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python333 · 8 months

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task force 141 reacting to [reader] telling them corny jokes during a mission — python333

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synopsis just as the title says, tf141 reacts to you telling them some corny dad jokes during a mission!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign], bad jokes.

note ME AND MY 23 FOLLOWERS ARE STRAIGHT CHILLING RN. i love all of u. anyway gaz is in this one!! yippee!! i thought about ghost and his jokes in that one part of one of the cod games idk ive never played them i watch other people play it but you guys know what im talking about. i also just figured out that i should probably specify gender neutral reader for my fics?? so i'll start doing that! ANYWAY enjoy!! this is all fluff and has some classic tired parent & hyper toddler energy in the first part :}

JOHN “BRAVO SIX” PRICE

➥ insert exasperated sigh here.

➥ he will let you keep telling him jokes, however he will only respond to them with a simple, tired, “Uh huh. Good one. Very funny. Nice one.”

➥ tired dad energy.

➥ the first one you told was okay. he laughed at that one. the tenth one? please, god, just stop talking and put him out of his misery.

➥ he wonders how you know so many jokes, and then wonders if you got them all from ghost.

➥ if you did get them from ghost, trust that he will be telling the man himself all about how you constantly told him bad jokes over comms.

➥ if you just happen to know all of these, he won’t be surprised.

➥ he’ll put up with all of the jokes, for your sake, of course.

➥ the first time this happens, you’re both on a pretty insignificant mission compared to other ones you’ve done.

➥ you’re both talking over comms, just making sure you’re both okay.

➥ that’s when you started your attack.

—

“Captain?” You’d asked, listening as Price hummed in acknowledgment of you talking, “Wanna hear a joke?”

You could practically hear his hesitation, before he responded with a tentative, almost scared, “... Sure, [c/n].”

A delighted grin split across your face as you asked him, “How does dry skin affect you at work?”

He thought for a moment before asking, “How?”

“You don’t have any elbow grease to put into it.” You heard Price give a small chuckle, and decided to ask, “Wanna hear another one?”

Price’s second mistake of the evening, “Sure.”

“Where do boats go when they’re sick?” You asked, still keeping a lookout on your surroundings on your end while focusing on telling your Captain shitty jokes.

“Where?” Price asked.

“To the boat doc.” It took Price a moment, before he huffed out a small laugh and muttered just loud enough for you to hear, “Jesus, that’s terrible.”

Without warning, you tell him another one. He asks why, when, how, or what, whichever was appropriate for the joke you told, and slowly but surely his questioning tone became tired and exasperated. You don’t know why, but somehow his miserable tone made you even more motivated to tell him corny jokes.

“Do you just… memorize all of these?” Price asked in the middle of you telling a new joke, sounding almost astonished.

“Yes I do. Just for these missions, I do,” You answered confidently, smiling when Price sighed. You continued on with your joke, and even though Price didn’t respond verbally, you still told the punch line. You had repeated this for at least ten minutes, all of those minutes appallingly slow to Price, the poor man having to endure your bullshit for such a short yet such a long time. At the tenth minute, the only thing that stopped you from continuing was Gaz’s voice coming on over comms and interrupting you, telling everyone else on the mission that they could head back to the rendezvous point. Price, relieved at the interruption, gave a thankful sigh and you could hear him getting up from his spot before he muted himself.

You sighed as well, yours a direct opposite of Prices, full of disappointment, but you let it go. Besides, you’ll always have more opportunities to terrorize Price with your jokes on the ride back to base!

—

JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH

➥ he has the same reaction he had with ghost telling him corny jokes.

➥ he’ll call your jokes terrible, but will still laugh at them somehow.

➥ will 100% put up with your jokes, will laugh every time, even if his laughter slowly becomes more and more strained, he’ll laugh.

➥ tells you some jokes back, but after your 4th joke, he gives up and accepts his fate.

➥ he will suffer for your entertainment, guaranteed.

➥ he will be sure to remind you of how terrible your jokes are though!!

➥ he’s honestly impressed by how many jokes you’ve memorized.

➥ he’ll happily support you doing this to other people, no matter how much it damages his soul when you do it to him.

➥ the first time you do it to him, he starts getting deja vu from when ghost did it to him.

➥ “Oh, God, no’ ye too,” he’d groan playfully the moment you start telling him jokes, getting flashbacks.

➥ enjoys your jokes, even if he would do anything for you to shut up, he still enjoys them.

—

You and Soap were camping out in the same spot—atop a roof of a tall building that was just tall enough to give you a view of practically every other building in the area as well as the ground. It was cold up there, the air so cold that every time you’d exhaled, your breath turned to white condensation before fading into the clear sky.

It was fair to say that you and Soap were fairly bothered by the cold, so you really had no other option, you just had to start telling your jokes. How else could you warm the both of you up? Sure, it wouldn’t do anything physically, but mentally? It was sure to practically melt Soap’s brain.

“Soap?” Soap hummed and looked over at you, “Wanna hear a joke?”

Soap smiled, and decided to humor you, “Sure. Joke ‘way.”

“Why couldn’t the bike stand up by itself?” You asked, turning fully towards Soap. He didn’t bother to think before asking, “Why?”

“Because it was two-tired.” It took him a moment, but eventually he huffed out a small laugh and nodded.

“No’ bad,” He’d hummed, “Want me to say one?”

“Go ahead.”

“How did vikings communicate with one another?” Soap asked, turning fully towards you in turn.

“How?”

“By Norse code,” Soap had said with a grin on his face, clearly proud of the joke. You laughed quietly at it.

Without asking, you tell another joke. “Why did the bed wear a disguise?”

“Why?”

“It was undercover.”

Soap chuckled and turned back down to the ground, assuming you were done. But, oh boy, did he assume wrong. You told another one. He asked for the punchline. You delivered. You told another. He asked again. You delivered, again. Can you recall just how many jokes you told that fateful night? No. Does that make the memory any less funny to look back on? No.

Soap’s expression slowly turned to one of misery, his laughter becoming strained and slowly coming to a stop, the light in his eyes fading away as God himself seemed to appear behind you and reassure him that it would all be over soon. God, how he wished that were true.

Soon enough, you were both told over comms that you were able to safely make it back to the rendezvous point, and Soap couldn’t be happier.

