#oneirophrenia

[bratkook]

oneirophrenia made me cry,, have a good day

*takes drag* i haven't heard that name in years...

[ggukkiereads]

Hey !

🌹

So I read this Jimin one-shot or drabble(idk) looooooooong time ago in which he writes random entries in his diary/journal and when OC asks him about this he answers that it's very predictable to keep it organised according to the date and time it was written ???? Like he thinks it's very boring if he already knows what happens in the next entry??? Also they had problems/argument at some point so it's kinda angsty but not too much ????

This is so vague I know 😭😭 but do you(or anybody) happen to know this story??

Pairing - Jimin x OC (established relationship)

Genre - angst fluff idk 😩

❤️

🌷 Hmmm sounds like this fic I did a reaction to, a few weeks ago or maybe it was months ago. Could you let us know if it's the one? If not, hmm perhaps other details you remember would help.

Edit: It is Oneirophrenia by @bratkook. Thank you mochi13 for confirming =) 

.

[fair-fae]

FFxivWrite Entry #13: Oneirophrenia

FFxivWrite 2021 Prompt #13: Oneirophrenia The Void was an endless, empty abyss of darkness, bereft of any aether and any life beyond the warped creatures aimlessly skittering around the ravaged ruins of a civilization that once was. The fearsome beasts of the thirteenth shard were seldom bothered to waste any precious energy fighting among themselves, but one never knew when a Voidsent might find itself starved and deranged enough to attack its kin for the promise of even the smallest spark of aether. The weak did not survive. Fortunately, Shadiyah could hold her own against most foes.

She had never particularly resented her time spent in the Void before. What difference did it make to be wasting away in misery in the Void or upon any other shard? The only downsides were the gnawing hunger and the absolute boredom, but compared to having to deal with people and all their pretenses and all the noise and trouble they brought, was that really so bad? The Voidsent made better neighbors, all things considered.

But things were different now. Now she had a reason to be upon the Source and not trapped in this hellish wasteland. Every moment spent stuck in the Void was another fleeting moment or more lost on the Source, the clock ticking against her. She had no way of knowing how time was flowing between the two shards, much as she had no exit until a rift might appear and she would find herself fighting against all the other ravenous monsters of the Void vying to escape. And so, like them, she wandered directionlessly, stumbling over the wreckage. She couldn’t remember the last ray of light she’d seen, or more importantly, the last morsel of aether she’d consumed. It was a ravenous hunger that consumed every part of her, mind and body, until she struggled to think of anything else. Starved and alone in the empty hellscape of blackness, it was difficult to keep a grip on reality. How many Voidsent had she fended off? How far had she roamed, searching for a glimpse of light? She had no idea how much time had passed since her arrival. She wondered how much more she must endure before she might find a way out. It was then she saw something in the nothingness that made her stop in her tracks, a familiar silhouette in the nothingness, tall and dark, black hair cascading to his shoulder, violet eyes cutting through the shadows. “Master,” she gasped, sinking down to her knees upon the dirt. He strode toward her, bending down to grasp her chin in his hand as the Miqo’te peered up at him. “So you were pathetic enough not only to be struck down, but to get yourself trapped here. Then again, I suppose it is where you belong,” came the familiar voice, coloring the words all the more cruel. She winced, smacking his hand away from her face. “No! I belong with you!” “With me? What makes you think that I want you by my side? That you deserve to be there?” he asked, arching one eyebrow as he gazed down at her. “Did you think I want you back? That I came here to rescue you?” “But… but I thought--” she stammered, feline ears drooping. “Thought what? That you were something more to me than a tool to further my ends? More than a lab experiment I found some, mm… extra uses for?” “Yes!” Shade growled, pushing herself to her feet. “You know that I am more than that!” “Yes, perhaps you’re right. A leech on my aether. A thorn in my side. A tax on my time and patience. Does that sound better?” he asked, glowering down at her. “Master!” she hissed, reaching forward to grasp his sleeve, but he shook her off and knocked her away back onto the dirt. “You believe I am in love with you because I fucked you? Haven’t you learned by now? Did you really think it would be different this time? That I wouldn’t get bored of you just like all the others?” he began to pace a circle around the woman as he interrogated her. “You prrromised!” she snarled. “This is not real! You are not real!” “I am as real as can be, my dearheart. Did you truly believe you could keep my attention?” his deep voice carried a mocking note of pity. “Who could ever care for you? You are nothing.” “Stop it! Go away!” her ears folded, palms pressing over them, flattening them to her skull. “You don’t belong in my world. You don’t belong anywhere,” his words somehow rang clear despite her attempts to muffle them, his face void of any emotion save for the disgust and disdain he felt for her. “We would all be better off if you ceased to exist, don’t you think so, my dearest?” Shadiyah squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head, anything to block him out. “You are not him! You are not real! Leave me!” She gave up her vain efforts to silence his words, her hands slipping down instead to wrap her arms around herself, fingers digging into her shoulders, tearing the skin. “There is nothing I have wanted more, my Mistress.” When her eyes snapped open, there was no trace of the man left behind, and she scrambled to where he had once stood, grabbing only a handful of sand. “Melifce… do not leave me here,” her whimpering plea went unheard.

