fearholic

[fearholic]

Fanfiction is great because you can see so clearly how people learn to write.

Some people, it's clear, learned almost entirely through absorbing the world around them. Grammar and punctuation will be all over the place, spellings are approximate, but the voice of the narration will come through so clearly. You can hear the dialect of the people around them as of they're telling the story. It's not a written story, it's a transcription of how they talk in their day to day life.

Some people learned through reading a gazillion books as a kid. Grammer and spelling will be rock solid, formatting occasionally based on the single tab of physical books rather than the double tab of online scrolling, but dialogue is often stilted and overly formal. You might notice a lack of contractions and very rigid rules they made for consistency that actually have a lot more flexibility than they think. They tend to have a fantastic grasp of sentence flow, though.

And other people formally learned how to write. This could be anywhere from taking school classes seriously because they enjoyed writing stories as a kid to literal certifications and jobs in the field. Grammer is flawless. Punctuation is triple checked. Foreign words are in italics. Characters have distinct voices. But their self indulgence is tempered by perfectionism. They know precisely what they want from a fic. Authors notes often feature mutterings about their happiness with the chapter. Kaomojis often appear! They seek a style to their writing, and it makes for some wonderfully clever plots! These are the ones most likely to get fun with formatting!

And some people.... Some people examined it all. They dissect dialogue, people watch, cross reference behaviours and compare characters to people irl. You can tell almost immediately who had formative experiences with Terry pratchett and/or ghibli, because it's these people. While others see writing as fun, expression, craft, they see it as art. Plain and simple. Sure, the grammar is occasionally sacrificed on the altar of creative freedom, and the occasional sentence might miss a full stop, but these people seem to self reflect on themselves as part of the art making process. On occasion, these people have the most masterful grasp of dialogue and invocation and hand sewn characterisations. Formatting is pretty standard because all the focus is on the actual words. These fics can be edited to the moon and back!

All of these can vary wildly in forethought and quality, and betas can often catch individual problems before they hit post, but just. Isn't it so cool? What's that one Oscar Wilde quote about every mask just being another fragment of yourself?

Did you recognise yourself?

[fearholic]

It kills you to think nothing in this world belongs to you. Weaved and worn out. Putting yourself a little on edge in hopes of the abrupt salvation coming to graze your shoulder and change your mind about some things. Oh, but you will never change. Stuck in a loop of your own doubts and disappointments and dreads since you believe you are entitled to possess things without getting your hands dirty. You are of naivety, not of reverence. Your purity comes from filth, you are a lousy liar, you want to be a so-called sweetheart but you've got a sour heart. And still, I adore you—despite all. You are a star pretending to be larger than the space you surround with. But you've become a supernova that explodes right in my mouth.

[fearholic]

Mathematical calculations were never my forte but often the golden ratio comes around in every endless cycle of sizing people up as if it is my strongest suit—human scrutinizer, human-izer. This keen sense of curiosity and childlike interest have always approached the getting-to-know stages like escapades with something to gain. RPGs with good endings and bad endings except there are no restarts, no revival points. Suddenly, I am good at counting the number of days in which figures would start to trip over their words and admit I am the game changer, the wise subduer, the conniving jester. In the tip of my finger which traces the measurements of their ribs, I've memorized the number of times when their breathing hitched. Humans are of such vulnerability; otherwise, you are an outcast or an apathetic nobody. Sensations mattered more than anything else, doesn't it? Compatibility requires mutual pleasure, sex requires two bodies pressed together; the inner thoughts tossed at the back of their heads. Oh, but I do not believe in one night stands. Sex, to me, is more than a physical nudge. Sex is everything as it spills the loads, the thoughts, the regrets, and the whims. On the verge of tears is when you will get to know someone better than initial assumptions. And maybe that is why I was not good at mathematical equations. One cannot count the stream of tears. I cannot count the bodies I slept with that I hadn't wept over for.