He let you tell him more jokes during the walk over there, of course, and made sure to tell you how awful they were, but still endured them for your sake.

—

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

➥ it’s like he’s been preparing for this moment his whole life.

➥ he’ll put up with your jokes and will tell you a joke back every single time.

➥ at some point you guys will probably use a joke on each other that the other one told you.

➥ he actively enjoys the joke-telling.

➥ he probably tells the first joke and that’s what triggers you to tell him your own.

➥ he’s annoyed soap, gaz, price, and a few others with his jokes, yet you’re the first one to go back and forth with him.

➥ every time you tell him one he’ll make a mental note of it and remember it for annoying people on future missions.

➥ probably thinks some of the jokes are genuinely funny but still knows that it annoys people.

➥ if you tell him a corny joke related to ghosts, he’ll probably laugh more.

➥ i am aware that that is pretty corny in itself but look at the title man what did you expect.

➥ he’ll probably tell some jokes about your [c/n] to you back.

➥ he’ll know when you’re reusing a joke and calls you out on it.

➥ “Does this require more creativity than you expected, [c/n]?”

➥ [in a perfect imitation of matpat’s voice] i find his jokes delightful! [in regular voice, now whispering as if scared i’m going to get caught by ghost saying this] i’m lying. he’s my fictional father figure so i am very much obligated to enjoy his jokes.

—

”[c/n], how copy?” You heard Ghost’s voice crackle through over comms, and pushed the PTT button on your small ear piece to respond.

“Copy, doing just fine,” You responded, “Little bored, if I’m gonna be honest.”

“Oh really?” Ghost breathed out, sounding amused. You could hear some gunfire on his end, and the wind his his earpiece making the annoying whoosh noise you hated. Just a few moments later, Ghost spoke up again, “Y’wanna hear a joke to ease your boredom?”

“Sure,” You’d hummed, looking around to make sure you were still safe to just stay where you were and chat for a moment.

“What do you call a boomerang that doesn’t come back?” Ghost asked, his voice dry and sarcastic. You thought for a moment before shrugging—even though he couldn’t see you—and asking, “What?”

“A stick.” Ghost delivered. The stupid joke made you huff out a small laugh and mutter under your breath something about how good it was, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could practically hear Ghost’s self-satisfied smile.

“Another?” Ghost offered.

“How about I tell one?”

“Alright. Go ‘head.”

“How do ghosts stay in shape?” You asked, listening to Ghost’s amused huff on the other end of the line, like he knew where you were going with the joke but decided not to say the punch line for you.

“How?”

“They exorcize,” You responded, grinning, proud of yourself for thinking of that one.

“That’s not bad,” Ghost hummed, “Not bad at all.”

Ghost stayed quiet for another moment before asking, “Where do fish keep their money?”

“Where?”

“In a river bank,” Ghost said, his smile almost audible in his words.

“Nice one, L.t,” You breathed out, laughing quietly.

“We could do this all night,” Ghost mused, oddly happy at the sound of your quiet laughter, a little rustling audible on his end.

“Is that a challenge?” You asked in response to his musings, to which Ghost responds with a simple, affirmative hum. You think for a moment, before asking, “Why can’t a leopard hide?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s always spotted.”

Ghost hummed, mentally writing that one down before asking, “Why did the scarecrow get an award?”

“Why?”

“Because he was outstanding in his field,” Ghost delivered. With each joke you cringed more, and yet you kept responding with the same bullshit. The two of you went back and forth with the shitty jokes, eliciting responses from each other like, “That’s a good one,” or, “God, that’s awful.” It really had no in between, it was one or the other.

Eventually, and just in time because you were beginning to run out of jokes, Price’s voice crackled through over comms, letting you both know that everything was now under control and gave you both the coordinates for the rendezvous point. Before you get up from your spot, you can hear Ghost asking Price, “Wanna hear a joke?”, and Price’s quick response of, “I’m good”, the quick interaction making you laugh quietly.

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on,” You muttered, voice full of amusement.

“Damn right he doesn’t,” Ghost huffed out, chuckling quietly when Price groaned and muted himself.

—

KYLE “GAZ” GARRICK

➥ he just gives up and accepts his fate.

➥ i’m actually in full belief that he’ll just let you tell jokes and won’t even respond.

➥ if y’all are in the same spot, he’ll just stare at you in astonished silence, wondering how you know all of this and also wondering if he’ll make it out of this alive.

➥ i think he’s lovely, i also think that he would just let you do whatever.

➥ it’s like an older brother participating in his younger sibling’s tea party with their stuffed animals and bright pink plastic tea cups and fake tea.

➥ he considers taking out his earpiece but then realizes that that’s a bad idea so he just suffers through it.

➥ surprisingly, it’s easy to focus on his tasks even with your voice in the background.

➥ he’s only heard of ghost’s shitty jokes, and thinks that this might be worse, somehow.

➥ i mean, it’s not like he can’t ignore it, but he feels kind of bad that he does.

➥ he hums every now and then to remind you that he’s listening but he’s too caught up in pretending to listen to actually listen.

➥ when the mission’s over and you eventually stop telling your jokes he realizes how quiet it is without your voice in the background laughing at your own jokes.

—

“Why do bees have sticky hair?” You asked, this being about your twentieth joke of that evening. Gaz hummed in response, tone questioning, and you delivered the punch line, “Because they use a honeycomb.”

Gaz didn’t pay much attention to any of your punchlines, really just letting you get all of this out of your system, figuring that if you didn’t do it now it’d happen to some poor soul later. He accepted his fate early on, the moment you told your third dad joke, he knew it wouldn’t end. Call it a sixth sense of his, knowing when you’d be persistent in your quest to annoy every member of the 141, but he just knew.

“Where do surfers learn to surf?” You asked, giggling quietly at your own joke, despite the punchline being stupid. Gaz didn’t even respond, yet you still delivered, “At boarding school.”

Gaz considers taking his earpiece out for a moment, then thinks again and decides it’s probably better not to, knowing Price’s voice could crackle through into the earpiece and let you both know to head to the rendezvous point. Sighing quietly, he continued to look around him, scanning the area as he walked around, making sure no enemies were left alive. Your voice still hummed in the background, the sound becoming more normal to him and less distracting.

