#JOKE. SLASH JOKE. SLASH HUMOROUS SLASH IN JEST

[taibobo]

Happy juneteenth. My f/os are doing this with me

[savethelastdan]

Kagura Week 2020 Day 4: Avarice/Greed

Concept by @dearestpartnerofgreatness​

“So this is what you do for a living.” 

Hands pressed together fingertip-to-fingertip, Kagura bowed her head slightly with a mock-thoughtful hum. The tree’s leaves above her head moved only slightly in the breeze. When she glanced back up through her bangs to look at the monk’s face, it looked deceptively calm. 

The slight tremor in the hand holding his Shakujo staff, however, gave the game away.

Silently, he settled cross-legged on the ground a few feet from the foot of the tree where she herself reclined. His staff, along with the bag of goods that he’d received from thankful customers, settled easily into his lap. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Lady Kagura.” The forced pleasantness in his voice stung her ears. “Usually you are in the village with Rin and Kohaku.”

“I like to travel,” she said, keeping the words close and cutting. “Thought for a moment that I’d been sloppy, after all those human farmers started freaking out about a ‘demonic presence’. But, as it turns out, that’s just a little trick you play. For what?” 

Miroku’s lip quirked. “What do you think? My children need food and clothes. My wife needs to replenish her stores of weaponry. Not to mention armor repairs, medicine, and nice things for Rin and Kohaku.”

What boring prizes. Placing a finger to her chin, Kagura eyed the sack in his lap as though trying to see through it to its contents. “Despite your rather dramatic performance--the scratches on the shrine walls were a nice touch, by the way--don’t you think it’s quite likely you’ll be caught? After all, most demons don’t just disappear when vanquished.” 

“Vengeful spirits do,” he retorted, but the faint few lines forming in his forehead undermined his confidence. “Besides, you don’t seem like the type to judge a man for his exploits, rooted as they are in survival.”

With a snort, she lay back against the tree’s trunk, feeling the rough bark dig in through the many layers of her outfit. “Of course not. I want in.”

Miroku stared at her for a few moments, expression frozen in serenity. “Excuse me?” 

The dark slash of her mouth turned up. “You need a demon to defeat. I’m willing to play the part. So long as we don’t hit the same town twice, we should be able to pull it off easily.” 

Shrewd eyes searched her face for a hint of jest. “I’m afraid any explanation for why you’d want to do so escapes me.” 

“If I help, then you’ll have to split your bounty with me.” Waving a hand at the sack, she added, “Defeating a demon of my caliber, you could inflate the prices handsomely.” 

Miroku released a short, quiet laugh before he could stop himself. Pressing one hand to his mouth in a feigned coughing fit, he sighed, “What an idea…”

“Look.” Kagura pushed herself to her feet. The leaves of the tree shook harder, a few raining down on her shoulders only to be quickly whisked away. “It’s not like I can support myself in any normal way. And it won’t be long before everyone figures out you’re a fake--you don’t exactly have the best reputation to start with.” 

Shuffling about until he matched her standing position, Miroku managed a rueful smile. “I suppose you have a point there. Although I don’t see how choreographing your own defeat would be fulfilling.” 

One shoulder bobbed nonchalantly. “Anything’s fulfilling enough, at the right price.”

“Can’t argue with that, Lady Kagura.” Shouldering the sack, he gave her a deceptively casual nod. “Well, let’s try it and see where it goes…” 

“Wind witch!” Eyes bugging out from his head, Jaken swept his head in a dramatic line from Kagura’s chin to her toes. “Running around with all that nauseating razzle-dazzle again! I bet you’ve been off looting sad little villages in your spare time. Just like a greedy vulture--”  

“Oi, Sesshomaru, I think your little lackey ate some poisonous berries again.” Cutting her eyes in the kappa’s direction, Kagura snapped, “His tongue’s so swollen that I can barely understand half of what comes out of that nosy little beak.”  

From where he sat on the edge of the hill, watching Rin play with Shippo and Kohaku, Sesshomaru didn’t bother to turn around. Kagura and Jaken stuck their tongues out at each other before Kagura turned away, muttering to herself. 

