thunderstorm. it was as though when I was with them, being who they wanted me to be, I was being drowned by the rain of my own tears. It’s not that I don’t like the people they are; it’s that I don’t like the way they treat people like me. It’s that I don’t fit into their land. Our worlds just don’t co-exist with one another. When they collide, chaos breaks out. Storms rage on and crops die out. I become the crop, while they remain the storm raging on, taunting me from above, attempting to help me grow but only into the type they want.

I miss them Ella. A lot. No, that’s not true. I miss when things were good, before I realised the truth about myself and about them. Before my mother caught us that day. Before she sent me to conversion therapy. But the truth is, if those things hadn’t happened, I wouldn't have met Nick or Aaron or Sam. I wouldn’t have created my own family, and I wouldn’t have learnt everything I have. I wouldn't know that life exits beyond the land I had been watered on, beyond the world my family had grown for me. I wouldn't have realised that I can both be happy, as well as be myself.

I am not writing this letter to you to tell you that I have everything worked out, I am far from that. I still have nightmares about the institute and I still have dreams about you and what happened, what you said to me when I got out. I don’t hold those things agains you. You were doing what you had to do to survive the storm. But Ella, you need to know this; there are people out there who love you for who you are. Find those people. Let them love you and help you, and you do the same with them.

Do not apologise for who you are, and do not apologise for loving your differences; I taught myself that. And now i’m teaching you.

Yours truly,

Alexis.

#story #shortstory #gay #lesbian

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feedit · 7 years

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All the Small Things

“All the small things True care, truth brings I'll take one lift Your ride, best trip…

Say it ain't so I will not go Turn the lights off Carry me home

(Na-na, na-na, na-na, na-na, na-na)”

~ Blink 182, All the Small Things

I listen to terrible music when I exercise. When someone asks for my workout mix I am a bit hesitant to share, it’s that bad. It’s full of stuff that makes my husband give me that look that says, “Who. Are. You?” when it’s on in the kitchen when I’m making dinner. Mindless 80s tunes, a few boy bands, random one-hit-wonders, a-ha. Yes, that a-ha. Take On Me, a-ha. Is there another? Anyway, it distracts me while I’m running on the treadmill and that’s really the point.

And that’s what it was doing for me in the early hours of a recent Monday morning.

Funny thing about running: Sometimes it’s just easy, and sometimes it’s really, really hard. No matter what music is playing. And you never really know what kind of run you’re going have to get until you begin. Runners like me keep coming back for more, because sometimes we find that sweet pace that feels effortless and there’s nothing like that I-could-run-forever feeling. I prefer to run outside, but with the subzero Chicago temperatures upon us, even inside workouts in our cold basement are a challenge. At least there’s no wind to deal with, just a few tumbleweeds of cat hair.

That morning, Blink 182 provided the motivation for my workout. I wasn’t feeling terrific, but at least it was done before the kids got up. I pulled the right earbud out, slowed to a walk for a brief cool down and took a drink of water.

I heard a noise from upstairs and called out, “Who’s there?” It was my littlest boy. A tiny voice called out from the top of the stairs, “Mommy, Lucas is sick.”

Say it ain’t so, indeed.

I wiped my face on a towel and slung it over my shoulder as I headed to the boys’ rooms to investigate.

Upstairs in his room, my older son was curled in a ball under his Spiderman bedspread. His head was on fire when I brushed it with my hand and he had sweated through his footed pajamas. I grabbed a thermometer from his top drawer. 103.5 degrees.

Oh baby, are you OK?

“No Mommy!” he cried, “And my head really hurts and OH NO I will miss the field trip and art class today!” Tears streamed down his flushed face.

The field trip, right – crap. The week ahead was typically busy, starting with chaperoning a field trip for the first grade class, haircuts for the boys on Tuesday, a long-postponed medical appointment for me on Wednesday, some writing to do, class party to get planned for Valentines’ Day, Super Bowl party to bake for… Normal, busy-Mom-Wife-Friend stuff coming up.

This calendar of events was running through my brain as I went to the bathroom and ran water on a washcloth, grabbing the Children’s Advil and a sticky dosage cup from the medicine cabinet.

“Let’s get you cooled down and we’ll figure it out, baby. It will be OK.”

I got him into cooler pajamas and dosed him with the magic purple elixir (damn that illegibly-tiny chart on the box… how much do you weigh?) and resettled him into bed, under a cool sheet. I turned my attention to his brother who had been running up and down the hall shooting the cat with the laser of the thermometer. I rescued the device and got him dressed and situated downstairs with Cheerios and a sippy cup of milk and the Big Box of Legos.