@shadiyah-ffxiv, @of-darkness-and-dreams​

[theshroudwolf]

Prompt 13: Oneirophrenia

Emerging from the surface of the ceruleum filled vat, Chris gasped for air as the volitile fuel permeated his body. Ingesting a potentially fatal amount is rather easy, so sudden immersion within the vats is almost certain death. But the young teen found strength to swim to the surface and the edge, his friend with him struggling to stay afloat as well could not and he sank below the surface. Chris was not to fall this day as he pulled himself from the vat and out, falling a considerable distance to the ground, a blue wet splash as he his the dirt.

The Garlean soldier on duty to guard the ceruleum tanks watched on as one of the two he pushed in would emerge and laughed at the boy, citing that he got what he deserved for trespassing.

Chris heard nothing but the garbled noise of horrible hallucinations at the deep soak and inhalation of the fuel. His white hair and yellow eyes began to turn a deep blue and green respectively as the ceruleum permeated his body. Everything in his sight was a blur and contorted image, every sound muffled and distorted, getting worse and worse by the second as his skin began to purple. Crawling away from the vats, in his delusional mind he was certain he was calling for help, but only thing to come out were gutteral sounds and groans.

The guard watched on with amusement at the young Ala Mhigan boys suffering, but his face turned to disgust an Ala Mhigan man came running from just around the bend nearby.

"Christoff! Son! Hang on boy!" His father, a tall and stout man, grabbed his son, his body spasming and limbs flailing as if he was still trying to crawl, like a autonomous flight response. With a glow from his hands, his father began to esuna the poisoning from his son as quickly and powerfully as he was able. The guard aware shouting at him to cease at once in the name of the Emperor. Ala Mhigan in birth, conscripted citizens due to pledged fealty to the Emperor, but despite being ordered, he refuses to acknowledge the demand and continues to do what he can to purge the ceruleum poisoning from his son.

"Hang on, please! Come what may, I will not give up and you can't either. Fight son. Please!" Tears in the fathers eyes as a bullet richochets off the ground nearby, a warning shot from the guards gunblade and another verbal demand to halt. Both of which were ignored.

Slowly the bluing of his skin began to dissipate returning his skin to a more normal color. The spell starting to strain as the constant flow of aether was taxing. But he did not yield. Chris was able to focus slightly better as the toxin left his body and the first clear image he was able to see was his fathers smile and sudden painful expression as the guards gunblade pierced his chest.

"Under penalty of disobedience, your sentence is death." The guard was far too happy to speak those words as several rounds were fired into his chest killing him near instantly.

The healing wave stopped and as the blade was removed, blood poured out onto Chris's body as his father slumped over him. The guard looked on seeing Chris was still dangerously close to death and figured to let him suffer during his thought to be believed last moments.