“Why did the tourists feel disappointed after seeing the Liberty Bell?” No response from Gaz. “Because it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”

“What do rabbits need after getting caught in the rain?” A small, questioning hum. “A hare dryer.”

You continued to tell your jokes, and in the middle of one, Gaz interrupted.

“Y’know,” He started, “If you didn’t already have a call sign, we’d be calling you Jester.”

“I’d love to go by Jester,” You laughed quietly, lightly, “I feel like it’d be more fitting.”

“Probably, yeah,” Gaz chuckled quietly, about to say something else before Price’s voice came through over comms and let you both know to head over to the rendezvous point. After you stop telling your jokes and mute yourself, Gaz can’t help but notice how quiet it becomes.

He got a bit too used to your voice, it seems. He muted himself and sighed, pulling up the coordinates to the rendezvous point and heading over there.

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min-youngis · 4 years

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baby, come home

gif not mine (although i did spend like ten minutes looking at it)

~ Pairing : Im Jaebum x Reader

~ Summary : You're both exhausted, but at least you can be exhausted together.

Established Relationship. (ft. sleepy Yugyeom)

~ Word Count : 1,088

~ Warnings : None, I just spend too many words talking about tired people and how awesome the concept of sleep is but,,,like,,,,with copious amounts of fluff.

~ A/N : okay, not doing that whole dialogue thing again lmao that jk fic flOpped. n.e.ways, jaebeom is my husband and his hair these past few months has been so so beautiful, bless his stylist. also, @maknaeha @ghostiemakingposties @thedorkyfork i think i used up the braincell, this took too long to write. my not-so-inner emo came out during this, hence the fall out boy lyrics oops i just love them sm give the song a listen k cool beans.

i love sleep, but i don't think you can tell, i'm really subtle about it, it's not like every fic i've written so far has started and/or ended with everybody just falling asleep gOd what a concept i could wax lyrical about it for years.

i'd love to hear feedback! spread the love!

masterlist (honestly, who's keeping track anymore four okay, it's four now) in my description!

~~~

“She’s in a long black coat tonight, waiting for me in the downpour outside. She’s singing baby come home in a melody of tears while the rhythm of the rain keeps time.” – Jetpack Blues, Fall Out Boy

You wait outside the JYP building on the other side of the street, engine shut, soft lo-fi playing in the car. It’s nearing midnight and the road is almost empty, only scattered with late night stragglers, their coats bunched high in a futile bid to protect themselves from the drizzle, illuminated under the spaced streetlights.

And also, apparently, a slightly stupid person who hasn’t seen her boyfriend properly in a week and just wants him to finish his practice soon so she can take him home and finally ensure that the both of them get some goddamn sleep.

You run the window down a crack, letting the car fill with the smell of wet mud. Turning up the heat, you pull your cardigan more snugly against your body and lean back in the seat, resolving to wait for a couple more minutes before entering the building and dragging him out yourself.

You can’t get your mind to shut down, constantly thinking about work and what needs to be done and deadlines and groceries and just how tired you are and you’re hit with this wave of longing for comfort and warmth.

Waiting be damned, you roll up the window, pocket the keys and get out of the car, scuttling across the road, palm atop the frame of your glasses to prevent them from getting wet, and enter the building once the guard recognises you and lets you in.

You turn the corner to the corridor that houses their usual practice room and end up nearly crashing into a half-asleep Yugyeom. Both of your hands shoot out in front to steady each other and you notice that he’s got his mask and cap on, ready to leave.

“Are you guys done for the day?” you ask, as you watch him tiredly hoist his bag strap higher on his shoulder.

“Only Jaebum hyung and I are here, the others left a while back. He doesn’t look like he’s going to be finished anytime soon, though,” he says, obviously displeased with the leader and his awful self preservation habits or lack thereof.

You dubiously give him a reassuring pat on his shoulder and say, “I’ll try my best,” answering his unasked question.

You reach the room and lean against the door frame, gaze fixed on your panting boyfriend. He’s hyper focused on his reflection, analysing his steps, ensuring that he doesn’t make any mistakes. The song pouring out of the speakers is new, unreleased and you can hear the fast beats that are guiding him through the movements.

He hasn’t seen your reflection in the mirror yet, engrossed as he is. You can practically feel the frustration in the room from his harsh breathing and the muttered curse when he stumbles over a step and makes his way to the speakers to rewind and perfect the part.

You notice the clench of his jaw and the tightness in his back through his sweaty t-shirt and when he pulls his hair up to put it in a ponytail, you can finally see the exhaustion in his eyes.

Your feet move towards him of their own accord and his gaze snaps to you, fingers still struggling with his hair tie. Wordlessly, you reach up and pull it away, gesturing at him to bend so you can do it for him. He makes eye contact with you, trying to stare you down, stubborn because he knows what you’re here for and he knows that if he listens to you now, he's as good as packing his bags to leave for the night.

You don’t back down though, even going so far as to take one of his hands in your own. You know his weaknesses and he’s a goner the moment you start to interlace your fingers with his, thumb now tracing an invisible pattern on his skin.

You don’t always play dirty, but these are desperate times.

He breaks his gaze with a huff after a half-hearted glare and drops to his knees heavily at your feet, head bowed, allowing you to gather his hair into the black rubber band that he may or may not have borrowed from you in the first place.

When you finish, you tap the top of his head, a silent signal that you’re done. Instead of getting up, he tips his head back, face towards you and your heart near damn breaks when you see his half-lidded, tired eyes.

He looks fragile almost, in that one moment, shoulders drooped, face blank, eyes only filled with a tragic mixture of exhaustion and reluctant acceptance.

You bow at the waist, gently cupping his face and with a sigh of a kiss against his forehead, as tenderly as you can, you whisper, “Baby, come home.”

You help him get up, fingers back to their spot in between his. In a silent agreement, you both trudge to the shelf to get his bag after grabbing his phone from the speakers and walk out of the building, hand in hand.

The rain has slowed down to a barely-there drizzle by the time you pull into the driveway, music still softly playing and Jaebum struggling to stay awake in the seat next to yours.

You turn off the ignition and twist in your seat, collecting his bag from the back. He’s out of the car and leaning against the hood by the time you get out, hand outstretched, waiting for you to reach him, now apparently completely on board with the idea of sleep.

It’s quiet in the house as the two of you sluggishly go about your routines, you brushing and him showering, hands occasionally reaching out and giving soft pats and quick, tender caresses, just for some contact, some grounding, some reassurance that sleep is just a few minutes away.

Shuffling into comfortable clothes, you slide under the covers together, finally feeling like everything’s back in its appropriate place and the promise of blissful nothingness tugging insistently at your eyelids.

The last thing you feel before you succumb to slumber is the gentle squeeze of your forearm that’s thrown across his frame and a low, murmured, “Thank you, ‘night,” and all you can do is delicately but deliberately tighten your arms around him and place a soft kiss on the back of his neck.