And it strikes me that this week is going to be very, very different from the last one.

Last week we really killed it. I worked out, I took some time to meditate, we had family dinners together. The kids had a great week of school and friends and we had mostly calm mornings. It always takes us a few weeks to get back in the swing of things after Holiday break but yeah, we had finally hit our stride.

Some weeks it all just clicks and it seems so easy, you don’t even think about it.

I tend to subscribe to the Dire Straits Theory of Parenthood: Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug.

Last week, windshield for sure. This week, it looked like were seriously going to be that poor, squished bug.

As I opened my laptop to email teachers, ask for help getting little brother to school, apologize for missing the field trip, and what seemed like a million other little tasks I needed to sort through, I thought about a study I’d heard about on the Freakonomics podcast.

Two psychologists, Tom Gilovich from Cornell and Shai Davidai from The New School for Social Research, wrote a paper in 2016 called “The headwinds/tailwinds asymmetry: An availability bias in assessments of barriers and blessings.”

The idea is that when you face a challenge, it’s like having the wind is in your face (headwind), you can’t stop thinking about it and it’s quite distracting. But when the wind shifts and it’s giving you a push (like a tailwind, or some other advantage that behooves you), are grateful for about a minute, if that – and then you don’t notice it anymore. What’s true in running/cycling is true in life generally, the study concluded. When things go don’t well, people feel strongly that there’s some broader force working against them. When things are good, it doesn’t register as forcefully, if at all.

More broadly, the study shows that people who show gratitude are generally happier, in many ways. They sleep better, they experience overall better health and they are more able to overcome obstacles instead of simply deciding the deck is stacked against them and it does no good to fight the headwind of opposition.

I realized that last week had been the tailwind week. So easy, so fun, and I’d barely noticed. I’d even chalked it up to – pardon my hubris – parenting skill and artful scheduling. The truth was, I’d had luck and privilege on my side in countless ways. But this week was shaping up to be something quite different. The headwind was swirling around, and it wasn’t even 7 am yet on this Monday morning.

On auto-pilot, I began the morning routine: Turn on the coffee, empty the dishwasher, feed the cats… and I realized that I was still in my smelly workout clothes. And now I had a headache, too.

No no no no, I can’t get sick… I retreated upstairs for a grown-up Advil nd checked in on the patient who by now wanted to move downstairs. I resettled him on the couch with a pillow, cup of orange juice, his favorite stuffed guy, his blanket. I smoothed his damp hair and sighed to think how much he still looked like my baby when he closed his eyes. I kissed his forehead. My throat burned.

Yeah, I’m gonna get sick.

And so started the week of complete shut down. Other than a trip to the doctor to confirm my worst suspicions (The Flu), I pulled the plug on everything: Field Trip, Haircuts, my own doctor’s appointment. By Wednesday I was officially ill, and for the next two nights I retreated to bed almost immediately upon my husband’s arrival home for 12 hours of fever-dream-filled sleep.

We spent our week in three lumps on the couch, cocooned in our favorite blankets, drinking juice, watching way too many hours flipping between Puffin Rock and Angry Birds and, during Nap Time, maybe a West Wing episode or two. We napped and got saltine crumbs everywhere and somehow the week passed in our pod of viral isolation.

By Friday, the boys were wrestling/playing/fighting with each other again and I felt good enough to shower and find fresh sweats. We all needed space and sun by the weekend, so on Sunday I bundled them up and let them roll around in the freshly fallen snow, even though it was in the low double-digits and colder with the wind chill. The icy wind burned my lungs but I breathed it in deeply, filling my body with clear, cool air. Breathing out the old, breathing in the new. Filled with gratitude for this cold, cold, fresh air and the blinding daylight.

Monday morning I woke up early and lay in the dark silence of a sleeping house. I thought of our week of Down Time and was deeply grateful that it was an anomaly in the normal flow of our lives.

During last week’s headwind, when things were so easy, my gratitude practice should have included thanks for health, thanks for school schedules, thanks for family dinners and regular bedtimes. And during my week of tailwind challenges, there was still so much to be thankful for: The flu passed through our house quickly with no residual effects; we can afford the care of doctors and the cost of medicines and treats to help them go down; we live in a safe, warm house where we can hide until the viral storm passes.

