BLUHHH I hate being so like. Masky about psychosis. I mean fuck even the read more is there to not bother people with my shit fdjksalfdjskl
But like! I dunno!! I hate that I have the mask so firmly secured that when I tell people stuff like "Yeah I really really fucking relate to milk inside a bag of milk" or "I kin jinx really hard" people look at me like. I dunno. Like I'm weird? Or they don't believe me? Or like, that I'm not. Insane enough??? That feels stupid.
I dunno it's one of those things where you feel trapped between two places, right, because I'm pretty heavily Not Normal but I've like. Trained myself in a way to react in a subservient, quiet, and obedient way so much that from the outside I don't look like it (though I guess realistically most psychosis isn't like, visibly obvious, tbf) but it just! Pisses me off!! I hate when people tell me what I'm experiencing or not experiencing like they have any right to pretend they're rooting around in my brain or understanding what goes on in there
"Oh this is way darker than you'd want haha", "Oh you'd have to be a lot more insane to deal with XYZ", "You probably wouldn't like this thing" and it's like fucker! Don't fucking tell me who or what I am, you don't fucking know me just because I show you the side of me that I invented to be palatable.
EDIT: actually no fuck it fr hey asshole if you have to be so performative about your psychosis that you think liking depressing visual novels is a personality maybe you're a fucking poser! 🗣️🗣️🗣️ maybe you can't see other people are also fucked up because they aren't going to weird dumbass seattle parties and kinking on **** ****! get fucked!
i don't know if I'll ever be able to get into xiv rp. I want to and I've tried, but I just can't find anyone that cares about the lore in the same way that i do. and if they do they're not interested in rp.
That is one thing that I've had a lot of issues with is that people are so ready to throw out canon and the rules of the world to make their own. I get that it's fun for those people to do that but to rp? when my character is so grounded? its difficult. and when people have wildly different headcanons about things there ISN'T lore on?? how do you navigate that when its brought up.
I've tried to join venues but i just don't know where to start. 💀 I'll just stick to fic writing I guess.
Miss hasn’t said anything since she asked him to accompany her to the forest. Obi keeps an eye on her along the way, alert to any sign of disclosure. He remembers the heat from her hands as she gripped him during their brief horse ride together.
It is an impulse, a shooting of synapses that lifts his fingers to hers, gently hooking them. A call for attention, an offering of comfort, a throwing of an anchor.
“Shirayuki! Obi!”
Abruptly, he withdraws.
-
I’m okay
She makes quick work at the cut on his arm. Sensing the undercurrent of displeasure in her touch, Obi sheepishly offers said observation to which Miss replies a quip pointing out the similarities between his actions and hers in the past. Obi’s eyes narrow. A part of him is sorry, yet the other half of him can’t find it in himself to surrender, not yet. Then-
“Obi,” Miss says softly.
Obi breathes, chest expanding. The syllables reverberate and bury themselves under his skin. Immediately, he is tethered, not just to the woman by his side, but to this strange other-life he’s found himself belonging to, as well as the people who tell him strange things like- they worry when he’s not where he’s meant to be.
Resigned, he lets go.
She alludes briefly to the scar on his chest, a forgotten memorabilia. He stares at it, recalling laughable vestiges of a not-so-distant past. It’s easy to divert, soften, protect his Miss from knowing how deep of a cut it was. She huffs a little, smile playing on her face, and Obi glances at her. There is a small shade of worry in her brow. Obi wants to wipe it away.
Instead, his fingers cup her wrist, thumb traitorously swiping at the little bone there. She is so incredibly small, yet nothing in her screams fragile.
“If you had been there to treat it, it probably wouldn’t have scarred,” he tells her.
Obi looks pointedly at her, willing away the worry. She is soft in his grip, her hands curled from adhering the bandage to his arm. He offers with utmost sincerity,
“I’m sorry I didn’t come back when I said I would. I won’t do it again.”
He gives her a small grin, and her answering smile blooms on her face in kind.
“That would be nice.”
-
Let’s go
Two misfits entering the Big House, huh? People there aren’t friendly, and sometimes lean toward cruel. Obi never wishes upon anyone what he experienced when he first entered, The judgment, the condescending stares, the whispers of a commoner traipsing around with people above his station. But- he supposes it’s a hurdle Miss needs to overcome. It’s no easy task, but knowing Miss, she’ll likely take to it like a fish in water.
The murmurs abruptly go silent when Miss sets foot through the doors. And it’s like deja vu. Obi knows. Knows intimately, what it's like to be a victim of those gazes. Some stare at Miss like she is prey. The worse ones glance down and look away, as if she is nothing more than air. Miss stiffens. Obi knows.
He taps his knuckles against the back of her hand.
Like a trigger, Miss regains life. She walks, a slight tremor to her gait, but confident nonetheless. It goes well, until-
“Wouldn’t it be quicker if you lay on a bed and spread your legs instead?”
Just like that, the air is sucked out of the room and all eyes turn to Miss. Colored with shock, Miss stands frozen behind him. Obi leans his neck back, gaze sharp toward where the voice came from. There, a man stands haughtily over them, book in hand, countenance all shades of unapologetic, smug, even. Obi’s fist is itching to connect with that quirk in his lip.
“Obi,” Miss murmurs.
“What.”
Miss turns. “Wait a bit.”
The words that leave her mouth next shake him to the core, shakes up the room, really. Obi lets out a breath of awe following the ordeal, and blindly trails after Miss as she makes her way up the stairs to where Master stands. A beautiful show - Obi wishes Haruka were here to see it. Maybe he’d see where Miss is actually at, and how she really isn’t that far off after all.
-
This is fine
Consciousness seeps in, a slow drag from a cigar - a luxury Obi has yet to experience, yet is privileged to in this very moment. He awakes, back against a multitude of pillows, legs stretched long in front of him. His eyes adjust to the dim lighting, blinking as he takes in his surroundings.
The first thing he senses is the unerring weight of Master’s big fucking head crushing his knee. Just to be annoying, and knowing Master probably wouldn’t wake up from it, Obi gently jolts his knee while calling out for his Master to show his bones some mercy. Master replies in kind with a loud snort and a shift, turning further into his pillow.
The second sensation Obi notes is a featherlight touch on the back of his left hand. Consciousness immediately makes a full recovery in his brain as Miss’ breaths accompany the brush of her hand against his, wafting over his skin. Hers is soft to the touch. The smile on his face is almost automatic. Obi’s fingers twitch, palm urging to turn to cradle hers.
Instead, Obi stiffly turns away. Imagines what it would be like, and quickly wills it out of his mind. As quick as his sleep-steeped brain can anyway. Out of sight, and all.
He sees Mitsuhide and strikes up a conversation with the intent to distract. All the while, Miss’ fingers burn him like a brand, and he ignores it, as well as one may ignore a fire.
Eventually, they move. Obi is relieved to have his skin escape unharmed. Unfortunately, and almost expectedly at this point, he finds his heart has taken quite a beating of its own. It’s fine.