One fingertip ran repeatedly over the column of bracelets gracing her left wrist, letting them slide into each other with delicate clinks. 

“Kagura.” Still facing the opposite direction, Sesshomaru’s voice was as cold and void of urgency as ever. “Your excess in embellishment is distracting.” 

“Huh?” One hand went to shade her eyes, sending the bracelets jangling in the wind. 

Jaken huffed. “He means all the pointless accessories, you stupid witch! All those gaudy little trinkets, as if you have anyone to dress up for!” 

“Why shouldn’t I have nice things if I want them?” Baring her teeth in Jaken’s direction to make him jump, Kagura added, “Besides, I worked hard for these.” 

The magnitude of the kappa’s eye roll could have shifted mountains, but it was true. Just last week, she and Miroku had put together a dramatic death scene that rivaled her actual death scene, just to convince a four-generation family of innkeepers. Her now handsome bracelet collection was the result--the monk always gave her any jewelry he received in payment, since Sango preferred not to wear anything that could accidentally scratch the babies. She’d also scored a pair of earrings, and a Fukurokuju charm that lay cold against her skin on a thinly braided cord beneath her kimonos. 

“It’s noisy.” Sesshomaru stated, shoulders tensing a bit as the wind jostled the silver and jade rings she’d threaded through the holes in her ears. “Take them off.” 

Kagura glared at the back of his head, more than a little tempted to thumb her nose at it. “No. They’re mine, and I’ll wear them if I want to.” 

“Stealing things doesn’t make them yours,” Jaken sniffed, crossing his arms petulantly. Kagura made to grab his staff, so that she could finally put into reality her fantasy of thrashing him about the head with it, but her reflexes were just a touch too slow with the added weight on her arm. 

“If you don’t shut--”

Sesshomaru glanced just over his shoulder. “Does the slayer know her husband has given you such expensive tokens?” 

She nearly fell over and rolled down the hill; from the stretch of Jaken’s wide-open maw, he was even more horrified by her antics than usual. 

“How the fuck did you know that?” 

Gold eyes flicked to each earring, then the subtle line of the necklace cord where it curved behind her neck. “His scent is all over them.” 

“Ew, what the--” It figured, since by the time she met back up with Miroku after her ��demise”, he’d be carrying their payment for a while. Still, did Sesshomaru really think her to be so desperate as to accept gifts from a perverted human man? “Obviously it’s not what you think. The whole thing is just business.” 

“Busi-” Jaken squawked, but this time Kagura was faster. The clunk of his staff as it made contact with his skull was practically melodic; even more so when it was followed by a solid thud, as Jaken fell back into the grass. 

“Seriously.” She met Sesshomaru’s eyes, unconsciously fingering the edge of one earring between her thumb and forefinger. “He didn’t give them to me. It’s more of an...extremely temporary middleman situation. It’s not anything for you to worry about.” 

Turning back around, Sesshomaru muttered something in a low tone that she couldn’t catch. But he didn’t bring up her jewelry again.

Over the next few months, Kagura built up a sizable collection of gaudy little baubles, each of which she made a point to thoroughly wash in the river before wearing. She also ended up with a remarkable amount of darkly-humored inside jokes with Miroku, that served to discomfort pretty much all of their friends whenever they made them in mixed company. 

Jaken still grumbled, calling her greedy and sneaky and all that. But for the price of her new hobby and adornments, Kagura felt confident that she could put up with it. 

[junkyardlynx]

Ch. 1

Looking back, my life has been pretty normal. I mean, my mom and dad love me, I have a good dog, my childhood friend makes me lunches for school a few times a week. I think she might even like me. We end up playing a lot of games. Everything in my daily life has been a mundane kind of blissful.

I came home from class late, the sun melting and dissolving into the purple ink of the night as I closed the door behind me. A thunderous ringing of steel vibrated in my ears from the basement as I crossed the threshold, followed by a hellish roar that would freeze the blood of any mortal man. Digging around lazily in the fridge I pawed at an apple and tugged it free of the bag. Checking my phone, I tugged the stem off absently and took a bite. Man, I love apples.