~~~

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nikkigrand · 4 years

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There’s no easy way to say this, but I’m abandoning all of my works. Everything.

This post is going to be long, honest, triggering and deeply personal. So for those who don’t want to read through all of my bullshit, the gist is that I’m not emotionally or mentally capable of writing anymore.

TW ARE IN PLACE.

If you’ve followed me for a while, then you know that my boyfriend was killed in Afghanistan last year. Since then, my life has been a breathless decline into self destruction. I didn’t know—I still don’t know—how to recover from happily waiting for his return to painfully knowing he never will. I swear that some days I feel like he’s still out there and some day he’ll come home and this will all be just a bad dream. I want to wake up to a reality where he steps off that plane and into my arms, where I don’t keep a crumpled old t shirt that smells more of me than him under my pillow, where the shock of hearing certain songs doesn’t make me throw up. A reality where I don’t have to sit in front of his ashes every time I visit his mother and look at his singed necklace around her neck.

I wanted nothing more than to wake up. Just wake the fuck up and feel alive again because for so long I had felt this choking pain and grief and misery and then nothing.

Everything became an escape, something to fill that void in me. I tried all the healthy things. I ate, I worked out, I ran. I talked to people about how I felt and reached out, but nothing helped. I volunteered, i planted trees and flowers, I channeled my grief into kindness. I tried to take all this pain and turn it into something beautiful, and still I felt nothing. I was falling falling falling into this black pit and was reaching for anything to keep me from hitting the bottom.

So I started chasing highs. The standard shit at first. I drank so much alcohol that I’d wake up in bushes with my friends, limbs tangled in ways that left me sore and stinging for days because who the hell passes out in a Rose bush?

At first, drinking was fucking hell, because no matter how much I drank I’d always end up with my head cradled in the palms of my hands, fingers digging into my scalp as I screamed and wailed and asked why why why why when he was so close to coming home and why was life so goddamn mean??? I’d be in bar bathrooms, just curled in the corner and sobbing like a dramatic princess until my friends carried me out. This happened about a dozen times before it just stopped, because I figured I wasn’t drinking enough if I could remember everything.

So I drank more and more and more and then I realized that it wasn’t making me feel better, it wasn’t doing anything for me.

So I started smoking. Just weed, you know. Nothing too crazy at the time. But all that did was make me hyper-fixate on all of my failures and short comings. It made me hate myself so viscerally, so deeply that I wondered if this is who I truly am at my core. A mean bitch who drinks, smokes, parties. A maneater who fucks these poor kind hearted men to fill that hole her dead man left inside her and still finds herself cold and numb after because it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

I’m sure you know where this is going. But I hated myself. I’m a beautiful girl, I’m not blind, and yet I found myself to be so fucking ugly. So fucking ugly and grey and all I wanted—all I needed—was something to breathe life into me the way life itself did before.

I just wanted to feel happy and normal. Only for a little while. That need was so encompassing it would grip my insides and I’d cry from how much I wanted it, how much I had convinced myself I needed it. It was all I fucking wanted.

So the bumps came. And then the lines. And then whole baggies to myself. And it felt amazing, it was wonderful. The world was alive, things were different. I had more energy, more life in me than I had in months. Then the other type of lines came and it made me feel like I was floating away. There was no pain, no misery, no death hanging over my shoulder to remind me that the strength of your love can’t make people stay.

But soon, that too wasn’t enough. Like every other thing, I felt there was something better, something that could make me feel more. So here is where I tell you about all the pills I popped, all the different colored presses and how each one pulled me out of that hole I was falling into and deposited me above the ground —much higher than I could have ever dreamed of—and filled my grey world with beautiful gorgeous colors.

Then I can tell you about all the tabs I let dissolve on my tongue, or fully swallowed out of impatience, all of the lines of ketamine I combined with ecstasy and acid in one night. The things I saw, the way I felt—it took me far from this dismal life and was addicting. I was chasing something every weekend until it became every other day, chasing some feeling I still can’t name, and I knew that it was ruining me.

My grief and my drugs were killing me, and I knew it. With every cotton mouth, every clenched jaw, every pounding headache, I fucking knew and didn’t care. I’d look at my friends faces and I knew, I knew they loved me and would be devastated if they knew what I was doing, and I still didn’t care. What was life if it felt this empty?

My grades dropped, i turned down a contracting job I wanted for years, I spent all my money on psychedelics and stimulants, and it had gotten to a point where I’d pop a pill while sitting at home just because I didn’t want to be sober and didn’t want to think about how fucked up my life was becoming.

Then one day I was at a concert, high in the clouds with a joint settled comfortably between my lips and frizzy hair piled messily atop my head, when I saw a girl get carried out the venue by medics. She was probably a few years younger than I am, and i remember looking at her face impassively as they pushed through the crowd with her body thrown over this bear of a man’s shoulder as if in slow motion. She was pale and foaming at the mouth, with her arms dangling limply down his back, and she looked dead—she was dead. I knew in that same way you know that the sky is blue when the sun is up, I just knew.

And in that moment—those few seconds it took me to acknowledge that she had most likely overdosed and died—this intense yearning shot through me, so strong that I felt it in the crooks of my fucking elbows, like I wanted to embrace whatever the fuck it was that I desired to live inside me, and this voice cried out, “I wish that were me.”

And you know what, I didn’t even know I had spoken until the guy next to me shoved me in the shoulder and said, “no you don’t.”

And that terrified me. I remember dropping the joint, fumbling it in my shaking fingers, burning myself on the lit end, before handing it off to that same random guy and running off to get some air.