This week I’ll march the boys off to schools, try to make it to my rescheduled appointment. But each night I’ll take a moment to thank my lucky stars that all seems right in the world again. In our little world, anyway. The wider world can fend for itself.

Hopefully, this week we’re the windshield instead of the bug. And I’ll be hoping for a bit of a tailwind to push us along. But if not, I’ll be grateful that there’s a song for that, too.

“Sometimes you're the windshield Sometimes you're the bug Sometimes it all comes together baby Sometimes you're a fool in love Sometimes you're the Louisville slugger baby Sometimes you're the ball Sometimes it all comes together baby Sometimes you're going to lose it all.”

~ Dire Straits - The Bug

#gratitude #allthesmallthings #momlife #freakonomics #flu #running

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chadpetersondatingblog · 7 years

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Ask Dr. NerdLove: How Do I Stop Hating Myself?

Hey Doc, long time reader, first time poster. I’m 20 years old and my MAJOR problem is that I am a badly socialized spiteful thrall of technology (or asshole) Needless to say I am disappointed by this to say the least. Shit I’m average and VERY replaceable as far as humans go. When I say very replaceable I mean I am nothing more than student droid 553471. No defining features and modesty works against me as I see myself as a machine, a tool to produce results but I HATE the entire concept of love. I wish that I could become a techpriest doc, i really do.

So anyway, the women in my town do not interest me.

Bars are OK, not a fan of the Saturday night crowd who get blitzed and start fights. Nightclubs, fuck that I went to quite a few and I dislike them immensely. I am quite out of shape and am working out at home until I can be in shape enough to do team sports (if I am to do team sports I should be in shape enough to make a fucking difference, not puking after running 5 feet. Hang out at my local game store a lot, that’s all cool and i enjoy it, not so great for women but i knew the score there. Conventions at my town fucking suck and are tiny. University, I have SUCH a hatred for communism that will be an instant deal-breaker, also computer science student so I’m at a disadvantage there. I kind of have NO idea of what to do in the real world, if that makes sense, my world is a virtual one and often I wish I could be converted into a tech-priest so I will never have to deal with flesh matters.

Seems that my decisions are powered by hate mostly, I hate communists, I hate hippies, I hate art students, I hate vegans, I support factory farming and would happily demolish a thousand forests to replace them with factories.

I also have such a low opinion of people I am constantly expecting them to stab me in the back or ruin my chances at a career just because they can. Sometimes my anger fades and I receive clarity of my thrall nature.

I genuinely expect women to pass me by and I fully expect them to only humor me to punish me later. Fuck doc, the Tropico 1 soundtrack is the only thing keeping me from thrashing around at my computer desk here.

This is not a question of ‘why don’t girls like me’, its because i’m an simmering angry negative asshole who hasn’t been socialized properly.

I know that this path will not lead to a good place. I have a limited amount of friends, no ones that can introduce me to girls as the friends I’m most active with are the weird-but-fun guys at the game store and my friends that could have led me to women I have fallen away from (moved away and laziness led me to stop talking to them).

I’m fucking 20 now doc, and that is young and I don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground. I have achieved nothing and if my hate continues I will end up far older with way more problems. Time waits for no one and even Time Lords rot.

Therapy is a darned option, I am putting this here so you will not need to.

Yours Sincerely

BalefulEye

You may have put it your letter BE, but I’m going to say it anyway: more than anything else, you need to be talking to a therapist. A therapist is going to be able to provide you with more, long term support and help you develop the skills you need to overcome your anger, than a loudmouth with a blog. The issues you have are deep and entrenched and some of them may be chemical in nature, which will require medication to alleviate. So before anything else, you need to get your ass into therapy. And I mean booking sessions with a qualified professional, not just guided exercises like MoodGym. You need to be working with someone who’ll keep you accountable and call you on your shit.

But whether you do talk therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy, acceptance and commitment therapy, medication or any combination of the above… the issue isn’t that you hate other people because frankly… I don’t think you do. I think you hate yourself and that hate is directed outwards so that you push people away from you. It’s a supremely fucked up way of both protecting yourself and punishing yourself. On the one hand, by being this angry ball of hate, you keep people at a distance so they can never get close enough to hurt you. But at the same time… you’re also deliberately pushing away people who might want to help you. People who might be your friends. But you don’t believe that you deserve friends. You’re not worthy of them or of help. And so… you push them away. You put on this snarling dog persona and snap at people and say provocative things because you believe you’re a pile of shit and don’t deserve anything in your life. You know you’re miserable and that’s good because fuck you that’s why.