"Emirus! The vessel. Surrender it, and this world may survive the Opening of the Gates long enough to become something gran-HURK!“ 

he rumbling voice that was crushed earth and molten rock was cut off mid speech, a wet thud barely audible from far below the earth.

Well, this was troubling.

There was a brown spot on my apple.

Frowning, I narrowed my eyes, and a perfect cube of flesh disappeared from the fruit, excising the rot. Man, I really do love apples. A moment later, a slash and shimmer of purple like a hole cut from twilight appeared next to me. From it, a tall and imposing man stepped out, fixing the accents of his clothing before looking upon me. His hair was a pale, radiant blonde, the waves of which fell to his shoulders and his features were sharp but handsome, almost unnaturally so. They bordered on excessively sharp, really, like his existence held the world in contempt at the end of a blade. The man’s presence seemed to demand respect and fealty. Dressed in a swanky black suit with green accents along the breast pocket, cufflinks and button, his eyes blinked once before the smoldering emerald embers bored into me. Wordlessly, I produced another apple after a moment of groping into the fridge and handed it to him. His spare hand shot out, slicing through the air like a blur. Blood flicked off the pale skin, splashing in the sink before it landed softly on my head, stroking my hair with obvious affection.

“Jeal! Welcome home, son.” 

He took a bite of the apple I’d offered, closing his eyes in satisfaction for a long moment before he launched into a flurry of fatherly conversation. 

“Rather taken with apples, aren’t we? How was class, sweet child of mine? Did Sarisa make you lunch again? You can bring her over any time. Sharp as a tack, that girl. Always liked her. Even when she accidentally teleported you into a tar pit for laughing at her when she forgot her chemistry texts. I might have liked her more for that, now that I think about it. Oh, come on, my boy! I jest.“

As my scowl faded, my eyes wandered over dad’s clothes as he bombarded me with his melodic voice, my brow furrowing in concern at a blossoming red stain just above the green accent of his breast pocket. His white cheeks flushed red momentarily as he held one hand to his chest, just above the wound. My father did not get “hurt”. My father was practically invincible, and it wasn’t the idle boast of a dumb kid. My father could tear the heart out of a chimera with a glance. He had, actually. That’s...why I said it.

"Oh, this? Your old man won’t be put down by an enchanted blade or three. Seriously. They talk of “freeing” the Abaranthia soul-plains but conveniently ignore the fact that production of soul dust has increased and that the number of restless spirits is almost zero. Your lineage practices black magic and necromancy for a few millennia and suddenly you’re villains."

I let my father go on as I finished my apple, dropping the core in the trash. For the last week, he had seemed anxious and rushed, and our lessons dragged into the early morning, leaving me precious little time for sleep before class. Time seemed to stop as I considered my words in my head. I didn't really speak often, as people seemed to infer my mood and reactions from body language alone, but when I did...well, it seemed like the world gave me whatever time I needed to think.

I contemplated a moment more, close to finding my words, but not quite there. I told my dad about it once before and I remember the way his face was covered in an ashen pallor, but he waved one exquisitely manicured hand and postulated that it was my sorcerer’s mind simply kicking into overdrive, making the outside world appear to slow as my thoughts raced. We never talked about it again. With Emirus (who held such titles as Hawk of the Black Castle, Slayer of the Empyrean Sea, Lord of the Dead, Dad, Dr. Culaine and Pops) still warmly gazing at me, he brought the apple to his mouth. Finding my words, I puzzled out my thought.

"Well dad, if we’re villains, we’re villains of circumstance.” 

With an abnormally long canine tooth visible just before sinking into the blushing flesh of the apple, pride swelled on my father’s face, leaving me somewhat bewildered.

“Jeal, my beautiful lad boy! Dipping into your old man's albums again, I see. I think that'd make a wondrous family motto - quite a bit punchier than ‘abyssus abyssum invocat.’ You’re not only surpassing your old man in sorcery - but quotability! I’m so proud.” 

His strong, powerful hands fell on my shoulders. I averted my gaze slightly, embarrassed that he was praising my shitty reference. Well, if we can steal dead language and call it our own, why not a snippet of a song? His kind gaze fell on me again, a thin but warm smile on his sharp face. This was my favorite expression to see on my father’s face, so a natural smile found my own lips.