----------

Twenty five years later as Chris shaves the blue beard stubble from his chin, green eyes looking in the mirror, he looks at his clean shaven face and stares a moment. Exhaling as a memory he didn't care for surfaced he left the wash room and found a bottle of whiskey, drinking directly from it. "Thank you dad." He raises the bottle in the air.

[reikomizuno]

FFXIVWrite Enty 13: Oneirophrenia

Hands reached forward, tears trailing down her cheeks.

"One thousand and one... one thousand and two... one thousand and three..." She counted, the hands pressing on his chest.

"Breathe... breathe.... BREATHE!" A scream was let out, hands now punching the man's chest, blood pouring out of his mouth.

"Please... please... I can't go on without you." Her tone turned weak, calm tears becoming deep sobs.

Heart in her chest felt like it was beating up her throat, the banging sound loud in her ears, making her deaf.

Fingers clutched on him, as she remembered something- his gift to her, one she kept but refused at the same time. Every fiber of her being screamed no. Every teaching she had endured over the years, every word her mother uttered with that icy, judging tone of hers.

But she knew, deep down she knew she had to do it.

❃

The woman raised her glazed eyes from the books as she noticed she was sitting in her library- not in some ruins for who knows how long. Her hands was still on her notebook, the ink from her quill dripping onto the paper, creating a small, black pool. The man from her memories was long gone, she didn't remember when their last meeting was. A hand rose to feel her cheeks, the tears running down from them, as if memories were just lived. Then she realized her other hand was full, eyes slowly turning to it, staring at her palm.

The gift, he had given her, one she held so dear to her heart. But refused at the same time.

Once again, got pinned behind the ribbon of her coat.

It may have been three days and three night of straight studying, if she was remembering things so vividly. Perhaps it is time for sleep, she thought to herself, getting up to stare out of the window.

Where was he now?

Was he looking after himself?

When would they meet again?

Maybe? Soon?

Hopefully?

[chocoblep]

#13: Theater of the Mind

((Trigger warning for several things on this one: Body Horror, Torture, Murder))

The space was dark; unbelievably, unbearably dark. The oppressive silence that surrounded him was infuriating--if he could just hear some snippet of the outside world, get some clue as to where he was, maybe he could get out of here and warn someone, anyone, of the person who had captured him. Who had captured him…? Try as he might, whenever he tried to recall a face or a voice, even a smell, all he came up with was some blurry approximation that could have been anyone.

Dirty fingers flexed against the cool floor, and the resultant scratch of nails on smooth stone seemed to bounce around him and amplify. It was a trick of the room, no doubt. Shifting his weight only brought about the same result, the rough swish of fabric coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. He was hungry. Thirsty. Tired… so tired, but every time he began to drift off, he heard a giggle from some long-lost child, or saw a face that he knew belonged to the dead.

He knew, because he killed them. He knew, because he remembered all of his kills.

This one’s name was Kellis. He couldn’t have been more than five turns old, fresh-faced, pale, and blonde, with dimples that would make anyone melt when he smiled. He watched from the darkest corner of the pitch-dark room, peeking out to laugh at the man when the man tried to fall asleep. Kellis told him that he was a bad papa. That he had failed him, and failed Easton, and failed Dillon and Phineas and Leiland and--

“STOP!” he shouted, his voice booming through the quiet. The laughing continued. “Stop, or so help me I will flay you alive!”

“Oh, no,” said the child. “I am not the one who is being flayed alive.”

The man had to squint to take in the light that suddenly flooded the room. In walked a man--a Miqo’te with a set of precision instruments meant for surgical procedures. He wore a white jacket and a pair of nice pants, and his curly hair had been pulled back into a sensible little half-tail. He drank in the Miqo’te’s features.

“Ah, you are awake,” the Miqo’te said with a smile on his thin lips. “This is good; it means I won’t wake you with your treatment this time.”

