#this is no longer doodles this is a full fucking illustration. why am i like this

[daily-dose-of-bucket]

kanna in either a frankstein's monster costume w kugie as dr. frankenstein or as magnemite (the pokemon)

Day 180: dr. Frankenstein and her monster (halloween doodles part 2)(i will draw the pokemon one too but i need more time)

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

Complexities Unknowable Chapter 3

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23274334/chapters/57175900

Chapter Two link: https://tha-best-url-evar.tumblr.com/post/614327945408987136/complexities-unknowable-chapter-two

MasterPost

Relationships: Established Relationship Dukeceit, eventual intrualiceit, background analogince.

Warnings: Remus says some things (mentions of biblically accurate angels, gore art description), food mention, mild sleep deprivation, cursing. As always everyone is sympathetic. Roast me if I forgot something. 

Word Count: 1,851

Remus was, once again, sitting on the counter in the light side kitchen. It was an ungodly early hour of morning, so the Commons were deserted. He was supposed to be waiting for Morality, according to the  spiteful little plot Dee had offered him that he hadn’t listened to all that well, but he surmised it meant he was supposed to fuck with a light side, so… Duh. Of course he was in.

Truth be told, three out of four of the self-proclaimed ‘light sides’ hardly bothered him! They were stuffy prudes, sure, but their insults slid off his back like blood off of steel. As long as he was doing his own thing with Deceit alongside him, everything was fine (he was still pointedly ignoring the existence of another Creativity). But looks like what Deceit wanted to do was torment Patton into, like, repenting? Or something? Like he said, he wasn’t listening.

Anyway! Waiting and watching was what he was doing! And doodling, because sitting still was literally impossible in Remus’ experience. Thankfully, he soon saw the paternal trait springing down the stairs. Straightening his back, The Duke put on his best intimidating face (which he thought looked rather silly, but Deceit assured him was very unsettling). He set down his sketchbook and blurred his edges. It didn’t work very well up here, but it was a little trick that they’d all- Virgil included- learned years ago. Honestly, he just used it to get cheap scares every now and then.

Patton strolled into the kitchen, whistling some jaunty tune and holy shit , Remus had figured it was some shtick, but was he just a cartoon character all of the time ? That was- sure, very adorable- but mostly all the more entertaining to scare!

“What’s up, Dilf!?”

Patton shrieked, nearly dropping a mug. With wide, startled eyes, he found the source of the noise. Said source watched the emotional trait force his expression into something amicable, laughing loudly.  

“Um- good morning, Remus! I, uh, didn’t see you there.”

“That was the point, MoMo,” Remus replied, dragging his claws screechingly down the side of a cabinet; Patton winced at the sound.

“Can I help you with anything?” Read: Why are you still here? Sometimes Remus wondered if he was too good at his job!

“Nope! Just enjoying the atmosphere, sketching, terrorizing…” He flipped onto his back, throwing his arm out and presenting his open notebook.

“You draw?” Patton seemed weirdly happy about that fact, managing a more natural smile. Seemed he thought he’d found something to work with, but that was likely to change.

“Of course I do, I am Creativity, after all! Here .” He handed over the sketchbook with a Cheshire smile. The creative trait had ensured it was flipped open to a detailed depiction of a being composed of several flaming rings, all of which absolutely covered with bloodshot eyes. It had an indiscernible amount of wings that could only be counted as ‘too many’. In the center of the rings was a swirling black void (a type of ink that took Remus weeks to conjure properly, thank you very much).

He watched carefully as Patton studied the image, looking bemused.

“It’s an angel!”

That seemed to only confuse the moral side more, making him tilt his head to a few different angles to look at the drawing. But he still didn’t seem upset by it, oddly enough.

“It certainly is an interesting interpretation,” He responded at last, “and all of these little lines must have taken you forever, that’s so impressive!”

Truth be told, they had taken a while, and Remus was very happy that the effort had been noticed- but that wasn’t the point!

“That’s nothing,” he took the sketchbook back from Patton and flipped through more pages. Aha! This would fuck him up, for sure! A full-color illustration of someone hung up on a meat hook, rib cage pried open like a spike trap to reveal very painstakingly rendered organs. He was actually quite proud of this one.

The only response that Patton gave, however, was a slight wrinkling of his nose when he first saw it, followed by more quiet observation.

“What do you think?” Remus prompted, watching as Patton set the drawing back down on the counter and began to assemble things for breakfast, seemingly unaffected.

“I wish I could draw that well, but I’m still not super good at it,” he said admiringly.

“I had to crack open my own ribs to make sure it was accurate, you know!”

Morality yelped at that one- score one for Remus! Finally!

“You wanna see my re-imaginings of my favorite Final Destination deaths? I’ve painted some with real- well, conjured- but real enough blood!”

But Patton didn’t even flinch this time; he looked more determined even!

“Art is a healthy outlet for expressing yourself,” he was almost certainly parroting Logan there, and he even seemed to believe the statement. Perhaps Remus would have to be a little more creative to get more reactions.

. “I agree! I didn’t expect you to have such an open-minded point of view. I’ll be sure you’re the first side to know when I make my next amateur taxidermy sculpture! Emphasis on the amateur!”

“Great!” Patton practically shouted, very stubbornly staring at the stove.

Before Remus had the chance to continue, the distinct sounds of Logan and Roman arguing their way downstairs met his ears, and he cut himself off. That was enough for one day, he decided. And anyhow, he looked forward to trying new ways to bother Patton next morning.