“Make no mistake, my apple of knowledge. You did not fall far from this magnificent tree. I’ve long thought about what you are - quiet, but kind. Silent, but bursting with expression. I do admit that once I had joked with your sweet mother with regards to whether you were really our son,” his tone took an apologetic turn as his thumbs massage my shoulders. I had thought the same myself, so I can’t find fault with him. My father, Emirus Culaine, was a man of many words. Given to bouts of soliloquy while fighting deadly foes, monologue while cooking dinner, and passionate singing in the shower, he had an exclamation for every event. Meanwhile, Jeal Culaine here said two words a month and kept everything inside that wasn’t words of world-shattering import or saucy quips. As my thoughts went on, I realized he had continued.

“But it could not be more apparent that you are. Beyond your immense talent for sorcery, sciences and warfare, the same beautiful artistic soul burns inside of you. Your power expresses itself in your very body language, and thus you waste no energy on words! At least, that's the explanation we shall go with henceforth. Truth be told, as long as you are happy, your proclivity for silence is unimportant."

Blood rushing to the tips of my ears alerted me to the fact that I was pleased at his compliments, much to my embarrassment. I mean, come on. Every kid wants to be praised by their dad, but when your dad is the kind of guy that gets hunted by "heroes" bent on justice and "righteousness", his praises about magic and warfare are…a little, you know, impressive. The fact that he always wins makes it doubly impressive. The redness of my ears spurred his smile into a passionate grin, and dad shook my shoulders a little.

“The time has been coming for a while now, and I’m sure you’re aware. I’ve lived quite a long time, and I don’t plan to retire from this life. Neither does your mother, so don’t give me that look.. She’s simply out getting stuff for dinner. Mmm, your mother’s biryani is….anyway. Sadly, my talent and powers are waning, and yours are growing by the hour. Right now, with these hands on your shoulders, I can say beyond a doubt that you could defeat me. A villain of circumstance could ask for no greater heir - and that’s not even touching on what a brilliant boy…no, a brilliant man you’ve become to your mother and father.” 

With his eyes shining, my own grew hot and wet. I swallowed hard, but dad’s hands didn’t leave my shoulders. He stroked them slowly with his thumbs. I idly noted how manicured his nails were, even with a bit of dried blood on them.

“I won’t do something so crass as tell my boy not to weep, but do dry those beautiful eyes. You got those wonderfully red and sharp things from your mother, and it’s quite like watching both of the most important people in my life cry at the same time.” 

The vexation in his voice was forced and humorous, so I laughed as the back of my hand cleared the tears from my eyes.

“At least you got my hair. Lucky you. I know it’s quite unrelated, but this,” Emirus shook his hair in his best attempt at a shampoo commercial as he spoke, “is what I got your mother with. I found her fighting off six meddlesome onmyouji in Japan and her first words after we felled them were ‘can I stroke your hair?' Turns out that no matter what, strangers in a strange land will always have their hair fawned over by pretty women.” 

I knew it wasn’t necessarily the time for family stories, but I let him continue. Something gnawed at the pit of my stomach - I was approaching the liminal border between this idyllic life and something altogether different. I felt as though I might never have a chance to hear this story, or any others, if I didn’t let my father continue.

“So of course, we sat there at the roadside for a few hours as she stroked my hair and talked. Their compatriots came, yelled passionately about ‘oni’, ‘yokai’ and ‘bakemono’ and I think there was some business with a Yatagarasu and a Kappa that they had ensnared - all very nasty things, but in the end, I toured the Japanese countryside for fifty years with your mother. Perhaps we’ll go back now.”

My face asked the question that almost left my lips.

“In your training, I detailed why the Culaine line has taken up sorcery and necromancy, no? We’ve taken the darkest arts into our hearts and been scorned for it. We’ve killed kings and common men to pursue our goals. More often than not, our enemies are those that society see as upstanding, righteous people, because we have no choice but to let their names remain pristine to hold this fragile world together. So why have we taken the untread path to prevail in the righteous deeds we need to do?”