I’m not stupid and I’m not blind. I know I’m depressed, I know I’ve got issues, but I had never said something so suicidal out loud up until that point. I’ve never vocally wished for death and even as I sat there, as I looked out at the people outside the venue huddled together doing whip it’s and killing brain cells, I still wanted to be that poor dead girl on that man’s shoulders.

That was it for me. I remember calling an Uber home on the spot and taking everything I had and flushing it. Im not going to sit here and lie to you and tell you that it was easy. I had convinced myself that I needed these things to make me happy, and i don’t know if I can ever see life the same way after them. The feelings you get off these things are otherworldly, it’s so damn good, but they come at a price. You dont feel the same way you did before you took them, and you never will. You’ll never be who you were before that high, but you can almost convince yourself that it’s worth it. So it was pretty damn hard to take my neon presses, my rocks. my capsules, my bud and my tabs, and flush them down the toilet.

Almost immediately after I did it, I cried. Mostly because i had flushed hundreds of dollars down the fucking toilet, but also because I had become that girl in those cheesy college movies. You know the one, the one where the party girl gets addicted to drugs and goes on a bender and her whole life is just one big goddamn tragedy that won’t end. I hate those fucking movies and I, for the life of me, could not believe I was that girl.

I had been military, straight laced with a good head on my shoulders and a hard worker. I was smart, respected, the girl everyone wanted to bring home to mom. And now I was a hot mess crying in my bathroom because I had just flushed my addiction down the shitter.

Now I’m just home, trying to gather the pieces of myself in a way that doesn’t cause long term damage when I’ve yet to hit my 27th birthday.

I still go out with my friends. They know nothing about what I’ve done because I’ve always gone out and done things alone. This is the first time I’ve ever spilled my guts.

So where does FanFiction come into play in all this. Well, it’s simple, really, if you’ve gotten to this point and picked out all the mistakes in grammar. My brain is so fucked up that I can barely write a passable 3 page essay. I can’t remember words, much less how to string them together to form something beautiful in the way I used to. Trust me, it kills me and I’ve agonized over it for hours. I once tried to take this amazing idea I had and put it to paper but it would just not flow. Nothing made sense. Where before writing was effortless and focused, now my brain could barely concentrate on forming a sentence that didn’t sound like gibberish.

My attention span is so short that I literally have to isolate myself with no internet and my textbooks to get work done. It’s so bad that I have anxiety and panic attacks about the fact that I feel like a whole dumbass with one brain cell, where before I was proud of my intelligence and could hold decent conversation.

I’m still pretty, as if that fucking matters, but now I’ve got a stutter and can’t hold eye contact because my paranoia makes me think they’re judging me. And let me tell you, I’m so fucking pissed about that because I know it’s just my fried brain thinking these things, and there’s no one to blame but myself.

And I still feel empty and numb. How can I write about love and human emotions when I don’t feel anything? How can I write about looking at someone and loving them when the memory of love faded like my lover’s ashes in the wind? I just can’t.

I know love as it whispers against my skin with each interaction between me, friends, even other men, and yet I look at them and feel absolutely nothing.

So Yeah, I can’t write my stories if I can’t get my brain or my heart to work.

I’m really sorry to all my loyal readers. I really am. I wish I had been stronger. Thank you for all of your support throughout the years.

Don’t do drugs.

#trigger warnings #personal

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rorybergstrom · 4 years

Text

𝑫𝑰𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑩𝑶𝑫𝒀 𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹 𝑨 𝑩𝑰𝑺𝑬𝑿𝑼𝑨𝑳 𝑹𝑶𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑲𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑻𝑯 𝑳𝑶𝑹𝑫 ???

hello, it’s nora again…. hitting u with another child. a south london-born softboi who deserves tenderness. has a burner phone and doesn’t use social media. does techno dj sets. plays the synth loudly through the night if u live in gorham his room always sounds like a space ship just landed. deals weed around campus on his rollerskates. hates that he can’t get new light up wheels because ana coto made rollerskating cool again. as is tradition, here’s the pinterest board. this intro is recycled?? so if theres mistakes, sue me??? and be sure to like and subscribe for more unboxing content x

application.

『 FIONN WHITEHEAD ❙ DEMI-MALE』 ⟿ looks like RORY BERGSTRÖM is here for HIS JUNIOR year as a MUSIC TECHNOLOGY student. HE is 23 years old & known to be ECCENTRIC, FANATICAL, NITPICKY & DOGMATIC. They’re living in GORHAM, so if you’re there, watch out for them. ⬳ ooc name. age. tz. pronouns.

aesthetics.

bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and djing into the blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars, marxist literature in stacks against your bedroom walls, a burner phone twice-shattered and a stash of replacement sim cards.

tw ocd, anxiety, drugs

half-swedish, half-british. the swedish is on his mother’s side. he’s bilingual but thinks in english. only really speaks swedish around his mother. only child, and kinda put a lot of pressure on himself to be the perfect kid when he was young, but his parents are honestly, quite decent? and just want him to have a nice life, they don’t care if he isn’t successful or rich or anything, they’re honestly rather solid. (wow imagine having nice parents, a first for all my characters, im literally this meme)

grew up in peckham, a suburb of london. growing up, his mum was a model / actress / waitress who later retrained as a speech therapist and his dad worked in her majesty’s service at buckingham palace. his dad wasn’t allowed to tell his family what his job entailed but rory suspects it’s probably very boring and just involves a lot of…. logistics n security.

was bullied a lot at school. [cole sprouse voice] he didn’t fit in and he didn’t want to fit in. unironically wore a trenchcoat to school every day of his life. spent most of his lunchtimes in the library because it was his safe space. as a result he knows…. loads of useless information because 30% of his school years were spent reading anthologies on space and the vikings etc. would be good on a game show. obsessively recorded every episode of university challenge as a child.

middle-class and lowkey quite wealthy but rarely talks about money, one of those well-off people who still wears really old shitty shoes and only spends money if they absolutely have to

virgin who can’t drive

into star wars, not into the big bang theory. feminist. can’t watch horror movies

favourite film is where the wild things are. also loves the florida project. thinks kids are the sweetest thing and can’t wait to be a dad to some. right now is dad to one cat, whose name changes on a daily basis (identity is constantly shifting, duuuuude), but they were originally named ‘wheezer’

rory has been musical for as long as they can remember. first picked up guitar because he thought it would make this girl esther who he was in love with like him, but he just ended up falling in love with music instead.