Part of it is that you know you’re smart. And as much as I hate to quote TV shows at people looking for advice (actually that’s a lie, I do it all the fucking time), I’m gonna quote some Rick and Morty at you. Because you know you’re intelligent. But you also use that intelligence as your excuse to justify sickness. And in this case, that sickness is the self-hate that you’re letting fester at your core. It’s really easy to come up with reasons for it. You’re smart, you should already be doing better, you should be further along, you shouldn’t be a fat lonely CS student and look at all these other fucking people thinking they’re so happy when they’ve got things you’d kill for and FUCK THEM because they’re happy and you’re not.

And here’s the really fucked up part: you’re also going to fight any changes to get better. Not just because being misery is a way of punishing yourself for your perceived and imaginary sins, but because, quite frankly, not feeling this way is fucking terrifying. It may be miserable. You may be lonely and hate yourself and wish the world would just compress into a singularity… but it’s what you know. Just like you’re terrified of the real world. The virtual world may be leaving you feeling empty and hollow – and I suspect it’s reinforcing some of your issues – but you know it. The real world, as much as you know you can’t avoid it, is scary because it has rules that you haven’t mastered, corners you haven’t explored. Here there don’t just be dragons, there be people, people you can’t just ignore, killfile, block, mute or otherwise shape into what you want.

But you know this has to change. You wouldn’t have written to me if you didn’t want to change. And to a certain extent, I think you’re asking for permission to actually start fixing things.

So while you find a therapist – and Captain Awkward has a couple great posts about doing just that – here’s what I want you to do.

First: I want you to start focusing on getting your asshole brain under control. You know the one I mean: it’s the one that’s dripping poison in your ear and telling you that you’re worthless, that people are just waiting for opportunities to hurt you and you’ll never amount to anything. You’re going to do this by simply being a bit more mindful. I know it’s trendy to recommend things like mindfulness meditation for everything and it has the patchouli stink of the hippies and vegans you hate… it’s perfect for what you want. All you want to do is simply get a handle on your brain and feel things clearly and deliberately, instead of reflexively and impulsively.

You’re just going to sit in a chair, with your back straight, your feet flat on the ground and your hands in your lap, close your eyes and breathe. All you’re going to do is pay attention to your breathing. Just focus on the sensations of your breath going in, your lungs expanding, then contracting and exhaling. This will be insanely difficult. Your brain will go off on a thousand tangents, with at least half of them saying “this is stupid, this is bullshit, what am I doing?” That’s fine. That happens to everyone. When – not if, when – it happens, note those thoughts. Literally “Ok, here’s a thought.” And once you’ve noted that you’re having thoughts… go back to focusing on your breathing. That’s all you do. Sit, close your eyes, focus and refocus on your breathing. Do this for ten minutes every day. It’ll help calm the storms in your head.

(If you’re interested in more about this, you may want to check out 10% Happier by Dan Harris.)

Second: You’re going to stop beating yourself up about where you “should” be in life or what you “ought to be” doing or any of the rest of that. You are going to excise “should” from your vocabulary. There is no “should”, there is just “is”. “Should” is a value judgement based on bullshit. “Should” is part of stealing your contentment from you. “Should” is the cudgel that you’re using to pound yourself in the nuts. You are where you are right now. There are places where you would like to be. But there is no place you should be. Your journey is uniquely your own and trying to force it to a specific timeline or itinerary is going to keep you miserable.

Third: You’re going to embrace imperfection. Right now, you’re using the idea of not being able to do something properly as the reason to not do it.

Case in point: team sports. You want to do team sports? Fine, go do team sports. Stop waiting, stop delaying and stop isolating yourself in the name of eventually joining others. You’re using the fact that you’re out of shape as an excuse to not do what you want to do, and I am here from the future to tell you that you will never reach a point where you think you’re “ready,” because being out of shape is an excuse. As soon as you’re in shape, you’ll say you can’t join because you’ve never played before so you need to learn how to play before you can joint a team. Once you learn how to play, you’ll say that you don’t know how to play with a group so now you can’t.