I thought for a second before answering. Stupid things had popped into my head without reason, like “for fun?” and “because Jesus said it was cool?” and “free labor outside of government regulations?” but I waved them away. The fact that they seemed like serious choices to be selected from was slightly concerning, though. I was trying to downplay the fear growing in my heart.

"There's no other choice, really. There's things in the dark that don't bow to justice or conventional force. Things that corrupt men at the highest echelons of society. Things that shouldn't be. We do it to save the World."

"That's my boy."

My father’s face darkened as he slid his hand from my shoulders to cradle my face. It felt like a goodbye - like this is the last time I would gaze upon my family for a long time, if not forever. So, responding in kind, I placed my hands on Emirus Culaine’s strong, capable wrists, and held them gently. His eyes misted over, tears rushing out as he smiled bravely. This was tearing him apart, and so, it dug a dagger into my own breast.

“Save the World. Ironic that you say that, dear boy. When you were born, the Seal of the World broke. It was all chance, really. It could have been you, or it could have been someone ten thousand years down the family tree. It's something we've known about for the last five hundred years, but there was no way to...there was no way to know beforehand when someone like you would come into existence. You just…you just have so much potential, so much raw power that the First Layer of the World can’t suppress it’s existence, and so He shattered the Seal. From the Second Layer, demons have been appearing without a summoner for the last eighteen years. They’ve been trying to find you. I have not let them. I was determined to give you a normal childhood while preparing you, and I believe I’ve done it. But I made a mistake.”

My mind drifted back to the fight I had heard take place. Our “basement” was really my father’s magical Sanctum, warded from threats both terrestrial and spiritual. It was where our studies in combat and magic took place, and where I had spent most of my days lately. Then, the mistake…

“I left the wards down when we came back from Shanghai for an hour, as my energy was spent. I could have asked you to put them back up, but you were so focused on learning the Severing Way that I couldn’t bring myself to break your concentration. They found you. I am...sorry, child mine.” 

His words seemed strangely strangled in his throat as he fought to continue on. I'd never seen my father like this. My light. My hero. Consumed by fear and regret in this faltering moment.

"Soritoroth, King of Fire, and apparently the Master of the Second Layer. If he kills you and consumes your power, this world will be bathed in flame in the blink of an eye. If he doesn’t, well…” Dad’s faltering words indicated that the outcomes weren’t favorable if Soritoroth was allowed to roam free either way. The last week came together in my mind. My father’s grimories in various states of disarray. His behaviors. The constant nagging feeling, like something of vast importance being forgotten. His hands left my face and he straightened his verdant green tie, assuming that kingly air that threatened the world at the tip of a blade.

“Take Sarisa and go to the safehouse I showed you last month. Important things will be there. When you leave Sarisa’s, cast Xyrir into the earth. This will be the sign to your mother and I. We’ll finish our biryani and we’ll have a nice chat with the dreadful door-to-door salesmen that are demons of the Second Layer. We can buy the time necessary for you to bury your presence from His sight.” 

I nodded dumbly, even as my hand fished in the cool fridge for another apple. Placing it into his hand, I said what might be the last words to my father. My kind, cruel, brilliant, wicked, scheming, loving, circumstantial villain of a father. For the man who had become a demon to save the world by slaying an Archduke in late June of 1914, he seemed quite small. Human. I loved him more for it.

“I love you, dad. Tell mom I love her. Let’s have enchiladas when we come back. I'll cook this time.” 

This kind of banal exchange is one we had regularly. It was mundane. Painfully normal. I think both of us needed it, though. Emirus Culaine laughed heartily as he opened Wounds in the world, pulling grimories and weapons out and setting them on the kitchen island.

"Hah! I do love your cooking, my prodigal son. I love you too, Jeal. Now go, and slay that damnable Soritoroth for thinking he could lay one misbegotten finger on you! You are the only villain who can save this beautiful world!” 

My father’s laughter was full of mirth as he grasped an ornate flamberge from another dimension, leaning it against the counter. In his left hand was the apple I’d given him, half eaten. I saved this image in my mind, tracing every line of it.