[fearholic]

My body is spilling youth. I spit it with the blood on my knuckles that did not bled out of violence but out of consequential respite. Apparently, rest is a luxury that isn't granted but earned. She gets to decide whether I am worthy of relief or worthy of being subjected to a petty comparison in the absent face of her first violator. She gets to decide who I shall be, a ghost to chase, and then another day, I was set free. I was a child and a concept and a threat and a thing that grows faster than the speed of light. I am the miracle, the curse, and the thing to look forward to. I am where time ages on the skin, where flesh meets rot, where a kiss is a passing reward and where a love is merely a matter to wrap up for the day. No returns, no look-backs, no anything but forward. I learned that the best way to sift people is to fuck them but never love them because the ache of sex stays in the physical and love is just a crazy notion and our brains are delusional to call it a pain and that evidence should always be something that can be seen on the surface and not what the brain or the heart tells you. So, alright. Maiming bodies is the evidence of this love, because there was contact, because there was cling, there was proof. Though, at the end of the day, it did not mean anything. What difference comes from claws to nails, teeth to bites, anger to forgiveness, youth to non-youth, when everything hurts just the same? She would set up the table for three so I would be reminded of the generosity, and it would remind her of the one that wasn't there. A father of deafening silence and a mother of unwanted presence. I often split the plate in half and shove the remains down to my stomach, and then the cycle repeats. I grew up a year each day. Grew up as a better man than that good-for-nothing, but never a better man to her liking. I grew rebellious and was treated like a threat more than a leverage. She has no need for little things that cannot be bent over in her will. I learned it from her, and I learned the act of flee from my father. My body is spilling youth but it stayed in the chamber like a shell. My soul slithers most of the time, garnering experiences and taking in the world's most exotic flavours. I learned deceit right at my face, learned façades and women and literature and acting. I have been acting for the past 13 years that I wonder if these words were soars of freedom or a holler for help. Perhaps it was off-script, perhaps, the drama has long since ended, perhaps perhaps perhaps. I know I didn't have to make sense in order to be understood. I was taught that there is greater comprehension in the mess; it's just that, most people do not taste the spill. They do not clean up after anyone, but they would like a stain like mine to call it a shoe decoration. Perhaps, someone would kiss me and leave me for it—someone would love me and leave me for it because they cannot offer anything other than tenderness. What even is tenderness, does it hurt good, too?

[fearholic]

My devotion draws a dagger, not quite settled in penetrating the foe—but centered to puncture whatever lies past my ribcage. The idea of you probes my mind like a parasite, hovering in every home of knowledge to be subjected to change as it takes charge to consume my entirety commencing from within, contaminating my senses and eradicating the articles of my rationality.

How these fleshes are made of delicate lumps, instead, bleeds and seeps poetry in every nibbled surface / your teeth, definitely the concept of godhood / as I offer my utmost tenderness, bruised knees in constant worship, clasped fingers in hopes of digging its tips down to your body.

The phantoms reuniting in delight. If I was made to be a soldier, I shall crack your defenses wide. Lay down all your layers bit by bit like a fabric, and make the most out of the remaining time we have to play around the battlefield. But then, If I was made to be a king, I shall not offer the crown nor the throne, but the reputation and its dignity. (I will love you like a peasant, filthy and unruly, pounding like an animal overwhelmed by its primal instincts).

But we are way past the analogies—we require something pristine to get our sordid hands on. We need not love, but what comes after it. Didn't we always begin when things have come to an end? Boundlessly overflowing beyond the measures of the limit.