So fuck it. Start playing now. Except you’re going to shift your intentions. You’re not worried about “contributing” – another excuse you’re using to not do something, another flogger you use to flagellate yourself – you’re participating. Find the leagues that aren’t there for the competition but for the fun of it. It may be an amateur softball league. It may be bowling. It could be kickball. You want to find the people who are just there to have a good time, hang out with their teammates and play some games. Not only will this take the “should” out – again – but it’ll mean that you’ll get in shape faster and more efficiently. It’s far easier to stick to exercise that you actively enjoy instead of things that you have to force yourself into.

Yeah, you won’t be very good. Fuck it. The fact that you’re doing it at all is a victory. It’s proof that you can do more than your shitty, asshole brain tells you that you can. You don’t need to excel. You just need those tiny victories. Let yourself suck at it… just so long as you’re having fun and playing with people who are there to have fun. You can join the more serious teams later on when you’ve leveled up.

Fourth: You’re going to get off the computers. Remember what I said about your virtual world making things worse? This is part of it. I can hear the edgelord in your letter, and it’s pretty clear to me that you’re spending your time in corners of the Internet where people gather mostly to stew in their anger and hate. I don’t care if it’s Reddit, Voat, 4chan, Gab, Slack or just the people you follow on Twitter. The more you expose yourself to other negative, angry people, the more your own anger and self-loathing gets reinforced. The more you listen to people who tell you that you’re a worthless pile of shit, the more you believe you’re a worthless pile of shit. The more people tell you that you shouldn’t be happy… well, even if you don’t believe them, that shit sinks in and steals your joy. Cut it from your life as much as possible.

Yeah, yeah, safe spaces, snowflakes, etc. I’ve heard all of it before and frankly, those are the words thrown around by people who are literally afraid of silence. They dress their fear up as bravery and iconoclasm – I’m so tough I tell it like it is, I’m not afraid of harsh truths – because if they stop yelling for five seconds, they’ll be confronted by their own thoughts. Rolling around in anger and misery doesn’t mean that you’re smart, it means you’re in pain. Surrounding yourself with vitriol doesn’t mean you’re tough. It just means you’re hiding from yourself. You become like a shark, constantly moving and thrashing because stopping means ego-death. It means listening to all the things you’ve been trying to block out.

But here’s the thing about those safe spaces: they’re an oasis of calm. They’re a balm to your anxiety, a cool hand to a fevered forehead. They’re moments when you don’t have to have your shields up, when you’re not getting blasted by a cacophony of bullshit. And whether it’s just for a few minutes, an hour or longer… you’re calm. You’re at peace. You’re in a place where you can just be, recharge your batteries and let go of every tense muscle and relax.

So you need to dial the fuck back on where you’re spending time in your virtual world, with all of your fellow travellers who want you to be just as miserable and angry as they are. I suspect that you’ll find that some of your anger and rage subsides.

Fifth: You’re going to find something meaningful and pursue it. It doesn’t need to be practical. It just has to be something that speaks to your very soul. It could be anything – you might volunteer to walk the dogs at a pet shelter, you might plant a garden, you might take up painting or learning an instrument even if you never master it. It doesn’t matter what it is – it just has to be something you do in physical space, something that doesn’t harm anyone (including you) and that brings fulfillment to your soul. One of your issues right now is that you don’t have anything that you want or that you live for. Well now’s your chance. You’re going to start doing something – anything – that has meaning for you. What meaning? That’s up to you to decide.

Don’t know what it is? That’s fine. That means it’s time to explore and figure it out. You’ve got all the time in the world.

Sixth: This may be one of the hardest parts, but it’s also the most important. You’re going to forgive yourself.

You need to forgive yourself for all those sins that you feel are weighing you down. You need to forgive yourself for the anger that’s taken root in you and for the ways you’re disappointed in yourself. You need to forgive yourself for all the things that you feel like you should have done by now but haven’t and also for using those achievements as a yardstick to measure your “failure”. You need to forgive yourself for the pain you’ve caused yourself. You need to forgive yourself for “being average” and for the time that you feel like you’ve wasted getting here. And when you and your therapist reach your breakthroughs and you start clawing your way out of that hole – and you will get there – then you need to forgive yourself for the time that it took to finally take the steps that got you there.

I’m not going to lie to you, BE. You’ve got a lot to work through and you’re in a position that’s really fucking hard to pull yourself out from.

But I’m here to tell you: it can be done. You can do it. You have the strength. You have the courage and you have the ability. You just need to take that first step.

It’s going to be a long and hard road. It is going to suck like few things have sucked before. But the journey will be worth it and the destination even moreso.

You’re going to be ok. I promise.

All will be well.

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ashleyjacksonblog · 7 years