Drawing a line in the air before me, the flesh of reality parted. My lines through this world were like my father’s, but every sorcerer’s magic was just a little different. Where his were like the fabric of night superimposed on reality, mine was significantly more…harsh. Rather than a glittery, glitzy purple stain, mine was a black wound on the skin of the world, edged in dark red. A void. This was the Severing Way - a Master level magic that allowed the caster to cut through the “distance” between themselves and their target. Their target could be anywhere - five feet away, or another dimension. Stepping through the void, I appeared in Sarisa’s room.

She screamed, of course. Well, more of an exclamation than a scream.

Her composure was regained amazingly quick after a mild verbal slap to my face for Severing my way into her room unannounced. Well, it was more for kinda…blowing her off for the last week to study with dad. I smiled, but she felt the anxiety in it, and nodded. She knew things about me, always knew. She knew the secrets I thought I locked away, and accepted them. So of course she’d pieced together that something was happening this week, and this was the culmination - me, showing off a Master level magic by Severing into her locked and warded room. I wouldn’t do that unless I had to, so she also made the logical leap that something was very, very wrong.

Sarisa was also a sorcerer - though her family wasn’t quite into the dark arts and spooky jookie like us. For the moment, Sarisa lived alone, as her family was out of town on what they referred to as “Magister Business.” Always hated that term. Magister. British sorcerers had to be so different. ‘Sorcerer is a term of antiquity,  a magister is someone who commands the proper respect from mastering magica-’ blah blah blah, oh my god, shut up. Also, this is just personal preference, but those that call themselves warlocks can get railed by a manticore. Either they’re actually a warlock and they’re summoning Second Layer beings, or they’re someone who wants to be different without understanding the nuances. Both are equally bad. Smiling again at these thoughts, I followed Sarisa into the walk-in closet.

Grabbing clothes from a set of hangers that dangled lazily, her red hair cascaded down her back in loose curls, ending at the small of her back. It bounced and swayed as she did the “pants shuffle”, rocking her hips side to side to tug the jeans up quickly, and indicated that I should sweep her hair up as she went to throw a crisp black button up over her white tanktop. My hands responded automatically, gathering her hair and sweeping it clean of the incoming shirt. We’d known each other since we were eating dirt, so neither of us had the idiocy to be hung up on things like seeing each other in our underwear or helping each other get dressed real quick. Slipping on her flats, she regarded me with a worried expression, her grey eyes keen and inquisitive.

“We have to go, don’t we?”

I nodded.

“Is it that safehouse you showed me a couple weeks ago? Yeah, guess it would be. Are you…you doing okay, Jeal?”

Another nod.

Sarisa’s soft hand slapped my cheek lightly in reproach. I faked injury, staring at her face with what I imagined was my best “wounded puppy” look. Speaking from a purely objective standpoint, Sarisa was ridiculously pretty. Her skin was fair, decorated with freckles, her grey eyes were stormy and easy to get lost in. Her nose was on the small side, with a gentle curve, and a small scar accented her left nostril. High cheekbones and a somewhat strong jawline gave her a severe profile that made her look regal and unapproachable, but undeniably gorgeous. Objectively. I’m not saying this as an option. I have no personal feelings on the matter. At all.

“Don’t lie to your friends, and especially not your elders. Dickhead.”

The voice was warm and kind despite the words. I wonder which part was directed at my nod and which was directed at the thoughts that came after, since she could always read me like an open book. Favoring her with a shy smile, I went to carve away at reality before stopping suddenly as I remembered the only real restriction of Severing.

You can’t bring another living, sentient being with you. Their body’s own, unique magical field would create oscillating instabilities that destroyed the Wound. A magical item’s magical field could be muted, but not a living being’s. It’s part of why every sorcerer’s “magic” was a little different. Like a fingerprint.

“Did you almost crush us to the size of an atom by forgetting something important?” 

Sarisa’s voice was playful and mocking. She knew the tenants as well as I did and wouldn’t have stepped in, but that didn’t mean she was above laughing at my mistakes. I cleared my throat and nodded at the doorway to her room.

“Come on, downstairs. Looks like we’re walking.” 