[fearholic]

by Cig © fearholic

[fearholic]

To relentlessly starve like this—you could tell already. I found the substitutes off-putting (faces after faces, names after names) but the pleasure isn't similar, nothing comes second to our primal agreement, after all. In a certain whiff, I briefly framed your silhouette in the stature of a similar caliber: (a.) An intellectual, (b.) An audacious, (c.) A certified fucktard. But his arrogance wasn't your arrogance. His were a pair of narcissistic irises, and yours? The look of an equal standing. The look of something . . . the look of, indeed, something else. But even so, within these extensive observations, not a hint of where you might be. The distance must've been self explanatory. Inches of our skins would lead me to pressing you against the concrete wall, so I guess this loss—was somehow a safer method to lead you astray from my grasp. But I yearn for you, I yearn for you, my fingers on your jugular (hoping you'd know what it means). Tending the wounds and other ways to make up for the hurt. Are you spilling yet on the graveyard of your choice? You told me the desire to reside in the cemetery of hopeful consolations, and we laughed about it with the same brand of cigarette lingering in our teeth, lit up by the same lighter, from the same pack, from the same pocket, from the same lips. All those indirect contacts, I took pleasure in. But the ache has reached my bones now and I am searching for you. Come back to me, I don't mind even the tiniest portion of yourself, just be back soon, to me, in these trembling arms, or else— Or else.

[fearholic]

(1) stifling setting & three-piece suits, an ambience opulent of tobaccos dipped in cognac that he exudes. a country of deleterious kinds, each street becoming filled with filth, adorned with putrescent human carcasses in a ditch. gouged eyes and calculated slaughters. roadways and road signs flickering in breathing cities. society with pretentious disguise, a brand new paint of plights.

(2) россия никогда не спит. (russia never sleeps.)

(3) he is watching, he is breathing—oscillating between the borderline of a perpetrator’s and an affiliate’s. the backbone of the nation’s self-circulating legislation and forfeiture. indeed, spoken like a true dictator—words of hollow encouragement in disguise to diminish the worth of the mass.

[fearholic]

Maunders in a list. Do not take it to heart.

(1) your silence is a tacit indication, endless categorical calculations to put me within the fabrics of your expectancy, dressed in the same exact tailored proportions leaving no gaps & no failures; because for you, a bird shall fly and never rest, a tale remaining as such, trees in the withering ending point. that's your level of simplicity while i'm the constant opposition.

(2) best better i fuck the agony out of your system and perhaps you'd let me keep the change when you pay me some loyalty. hypocrisy is everyone's language and it belonged to my encyclopedia.

(3) smoke to taste the opium, not to look like a noir film antagonist, you pretentious fuck (points finger at self).

(4) the decline of the heartfelt belles-lettres needed further scrutinization due to the performative writings that have been circulating around. chivalry might not be dead, but the essence of literature is. countless leitmotifs spread like wildfire; reigning no novelty amongst many others, two for the cannibalism, two for the women tribulation, three to five for the rest—ah, god. the blasphemy. ah, goodness. another sacrilegious embodiment. but what goes beyond them if not for its mere repetition, the reprocessed outlooks that still meets the similar ends? what goes beyond it, the retelling? what kind of peculiarity do you speak of if not a single piece of your craft is peculiar?

(5) a certain name haunts you but a grave is a grave and it's caged in the yard. no dreads should seep, there's nothing that would come and get you, darling, so why fret?

(6) don't you want to gouge the prying eyes? like leeches & maggots that constantly crawl its way up your back, they never cease to exist.

(7) my recent catalog of kinks—bondage, gun play, exhibitionism. sounds like an ingredient for a capital execution, this is too fucking funny.

(8) my essence bleeds in you like an influential performance. my intellect in your forgery; my stature in your outline, perhaps—even the length of my cock(iness) too. but where's the thrill in that? going around with excessive speeches is but a projection of what you lacked; sorry not sorry, flightless flock of crows. fraudulent wings can never reach the heights of an egoistic.

(9) to minimize the relentless approach is to hoard all these filthy thoughts; but your face is a reminder why the lust ravages all the rational senses each and every evening.

(10) to be conquered without even being recognized as a conquest—that's the tragedy of such dedication, no? well anyway, i am quite adept at performing the face of a man who yields for romances; but it's mere intellectual performance. empty but thought-indulgent, my heart was indeed at war, though. but most for ambitions.

(11) there's fun in my teeth and i inject the delight in your skin like a morphine, darling. watch it circulate in your nerves and seep along your very veins; the highs are my gift to you.