This time? Had he met this man? He struggled and failed to remember the face. He should have; his mismatched eyes were quite striking, green and gold and luminous even in the bright light. The room itself was completely bare, not even a shadow of a doorway to tell him what sort of room he was in. He made to speak again, brought his hand up to indicate--indicate what, exactly? Whatever rational thought remaining to him fled with the sight of his hand.

His skinless, scabbing hand. He held it up and inspected it, feeling the dull pain for the first time in a while, and then held the other up and looked at that, too. It was almost as if his skin had simply been peeled back and away, all the way up to his elbows. Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and he looked up to find the Miqo’te donning a pair of gloves--gloves made of his own skin.

He screamed as the Miqo’te brandished a sharp, wicked-looking knife, and though he tried to scramble away, he was frozen to the spot. “I think today we cut out your tongue,” the Miqo’te said as he leaned in to do just that. Pain, blood, choking...

M’rath sat quite comfortably in an oversized armchair, one leg draped over an armrest and his tail hanging down to brush its tufted end just barely over the floor. His mismatched eyes were fixed on a man on the other side of the room, who was bound just as surely by his shackles as he was by his own mind. The tension in the man’s form, wrought from agonizing sensations and the warped reality of his thoughts was in stark contrast to his cool, collected Miqo’te counterpart. Though there was not a single mark on the man, surely he felt every bit of what he was experiencing in his head right now.

The man was a murderer and a child molester, and he was giving to this man what he’d pried from his memories--the removal of the tongue, the flaying of the hands. It was only right and fair that he suffer this torture for at least as many times as he’d killed a child.

With rats like these, an eye for an eye didn’t cut it.

But maybe he’d make the bastard live through taking an eye next.

[hiraethwyl]

Oneirophrenia

It had been a while since he’d spiked his own tea. Hallucinating had been pleasant only half the time when the only voices in his head were cranky elementals. These days, with the additional cacophony rattling around in there, it generally seemed like a terrible idea to add drugs to the mix. Especially when he was barely keeping it together as it was. Tonight, he didn’t care. Too many things in his life seemed to be converging into disaster. It was all getting too loud. Too overwhelming. If he kept the dosage just right, maybe he could drown it all out for a moment. Let the tension melt out of his frame and sleep without dreaming the dreams of a life he never lived or deaths he probably didn’t die. Who knew, honestly. Angel didn’t seem interested in divulging any of the secrets of his soul-- not that Lyrin’a had asked. It seemed the more prudent thing not to.

A bit like knowing your future, it didn’t tend to do your sense of self much good. He had the good sense at least to make sure he was comfortable, to lay back on his own bed after he’d downed the dream ink laced tea, stare up at the ceiling as his lamp cast shadows that danced with the light. His fingers stroked the soft blanket beneath him. Tactile enjoyment was immediately mesmerizing, especially when already large pupils were blown wide as the drug took hold. Two dark pools where pale iris had been, blinking up at the waving shapes and shadows above him. Watching them turn to birds, then morph again into more familiar forms. Ones he knew. Loved. But they’d destroyed those forms, hadn’t they? Even strung out he remembered that. They were more frightening as faceless shadows, lurking in the corners of rooms.  He shouldn’t still see Elias when he thought of Crane. He’d moved past that. Hadn’t he?

Fingers curled into the blankets beneath him, eyes flicking sightlessly above him in time with quickened breaths. This had been a mistake. 

The shadows rolled, unfocused eyes blurring them into one long serpentine form, black and roiling, all midnight scales and teeth, malice and discord. Discord. How did he know what that dragon looked like? Because Angel knew. So he knew. They knew. 

They?   The question felt like a bell in an empty room. Was he that far gone already? How much longer? How much longer until there was nothing left? 

You’re afraid, aren’t you?  Why did his hallucination have Isolvar’s black velvet voice? Keep swallowing it down, little cat. Eventually you’ll choke. Then where will all that effort go? 