I followed Sarisa down the steps and out the front door, watching as she locked the house up. Lost in thought, I helped her apply runes of warding and misdirection. As that was finished, I dropped into a low stance, using my thumbnail to cut a deep gash my palm, freeing a smattering of blood that dripped steadily onto the ground.

With preternatural speed, I drew the rune for Xyrir in the asphalt of the road and slammed a wave of magical energy into it. It glowed in that curious black-ruby-void hue that was my magic for a moment before it crackled into life in an electric red. The asphalt swallowed the rune and a line of red electric fire arced towards my home, some few miles off. Xyrir was a Blood Rune designed by necromancers to expel all Second Layer phenomenon from an intended targeted space. The drawbacks were that the rune had to be absolutely perfect in shape and that the blood must be freshly spilled from the caster, making it nigh-impossible to cast in combat. Though the potency would be severely weakened by the miles separating Sarisa’s house and mine, I was glad to provide just a little help to my dad.

Finding that Sarisa’s hand had come to hold mine some time ago despite the blood, we set off down the road towards the safehouse. Thoughts whirled inside of my head, and went unvoiced as usual. Anxiety rose in my chest, but I pushed it down, attempting to lock it away. It wouldn’t help me now. I think she knew this - she always knew, after all - as she gripped my slippery fingers tightly in her own.

[cerastes]

I dedicate to this to everyone who has let their dreams of writing die.

This is pretentious, or maybe vain, and I apologize if it comes across that way, I do not intend for this to be like that at all, as aside from narcissism in jest, I really think people should retain humility while still accepting and acknowledging their own good points, but when I log into my writing blog, sometimes I see a message like this and it’s wholly disarming. I know it seems like I am making a big deal out of what is basically a compliment, but hear me, I decided to not share my writing online again after some really bad stuff happened, on a personal level and on an artistic level. You may perhaps not believe me due to the way I carry myself, but I am very, very meek about my writing. Literature is something I have an eye and a passion for, and since I know good literature when I see it, it makes it terrifying when I finish writing something, because I know the flaws. It’s kinda like how graphical artists see their awesome finished products and say “this sucks” because they know real good illustrations, that, too, happens with writers, and oh man, it’s terrifying. To add to that, my previous relationship more or less began and crashed down in flames because of writing. My quality as an artist took a dive because I grew complacent, and because I focused on producing just one thing, and one thing only, something that satisfied my partner, and then I realized that despite my popularity in that community and the praise, it all felt hollow. I had not taken a step up, I took a step down. What used to be a mere exercise for my own amusement, that is, purple prosing, which is objectively terrible but it’s oh so fun to do, like eating a greasy hamburger, became more or less my modus operandi. That’s not good. It was all stagnant, it was fun, it was a cheap thrill, but part of me knew I was really just wasting away when I could be improving. That was a big part of my overhauling the blog in that RP community to just become user-drive stories: People would send asks with quite literally whatever content in the message and I would turn them into hopefully fun and neat reads, usually based on humor, and a bit later, it was time to close up shop, because the community had all really gone to shit and, sans a couple of exceptions, everyone whose skills I respected were already gone or just not into it anymore, plus, I had been writing in the Gensokyo setting for far too long. I needed a break, both from it and the bad memories that writing for the character in itself brought (because the character is intricately involved with another character, the source of my problems, and I will never, ever write a character in a vacuum or extirpate an essential part of them for personal reasons).

After that, I kind of just put the pen down. I felt afraid, honestly, because I knew anyone with writing chops could see past the hot air and the purple. I kept my daily writing exercises up for a few days and then I just gave up. In part, I was focusing fully on truly getting better from my depression, on which I was making really good progress, especially after a rather harsh and spectacular break up threatened to push me back in, thus needing my full attention, but another part was, really, that I was just so furious with myself that I couldn’t bring myself to write. A part of why I had made another “identity” when making that blog, aside from a joke aimed at some people, was so that I could start from zero, so it wouldn’t be me just being like “hey guys go follow my new blog give it attention please!”. I really disliked that attitude. You have to earn your reader base, not guilt trip for it. There was a period in that community which consisted of people making blog after blog for whatever fucking character or version of a character they could make, putting “HEY THIS IS MY NEW BLOG” on the main Skype, enjoying 2 days of attention, and then proceeding to whine forever because they ran out of inauguration-slash-pity asks. That’s no way to improve. I wanted to start from zero. Big fat irony that then I grew insecure because, damn it, I could put out drabbles and what not but I’d probably be, I don’t know, pity likes or “I know you” likes. A mess. I didn’t want that. That, coupled with my immense dislike of my own writing quality, put me off writing for a long time.