(12) go feast on my remains like a grand discovery and a fucking self-growth contributor.

[fearholic]

the war stirs in my ribs, heart tyrannized and steered by your plutocratic methodologies as your being was reigned as the wise subduer; caesar & pharaoh in comparison, but a tyrant is a tyrant and i am the system. you spit commands to my chest but i breathe you like a treaty with no beneficial outcomes. your strategy against my acumen; like a mind to a heart, a heart that already belongs to you without its proper acknowledgements.

[fearholic]

the secret brews in my throat, and somehow, you attempted to cradle my trampled heart with words you knew i'd yearn to hear; but what goes around comes around. there was never a line that was drawn, and you have the habit of treading in boundaries much to your privileges. constantly smoothing & tying up loose ends by creating more knots to try and puppeteer my perceptions more effectively, you work as the mastermind here; but a mastermind doesn't feed on the irrational—keeping things in check that are far behind your schemes should be the least expected course of your action; but you dragged the past & spit such sentiments, just who are you behind that cool, demeaning exterior? you treated my being as a laughingstock but you're prolonging the fun of twisting, dissolving & tormenting me out of all the figures you've had that wanted to fuck you. are you playing by favourites, ones that gets on your nerves the best? or perhaps, i've gotten that far deep in your senses in order for you to be acting so inapt to your usual flavors; and you decided a forgery of several cover ups to bring me down in ways you couldn't?

am i the centerpiece? have i made to become one? you, yourself, are spiraling under the rugs of push-and-pulls, hoping the reluctance and the relief doesn't become apparent on your face. the more you probe my wounds to scar me deep, the more i'd spill the streaming blood of this fucked up affection. because i do find you amusing with a face, a thinking, and a reasoning like that. i thrive on the stain, the arrogance, and the narcissistic tendencies too, but you always liked how these things convert into softer opposites under your gaze. you fancy the idea of changing those around, and you ought to raise me as your customizable contraption who bends & breaks for you. but to what extent would it take until you admit these are what your heart speaks for?

that you're only able to step an inch close because you trust me enough not to puncture you with tirades unlike the rest who have completely turned their backs against you?

[fearholic]

cheers to the glasses of hennessy and the liquor courage, your pupils are dilated under the sprays of neon party lights as your chest palpitates on the same beat as the blaring rhythmic system of the sounds. i found you slumped in the bathroom hallway, hair tousled and wet in an attempt to wash off the pill's influence that someone spiked your drink. you wore an agitated expression matched with an artificial ease, the smoke in my cigarette soon reaching your face as i advanced closer to your direction.

your eyes are gradually failing to differentiate things, your morality being stripped like the clothes of the majority in our line of sight. i asked about your state to which you replied with a shrinked grin, "i'm alright, i'm alright," and you sounded melodic in the chaos of the dj's scrapyard of music. next, your hand moved like a claw and you treat my leather jacket like a prize in the glass machine, fisting it with playful force—only for your lips to crash in mine as my cigarette fell completely still on the ground, the flare eventually dying out.

inebriation enters the sensation not because of how much i drank in the same night, but because of how the hennessy lingers in your mouth with your attempt to scrub them off by consuming me like one. i became a dumbfounded redhead in the middle of the hallway with you, and people have this look that matches your impulses. the second you failed to gasp for air to fill your lungs, your knees faltered right in front of me. indicating the completely knockout state, and my heart pounding loudly.

i leaned towards you then. fuck these figureheads who threw a repulsive glance at the poor boys on the floor. i sealed my mouth with yours in my own accord, tasting your tongue for the last time before disappearing into the sea of faceless crowds. i left the venue and lit up another stick to hide whatever my lips may have expressed after the incident.

i used to smoke my cigarettes with guilt, but now i smoke them with your name hammering my ribs.