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

[thevoilinauttheory]

High

[ FFxivWrite2021 Prompt 13: Oneirophrenia ]

[ Content Warnings: drug usage ]

==

The daytime was always the best for this, where he could lay down on a bench and stare at the sky - all of the bright colors that made life a little more worth living. Of course, he’d close his eyes and the waves would be gone when he awoke, it was never a sad goodbye as much as it was a disappointment to see it leave… though he knew it’d still be there the next day.

Day one was in Ul’dah - where he didn’t want to leave the city just yet. He found a nice place to relax - as nice as a place could be, considering that he was wearing dark clothes in the middle of the desert - and stuck a small tab of paper under his tongue, then waited. When he could feel the world’s troubles lift, he took to watching one point in the sky, then smiled at the shapes and patterns that filled themselves in; the beauty of bright colors, making the world repaint itself for his enjoyment. Of course, watching was on one thing - he wanted to move as well. He got himself up slowly and took to the roads, wandering outside into the dirt and sand - might as well make it to the next city. He enjoyed his walk immensely. Many people don’t, with how hot it was here - *he* usually didn’t. The gravel felt like rain beneath his shoes, however, and the dirt that made up his path were the clouds that gave some brief measure of peaceful and fleeting power. The sky was the ocean, and he was the sun.

Day two was in Gridania. He passed out at the inn once he had made it, somehow managing to convince the innkeep that he was sober enough to purchase a room for a night. He turned in his room key and trudged himself into the world. It was greyer than the day before, he knew it would be, he expected it, and still a let down it was. That the world looked like this to the average person, how dreary and somewhat bleak. He went out into the forest, wandered around the areas he knew were safe (lest some unknown entity take advantage of his uncaring mind), and popped another tab of paper under his tongue. He kept walking until the color green had never looked so beautiful before, until he could feel his legs telling him: “settle down, right here; make a home for us in the comfort of the grass”. So he did. He made a home for himself in the comfort of the grass, under the shade of massive boughs, watching the leaves rustle shapes against blue and clouds. He was a bug here - insignificant, without purpose, but still here. He could feel the dark of the woods creeping at the edges, sneaking up on him, waiting for him to be truly at peace to swallow him whole. He would keep the monsters at bay, today, he wouldn’t succumb to them. He stood back up to take control again, making his way back to the city - but not without stopping to smell the petals, take in how wonderful life must be here to the people who had grown accustomed to the shadows over their shoulders, watching their every move for one that stepped just slightly out of line. It was to the airship this time, where he let the lights of the world fade with a nap there.

Day three was in Limsa. Well, almost in Limsa. He wasted no time in gathering up an inn room, falling asleep properly, then greeting the next morning with another tab. Before it really had a chance to settle in, he took the ferry over to Costa del Sol to enjoy the rest of his day with the shimmering lights of each ocean wave. The sand felt perfect between his fingers when he found the best place to sit, back against a palm tree. He could close his eyes and really *feel* the waves he heard, without even touching them. He could feel the push and pull without the water, the sway of dry land and the fickle directions of the sands’ movements. The shapes of clouds reflected that of the ocean above them, textures that looked closer than they were. His fingers dug into the sand again, grains hugging each one. It was soft, a blanket for the dirt and grass; an annoyance to many, but comfort to him. It wasn’t enough, though, he wanted to remember this feeling deep in his skin. He pulled a pipe and lighter from his bag and took it up to the next level. The sky and ocean were blue; he could see the rubies under the waves, however, which made it purple; and the clouds which made the sky white. The colors blend into one, and the pulse of each wave brought another coat of love-colored paint. The movement of each body, of each animal, each ship, each fish - it was all another color. He leaned back and felt the roughness of his natural chair, the trunk of the tree whose noises brought the most calm; the music the wind brought, the pipes to the drums of the waves’ beat. He could sleep here, under the star-struck colored sky, love colored waves, and comfort colored sand. He could feel the hug of the gentle breeze telling him not to go yet, to relax just a little while longer. He closed his eyes… and gave in.