Just last year, at the end of the year, I decided, hey, it’d be cute if I put up some stuff. I mean, I made the ‘ideablog’ and I hadn’t used it at all (an attempt at trying to share my stuff again that failed initially as I was too afraid), might as fucking well, because if I have a redeeming quality, that’s just going through with whatever comes to mind at any given point. Reception has been surprisingly... Existent. It’s been good, and the praise and opinions I’ve received both publicly and behind closed doors has been both empowering and enlightening, but, I just think it being there at all has been out of my calculations. Aside from this message, I’ve also been asked if I have my stuff organized in a Dropbox for quick downloading so it could be loaded as an e-book and, if not, if I gave my authorization to do it. Another message I received was if I accepted commissions. What the hell do I say to that? It’s wholly disarming and moving, I couldn’t be happier. No one is more critical of my writing than I am, and next thing I know, someone says they’d pay for it. I’m not trying to blow my horn here, it’s just, fucking hell, I am so happy that I didn’t give up entirely, that I came back for the pen, and that the pen waited for me. I want that to reach you, I want you to know that not giving up has been the correct decision. I am lowkey shedding tears right now because, fuck, I love writing, what the fuck, I really was gonna let this go, but I am so fucking happy I didn’t, and on top of that, other people enjoy what I have to show? It’s paid off both personally and artistically to keep at it? Holy hell.

Just, please, don’t give up writing. It’s hard, it’s not immediate like seeing a drawing is (which means no disrespect to graphic artists at all), it’s no walk in the park or a cake in the walk or a piece of the cake, but it’s worth it. Rather, “don’t give up writing” is not fundamentally my message here as much as “don’t give up your art”. If it’s drawing, writing, composing, sculpting, whatever, don’t give it up. It pays off. You really have to go in it and give it the hardest try you can, whatever it is, your utmost effort, and it’s not easy, but look, all that aside? It’s about you enjoying it.

You’ll never reach perfection, but that doesn’t mean you can’t or shouldn’t try, and you should shoot for the moon anyways, because if you land it, you kill the moon and you do us all a favor, but if you miss, hell, you still land among the stars. People really don’t want perfection, they want a good read. That’s easy to understand as a reader, but difficult to get as a writer. I think getting it as a writer, however, only pushes you to become a better writer than striving and inevitably failing to reach perfection does. At least, it’s what I’ve learned.

And for those of you who have become discouraged because you saw others do something close or similar to what you wanted to do, and in some cases, an almost identical concept? Do it anyways. Take it from me: Ideas and concepts are a dime a dozen. It’s the execution that really matters. The world has not seen what YOU do with that idea. You have not seen what you do with that idea. Maybe you have in your brain, but haha, let me tell you, what ends on paper tends to be wholly different than what initially was in your head. It tends to be better. You’ve not seen that. Everyone can imagine the perfect Olympic pirouette, but doing it is what matters. Everyone can imagine the perfect football kick, the perfect boxing straight, the perfect baseball pitch, but what does that matter if we don’t bring that imagination into a tangible form? That’s what writing is, after all, it’s our ability to show others what goes in our brains and hearts, what it is that inspires us. You don’t want to write because you got inspired, you want to write because you got inspired and want to give it shape.

So get writing.

So get making art.

Do it for yourself, and others will love it, I promise.

I’m not saying it’s as easy as just doing, but doing is the first step. You need to work hard to improve, and you need to both be confident enough to know you did a good job, yet humble enough to know you’ve got room for improvement (and hopefully, where it is you’ve got room for improvement). You can worry about improving after you get to the “doing” stage, however.

And if you gave up, please, consider giving it another try.

You never know who is out there waiting for your product. Only one way to find out.