[fearholic]

and thus, the cyber angel transcends heaven, hell and earth; the expected becoming that makes a saint out of bodily components from rot. a porcelain luster which glistens & listens to such commands, leaving no room for outright defiance and entering the state of hedonistic indulgences. one with wings in wide-spread, legs tangled in golden threads with skin barely touching any surface. limbs subjected to the ridicule of spacious shame, neck bared & throbbing from the nibbles his master had a teeth to sink in. this little angel hollers in sinful gospels, delectable cheeks wet from tears. stains of human slick all over its thighs, bruised outline of the bondage in its joints and mouth and chest berries—

the master is a cruel man; a devil's advocate, but he is a man of taste. capturing the prettiest one alive using the massacre of many kindred spirits beneath the heaven's branches, the weakness to the core. he is a cruel man but his violence is congenial; lustful, boundless, beyond anticipation. the master cracks the whip in the crisp of mortal air, making the doll twitch not in senseless fright but pure expectancy. its wings began to tremble desperately; flapping on each side as the thong laps on its waist, followed by the pathetic pool of scandalous release that stained the master’s boot.

the captured shrinks in despair. mouth watering and peckish of the master’s touch. and whose wish should not be granted? above the heavenly principles and below the seven rings of inferno, the master is much more wicked. fingers tugging at the thick knots, only to fondle the swollen nipples the angel has left to dispense—now, indeed, as reddish as popped cherries and as pink as blooming blossoms. it shook like a wet leaf from a tree, continuously so, as the master strokes the doll in display by the use of the tongue. from shoulders to nape, and nape to throat. the master traces each outline and customized the captured as a shuddering instrument of a mess; hoping the dignity will bleed back to god and sue the master for theft.

[fearholic]

You ought to be ill-defined; and the reason for such a hazy view of your ipseity must've been compliant to your own desire to be known for being unknown. A contradiction to a contradiction. You carry the pride of being nonexistent; away from any societal categories regardless of the weight that it could bring to your sanity. You leave no proof of your existence, no traces of your steps, no remnants nor residues in sight.

(But is this really what you wish for?)

An all-knowing outcast—somewhat untouched by masses, with profound understanding of the world you believe none would've perceived to further comprehend apart your entirety. Is this what you wish for? To strip yourself off of the shallowness of things and live like the same God you loathe in isolation, above all else? You are neither a transient concept nor a divine.

You've come to be an unknown entity to the world,

and seemingly even unfamiliar to yourself.

What else are you besides from being a complete nothing?

[fearholic]

FILTH, MAGNETS, SCIENCE AND ART.

We're made with everlasting filth, something like stains in someone's hands that were hard to wash off. Something vulgar, something unusual in a world default. Our bodies were pressed together like magnets but dysfunctional—friction doesn't exist in our science, my darling. We refuse to determine every logic just like how we refuse to take our hands off to each other. There were eyes on the window, that's why I had the urge to put my lips on your neck, sink down my teeth, and carve my name on your skin. We sully our names, no one wants our history so we wrote it on the walls. You had your back on it—your fragments created the abstract we called art as we melted on the same wall, again, staining it like it was ours. You smelled like paint, depicting your madness when no one's around. Before, there was dread about jumping into conclusions. But I found myself on the top of your figure, I found myself inside like a voice on a seashell. I found out my tongue belongs to your mouth and it should stay there. I have things I couldn't share with you, my darling. But tonight, I will divulge the hideous part of my intentions. That in every moment we collide, my world gets shaken up—the definition of my words becoming their opposites. The stain becomes like an oath, the science rewriting itself. Art is breaking my bones and twisting it to be in the same shape as my desire for you.