formulated several different bands as a kid but ultimately had to give it up cos he was quite controlling and got fixated on making a certain sound so it wasn’t really fun for the others. got into electronic music because it was something he could do basically on his own and keep tweaking until he got it perfect

always drumming their fingers or strumming invisible guitar strings. tends to avoid parties bc he has quite has specific tastes when it comes to music and doesn’t like listening to r&b for eight hours while people throw up into plastic cups.

a techno connoisseur. has been making electronic music since he was about twelve.

after his parents divorce, when he was fourteen, rory & his mother moved to run-down suburban neighbourhood, pittsfield, massachussets.

big into photography. he mostly uses a canon 35mm camera, but occasionally uses disposable ones when he wants that more rustic feel.

moving to the states, their photography became more focused on suburban neighborhoods and are often quite dark and cinematic (think gregory crewsden). here are some shots of pittsfield i really like which rory has on his wall [1] [2] [3]

falls in love 12 times a day. never had a girlfriend or boyfriend. gets sweaty when someone cute looks at him. flirting?? what?? would prefer to idealise them from a distance

gender??? hm. doesn’t really know where he fits yet, sometimes he feels like a guy and sometimes they dont feel like anything at all. isn’t really bothered, cos they think it’s a social construct anyway. uses he/they pronouns interchangeably, but feels like ‘he’ is more fitting. won’t necessarily pull anyone up on it cos he knows having an identity that’s constantly…. in flux.. can be annoying for others … and doesn’t want to be a burden even tho it isn’t at all?? rory internalises guilt

everything is socially constructed. mirrors let you move through time. the whole thing’s a metaphor. he thinks he’s got free will but really he’s trapped in a maze. in a system. all he can do is consume. people think it’s a happy game. it’s not a happy game — it’s a fucking nightmare world, and the worst thing is, it’s real and we live in it

has ocd. tries to let it affect his life as little as possible, but obviously it’s incredibly hard to control a compulsive disorder. was teased for it at school when other kids started to notice. he was obsessed with the number five, would wash his hands five times, count stairs i groups of five, he could only use the corridors in one direction and always had to keep his hands busy. it manifests itself in hyper-fixations (trains when he was a child – specifically steam engines – then later he became obsessed with space and the patterns of constellations, and now he’s obsessed with synthesizers) and repetitive behaviours like counting stairs. doesn’t really affect his social life at all, he can jst get a bit locked-on n hyper-focused sometimes.

has insomnia. barely ever sleeps. finds it hard to switch off from work / writing / gaming / whatever’s preoccupying him in that moment. he’s always awake at 5am and quite often sleeps in through classes but still gets really good grades because he’s very good at his course. rarely attends classes. prefers to work independently. doesn’t really trust his tutors are intelligent enough to be teaching him, and is particularly suspicious of the lockwood tutors. a music snob tbh

secretly a small-scale drug dealer, only does weed n some party pills. rollerskates around campus dealing cos they dnt have a car

likes: techno, the webpage cats on synthesizers in space, allen ginsberg, vintage gramophones, floating points, lcd soundsystem, marijuana, soft dogs that let you pet them, late-night strolls talking about the universe, independent films, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, constellations, photography, late night jazz, vintage game boys and girls who could rip his still-beating heart out of his chest and use it as an ashtray. dislikes: weddings, funerals, formality, button-up shirts that people actually button-up, bananas, hot coffee, social media, people who watch and play sports, rap music – especially of the misogynistic variety, indie wankers in wire-framed glasses that play ed sheeran songs at open mic nights.

plot ! with ! me ! i’d say all the usual “exes fwb hookups spiel” but rory… is very tender and tame… i feel like a deer in the headlights of love……. so give me

study buddies,

people who are also into techno and are music snobs about it,

people who love all kinds of music,

people who are in bands that maybe rory’s recorded and produced stuff for,

people he actually jams with (he plays bass and synth),

unrequited crushes!!

someone they met at a knitting club in freshman year and have remained friends with despite no longer going to it

people rory knows from open mic nights and gigs

library girlfriends / boyfriends that he stares at longingly while paging through leatherbound volumes

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

people he deals weed to on his rollerskates (why r all my characters obsessed with rollerskates)

skaters. rory is really shit at skateboarding. like really shit. help the smol

hm now that rory has !Evolved! ig we can do hook up plots if u want but he’s not tht good at divorcing sex from emotion?? like he hooked up w teddy once n felt hopelessly inlove so..... if u want soft plots b prepared for crippling sadness.......

stay groovy XD XD

#radintro #plot with me cowards #said in a very soft and tender way. whispered. im but a small bug in a gutter.

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vanishcd · 5 years

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[[ So i’m gonna post this whole thing but I just. NEED to analyze the entire discussion between Morrell and Stiles in Battlefield. Because its such important character stuff besides being INCREDIBLY well-written.

Included are my thoughts on my Stiles and my perspectives on how he thinks, especially when it comes to how ADHD/anxiety makes you perceive things. Likes are appreciated but PLEASE ask to reblog since this feels very personal for me and my muse

Stiles: You know when you're drowning, you don't actually inhale until right before you black out. It's called voluntary apnea. It's like no matter how much you're freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won't open your mouth until you feel like your head's exploding. But then when you finally do let it in, that's when it stops hurting. It's not scary anymore. It's - it's actually kind of peaceful.

So this whole thing starts off with his anxiety. His way of describing things in details with both feelings and facts that makes it incredibly visceral and real. You can feel yourself underwater, you can imagine that moment he’s talking about. The pain and then the relief. (Fear and pain. Big threads in some of his emotional beats. He also FOCUSES in on those details when he’s afraid, classic anxiety symptom.)

Morrell: Are you saying you hope Matt felt some peace in his last moments Stiles: I don't feel sorry for him. Morrell: Can you feel sorry for the nine - year - old Matt who drowned? Stiles: Just because a bunch of dumbasses dragged him into a pool when he couldn't swim doesn't really give him the right to go off killing them one by one.

He has no sympathy for Matt. Not after what he’s done to everyone. Not for what Stiles perceives as a dumb, if awful, fluke and Matt’s personal offense/inability to get over it.

The punishment should fit the crime and his noting of "one by one" points out that Matt has been calculating this. For something ambiguous and one time, if traumatic. It's a conflict with Stiles' sense of what justice is. Matt also attacked him, his friends, Scott, his dad, and Melissa. That alone means Stiles can’t excuse, reason, forgive, or sympathize. But then--

Stiles: And by the way, my dad told me that they found a bunch of pictures of Allison on Matt's computer. And not just of her though. I mean, he photoshopped himself into these pictures. Stuff like them holding hands and kissing. You know, like he had built this whole fake relationship. So yeah, maybe drowning when he was nine years old was what sent him off the rails, but the dude was definitely riding the crazy train.

here’s the thing. Despite having general/social anxiety and ADHD, Stiles isn't forgiving of mistakes/cruelty because of mental illness. Yes, even though he fully knows his own issues have caused shit. Even knowing it's a POWERFUL motivator. But he has a LOW opinion of someone who uses trauma/illness to lash out purely for revenge. Especially over something that as he said was the result of kids being stupid

Even without this, he would hate Matt simply for being a creepy af stalker, not only CREATING this delusion of him w Allison but ACTING ON IT. Anyone who pulls that shit is LOW. And it was toward one of his closest friends.

He also happens to be deflecting, talking about others instead of himself (which is of course the whole point of a counseling session). He’s not just rambling cause he’s angry/disgusted and has a tendency to. He’s JUSTIFYING himself through it, which means he’s on the defensive and doesn’t want to open up to Morrell.

Morrell: One positive thing came out of this, though. Right? Stiles: Yeah. Yeah, but I still feel like there's something wrong between [him and his dad]. I don't know. It's just like tension when we talk.

The first moment he opens up, maybe because the guilt of STILL not saying anything about the supernatural to his dad is TOO MUCH. It's one of the heaviest burdens he's carried. So even though Stilinski got his position as sheriff back, Stiles still feels like he's to blame.

Interesting thing to note is that the topic of his dad is the one thing he consistently opens up to people to. Showing vulnerability doesn't matter when it's his dads ANYTHING at stake. And he's ok showing that to Morrell both cause it's not focused on moving forward and his own feelings, but because it's actually something that he feels he needs help with. Because their relationship means too much.

The tension could also be alluding to the hallucination he had at Lydias party (despite the fact that he obviously doesn't TELL her about it) I can write a whole essay on that scene but the scene, real or not, clearly weighs on Stiles. And with anxiety, it's easy to fall into the mindset that your fears are real, they just aren't being SPOKEN. Even when you KNOW without a DOUBT that the person doesn't feel that way, it sticks in your mind and messes with your perception. Stiles is aware his perception could be skewed from stress.

Stiles: [Scott’s] got his own problems to deal with though: I don't think he's talked to Allison either. But that might be more her choice, you know. Her mom dying hit her pretty hard. But I guess it brought her and her dad closer. Jackson? Jackson hasn't really been himself lately. Actually the funny thing is, as of right now, Lydia is the one who seems the most normal.

As Morrell is about to silently observe by asking about him, Stiles is once again deflecting the topic to everyone elses trauma and avoiding talking about how he feels. Just what he’s observed and his judgement about it. And his comments can be perceived as pretty neutral despite how much he cares for 3 of the 4 people who are going through hell with him.

Morrell: And what about you, Stiles? Feeling some anxiety about that championship game tomorrow night? Stiles: Why would you ask me that? Ah. Uh, no. I - I never actually play. But hey, since one of my teammates is dead and another one's missing, who knows, right?

AGAIN he deflects. He knows she's digging for “im feeling anxious” and admittance that HE isn't ok. And not only denies it on reflex but then takes the leading part and uses that for the topic. Again he talks about others and uses dry sarcasm to make himself more comfortable.

Morrell: You mean, Isaac. One of the three runaways. You haven't heard from any of them, have you? Stiles: How come you're not taking any notes on this? Morrell: I do my notes after the session. Stiles: Your memory's that good?

Deflect; and this time because she doesnt give up, he turns the topic to HER. Most people will let you ramble about others but when you start making observations about THEM, particularly what they’re doing at the moment or their professionalism, they get defensive. Even if its a word or two, it’s enough to give him an “advantage”.

And it’s, as becomes the ultimate point, him fishing for time.

Morrell: How about we get back to you? Stiles? Stiles: --I'm fine. Yeah, aside from the not sleeping, the jumpiness, the constant, overwhelming, crushing fear that something terrible's about to happen.

And there's the moment he finally breaks. He knows she's not gonna let him go, she's directly observing his anxiety. And there's a slight pause before she says his name. For the first time, shes directly giving him permission to speak, instead of asking prying questions. He could deny it. And he does, but in the obvious way that's just a lead in to his feelings.

He's at a point in the conversation and the situation that he doesn't have any other option. And even though his tone is harsh, it's honest. Because he's scared and suddenly realizes they covered everyone, and no one is left to help.

Morrell: It's called hyper - vigilance, the persistent feeling of being under threat. Stiles: But it's not just a feeling, though. It's - it's like it's a panic attack. You know, like I can't even breathe. Morrell: Like you're drowning? Stiles: Yeah. Morrell: So if you're drowning, and you're trying to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment, what if you choose to not open your mouth? To not let the water in? Stiles: You do anyway. It's a reflex. Morrell: But if you hold off until that reflex kicks in, you have more time, right? Stiles: Not much time. Morrell: But more time to fight your way to the surface? Stiles: I guess.

He has a way with words. He's been rambling this whole time. But his description of a panic attack is the last vivid bit for several lines. Trying to get across his desperation.

Then he goes to simple answers. "Yeah" and "I guess" because when he feels so lost, he gets quiet.

Stiles is very pragmatic AND emotional. He thinks with both but rationalizes. "It's a reflex" and "not much time" is his logical side kicking in, but in that way it's counterproductive because anxiety. You search for an answer, a relief from your fear, and when it's GIVEN, you don't quite know what to do with it. So you rationalize your own helplessness because you've fallen into that pattern of logical thinking combined with fear. That's what makes an anxious mind spin out.