[fearholic]

(1) Since when did your name lose all of its tenderness? That, I cannot remember. It seemed that the mere utterance of your name became an offense to be hoarded at the back of my throat, forming a lump to habituate myself in. I tirelessly gather the residues of your influence, remaining steadfast to what tacit devotion that has made it into. (2) Your eyes are a heap of resentment, and you gaze intently thinking I would fall short in notice. That's the part of the scheme—to produce loathsomeness, breeding hatred layer by layer because the intensity of its outcome has always been our definition of intimacy. That it felt less of a love if it doesn't inflict such pain, that we were never content unless we bleed in the process. You must've despised me down to the core when I started acting indifferent to this configuration and chose to reach out my hand in unfamiliarity. And the thing is, you loathe things beyond your anticipation. (3) A mere artistic loss, as I may often call it. But writing became an enterprise that produces not an ounce of collected creativity—but rather a product of outward cowardice wrapped in fancy words. I no longer dwell in such artistic expressions, what I do is to confess the regret for what it is. I am no good man nor a wise head everyone ought for me to be, I just learned the language of deception and twist measureless sentiments in my own accord. You may find comfort in the presence I emit, but once I'm out of sight—you'll know what kind of repercussions I just created that shouldn't matter, but have mattered still. (4) We are cut in the same cloth, this is but a series of sequential returns after sequential departures. Tell me, my darling—if the next step was meant for me to take this time. Tell me you would be there by the time the bottle's pointe spins in my direction. Even though your words would only be superficial, I'll melt them in my mouth like sour candies in striking wrappers. Tell me, my darling—that this won't be our final end. Tell me there's more to it, that you want me back and we will return to the starting line. (5) Fear of the growing fear itself, the frantic horror and the purest form of karma. Three things carved in a piece of paper but written in a single name. A circulating discomfort by the fingertips, touching every skin only for them to feel like yours. Paranoia—an endless chant. My tongue lays flat around your teeth, and tastes the bitterness off of your mouth. I am afraid you taste so different now, but I couldn't say it out loud. That's the fear, I feel the horror. The karma of watching you melting to someone else. (6) Running further could only leave more footsteps of consequences, yet, we made this the very solution from each other's grip. But the further our feet are inches far from the line, the more it yearns to turn and run back—hence, the cycle begins in our first attempt to put some distance in between. (7) You are my do or die, either my first victory or my final resting place. The latter have happened, far more than the former coming to life. You once told me that you felt like a child growing your teeth again, the first pain of the wound and the last one you have been devoted to—just as much as I am. But we were both children at the same time, hence, I crawl with words and uncertain actions to take. You follow my lead, but neither did I know I was going to lead us astray, leading us to the dead end. I am but a naive child with so much to say. We never grew again, but we did grow apart. A partial blame falls on my shoulders, I could've known better.

7 days of trial-letters to J.

[fearholic]

The Finest Red.

Here's the series of subtle notes tucked in little portions in my study. At first, I never minded the drought until his liquid of influence swarmed up my casket (I soaked, and soaked, and drowned eventually). I couldn't care less about the dread of my throat eventually going berserk to call out for his name, but he wasn't here anyway, so I dreamed and dreamed, and I fucked myself with his idea while wearing what his woman would wear, and then, I also dreamed of fucking her to know the feeling that goes around their little world. To be the giver and to be on the receiving end, I did it all by myself. The thought itself makes me high, makes me feel like shit, makes me feel wondrous. All those conflicting sentiments thrusting like a finger in my brain inside out, I would've taken his gun at headshot if he resents me for desiring him like this, and desiring what he has, desiring what he's desiring in all sorts of forms. To be him / to be her / to be like her / to be him to her / to be like her for him, whatever, I want to experience it all. I can't stray from the longing, from the taste, from the admiration, from the bond, from whatever it is that bounds me to him, but here's a thing; it fucking hurts like crazy. His week of absence is a week of my own revelation. I liked my complacency when it comes to driving myself insane when it has his touches. But here's the thing; little ropes and little grips, I don't see a difference. Little hopes and little dreams, I don't see a difference. God, spill him to me until the bottle's the only one left to dry. Spill him to me so I will get polluted by his scent, so I won't start a fire by accepting the lighters' flames of many individuals who wanted to burn my tip. Spill him to me so I will remain whole, I don't care if I lose my function as a burning stick. Spill him to me so I'll just drown and never burn into ashes. Spill him to me, the finest red of it all.