Morrell: More time to be rescued? Stiles: More time to be in agonizing pain. I mean, did you forget about the part where you feel like your head's exploding? Morrell: If it's about survival, isn't a little agony worth it? Stiles: But what if it just gets worse? What if it's agony now and then - and it's just hell later on?

Stiles fears pain. And I think it's not the pain specifically, it's the idea of it being the last thing, an extended thing. Emotional or physical (who wouldn’t?) And then he rationalizes with facts again to prove his point. This is the crux of MANY anxieties. That you aren't strong enough to get through, that it won't end, that there's no hope.

Morrell is having none of it. She won't let him give up on HOPE.

Morrell: Then think about something Winston Churchill once said - "If you're going through hell, keep going."

Know why that got through to him? Because it's simple and factual and makes him realize--it's the only thing you CAN do. It's not exactly hope for him but determination. Will to keep going for a little longer

And the truth is, that's all you CAN do in some horrible situations. You feel hopeless, useless. But to quote another favorite tv show "believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing."

Hope, hope for hope, will get you through. It can be more painful than anything in the world, but it's also the ONE THING that lets you get thought when EVERYTHING ELSE has failed.

And as Morrell says, if you can survive, isn't it worth it?

#ooc #save #;Hollowed Boy #this is largely based on my own observations and headcanons #but i feel this its p accurate #headcanon

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thatinnerfeirygoddessphoenix · 6 years

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New moon, new me

I hope.

Ive decided to let the past stay in the past. To sacrifice it for a better future. When those thoughts and memories inevitably come to me I block it out. Don't give it my time. Because if I dont I will continue down the path of the crazy. Ive always attracted broken and messed up mental cases for friends. The outcasts and weirdos. Those desperate for comraderie.

I had few friends as a child. What I thought was shyness turned out to be social anxiety. Is it so wrong to be cautious about strangers? Especially when you've been told not to be so forward with people? Maybe I was even hurt by some stranger, but its so far back in my repressed memories I cant even remember.

Or maybe it was because i was a tall girl. A little chubby, I believed I was fat. I had asthma so i couldnt run or play like the other kids. Asthma attacks are a bit similar to panic attacks. Suddenly you cant breathe right. Perhaps it was a little bit of panic as well. Its easy to misdiagnose a kid. A poor kid.

So I was poor, fat, "lazy", too tall, socially awkward and loved learning and books more than doing cartwheels. Ive never learned how to do a cartwheel.

Needless to say Ive felt ostracized. So I started separating myself from others. Better to do it before they could, right? Make it seem like it was MY idea that I was alone. That I was the one who didnt like THEM. It progressed so eventually the other kids were afraid of me. This big, scary, mean looking girl whos favorite color was black and listened to metal. Sure, i kinda get it. I loved metal because it was my parents favorite genre. I looked up to my dad, who is a drummer, even though he was never there all the time.

Now he hounds me to have grandchildren. How can I politely explain to him that I dont want to end up a sad and lonely wreck of a mother because some ass decided to nut in me and leave?

I do realize now that Ive picked up my moms bad luck with dudes. Not believing you're worthy of someone so thats what they think too. Giving up before you start. Getting angry at them instead of evaluating yourself and how you could change.

Being healthy is so important if you really want that special someone enough. Mentally healthy. My family is as unhealthy as they come. I grew up thinking this was normal. No one ever talked things out or called anyone out. They just let whatever ills they had fester and rot inside of them. Usually the next day they acted like nothing happened. Life as usual. Better to let it go than rock the boat, but that meant that whatever wrong was never righted. The wrongful never learned just how shitty they could be.

It was all talking behind backs and complaining instead of confrontation. Like the ghost of my grampa was gonna swoop down and punish them for talking. I feel like he was the root of all the suffering they all endured. Bad people ruin lives. I can attest.

Lately, due to my emotional state, ive been such an asshole. So angry at the world for abandoning me. For abandoning itself.

Of course I dont hurt people the way he did. He seriously scarred them in a way NO child should EVER have to feel. I just lash out with my cutting words, or the lack thereof.

I run away, hide, from them when they need me. Become selfish as I try to nurse the pain I feel. The guilt over hurting them makes it worse. I want to hurt myself for it, but I promised myself that I would stop self harming.

At least I dont break my own oaths. I promised I would never do meth or heroin. Not since I saw what I could become. Since I saw a friend with huge potential turn into a stuttering unconscionable mess. I cant hurt myself anymore. Ive done terrible things to myself, because I couldnt handle the pain i felt inside.

My emotions have always been unusual. Intense. I can feel what others do, and when I feel my own, compounded with theirs, its too much to bear.

These promises Ive made have not stopped the rumors about me. I know my outward appearance and actions were... unusual. Incriminating? No, they failed to see the sad desperation of lovesickness. Of hating myself immensely because the guy I loved didnt love me back. Yet I lived with him. Made him my best friend. Made him my everything.

That was the biggest mistake. In the end I probably just hurt him. I wanted him to hurt so that he could feel even a FRACTION of what I was going through. I was unable to let it go. Hyper-focusing on every detail of him and me. We never left each others side...

That could have been part of it. It was so strange. He never told me he needed time away. Never tried to do stuff on his own. I gave him as much opportunity as possible. The strangest part was that I never needed a break from him, not until the end. I wanted to be by his side always. Me? I cant be with ANYONE for more than a few hours without having to be alone to recharge myself. It was like i finally found a battery amongst vampires.

What was I so upset about then? I felt like he WAS hiding something from me. I still have a feeling deep in the void of my chest, that he had something to say, but was too afraid to say it.

The part of me that loves him wanted him to admit he liked me too, but was too afraid of what people would say if we actually did get together. Social impairment.

I buried that down. So any hint of attraction ANYONE sent me I just... threw away. No, they cant think that. Im just kidding myself. Just false hopes. That wasnt real.

This is why i like straightforward people. Takes the second guessing right out of my head. So there is no room for my brain to tell me they could be lying or using me.

Im a new person. I dont like the idea of falling in love with anyone new. Love hurts too much. Love is hard. I still have him in my heart, but damn, I cant keep him in my head. I hope he does some good for himself. I hope he finds a better life.

I hope i do too. Gotta stop running around with someone else in my head because theres no room for my own thoughts.

I want to be able to create again. Can one still create after theyve been destroyed?

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