Deceit rose into the shadows of the Light Side commons with a smirk. It was an awful hour of the night, which was part of the plan. Not only was Patton the first awake in the morning, he was also often the last to sleep. Deceit supposed that Logan was looking after Roman and Virgil’s sleep schedules nowadays, which made it much easier to catch the artificial patriarch alone. That isn’t to imply that Dee had been tracking their schedules or anything, but the overwhelming lie that Morality surrounded himself with made him easy to track- especially in the night, when he had to pretend even harder that he was fine without the presence of his little family. Deceit entertained the idea that he should feel bad for the side, and maybe he did somewhere deep down. Deep, deep down. No, further than that.

Regardless of any such feelings, he was here to mess with Patton. Still unnoticed, he watched quietly as his target scrolled through Netflix, illuminated only by the dim glow of the television. The side looked so tired that he could’ve passed as a corpse, but gave a tiny smile after finally selecting whatever it was he was going to watch.

Wait. Wait. He was watching that ?

Deceit stared at the unmistakable green text that was the intro to The Good Place playing across the screen. If there was one thing he was expecting Patton to watch (Cartoons? Friends reruns? Slime videos?), it wasn't his own favorite show.

“Hm.” Deceit hummed.

In response, Patton shrieked and fell halfway off the couch. His head darted around until he finally spotted Deceit, who had slid down to sit on the sofa as well.

“Oh- um- good evening, Deceit! Wow, today is just full of surprises!”

“ Surely you won’t mind if I join you? This is one of my favorite shows, after all.”

Patton fixed his position so that he was no longer partially on the floor and looked the snake up and down. He paused the episode.

“ Really ?”

“Really,” and then, after some trepidation, “Honestly.”

Suddenly, Patton lit up dramatically, a happy smile stretching across his face. Fuck, wrong direction, Deceit wasn’t supposed to be cheering him up!

“I’m surprised that someone like you would like it,” Deceit continued hastily. Patton’s smile fell a little and he tipped his head in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean ,” He lounged back against the couch, “I didn’t think you’d approve of a show where all of the characters are such bad people .”

“What?! The whole point is that they aren’t bad!” Good, Back on track .

“Oh? Then what are they? Last I checked, the main character was very selfish .”

“I- okay, I see what you’re trying to do,” Patton turned to face Deceit entirely, “But they’re- they also-”

“Also what ?” Deceit was also sitting sideways on the couch now, his eyes glinting. He was certain that he’d talked the trait into a corner, which was why he was so utterly unprepared for Patton’s response.

“It’s, like, they all start off not great, but that’s because they were all set up for failure before the afterlife! They had it hard before dying, but when they were finally given the chance to actually get better, then they got better! They aren’t perfect , but they care about each other! And I think it really shows that sometimes, somebody can be wrong over and over and over again, but that doesn’t mean that they’re hopeless, or that they’re a bad friend, or…” He trailed off, looking down at his lap and blinking very quickly. “Or that they’re a bad person.”

Suddenly, Deceit wasn’t that sure that he wanted to see Patton upset anymore.

After a very uncomfortable silence that lasted far too long for his liking, the scaled side realized that he should probably be the one to say something.

“That’s…  a very in depth analysis, Morality. I’m inclined to agree with you.”

“Thanks,” Patton replied. When he looked up, his eyes held an odd recognition. It was a look that no Light Side had ever given Deceit, but they gave it to each other plenty of times. The side in question wasn’t sure if he liked it, but he sure knew that he was uncomfortable.

“So… The show…” He prompted.

“Oh, right!”

Patton pressed play.

Deceit had planned on doing some more provoking of Patton as they watched, but he found himself rather caught up in the program. The conversation he did end up making with the other incidentally slipped into chatting about their shared views on the show. It was almost nice. Maybe. Whatever.

After a few episodes, Deceit elected to return home for the night. As he was sinking out, he heard a sleepy voice bidding him farewell.

“G’night, Kiddo.”

He popped up in his bedroom after that, eyes quickly landing on a half-asleep Remus half-watching Saw 4 . The lights were dimmed to a glow, and the TV’s volume was so low that it might have been inaudible to anyone other than the more animalistic sides.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” Deceit murmured warmly, sitting beside his fellow Dark side. The trait yawned and rubbed his eyes, instinctively leaning into him.

“Wanted to,” he responded, voice groggy, “How’d it go?”

Deceit snapped his fingers to change into sleep clothes, reaching across Remus to flick off the lamp. As he settled in to semi-watch the movie, fingers automatically moving to card through his partner’s hair, he carefully considered the question.

“Fucking. Weird.”

Chapter 4

Tags: @deceits-left-glove​ @princemesscharming

[lickstynine]

Misadventures of Kit: Chapter Thirteen

written with @ocsickficsideblog

Kit had expected being back at Alistair’s to be more pleasant. While it was certainly an improvement to not be prodded by medical staff at all hours, he still felt more like a patient than a guest. Alistair was forcing him to eat six small meals a day (the doctor said that would be easier than three big ones), hovering and fussing outside the door whenever he used the bathroom, and making sure he kept up with the daily journaling his shrink had tasked him with.

As much as he loved his cousin, Kit was getting properly fed up with Alistair, and he had even less patience for all the shit his cousin was making him do. He was sitting on the couch glaring at his lunch when his phone buzzed, and Kit gladly set the fork aside to check it. He couldn’t help being a little excited when he saw it was from Siofra.

What are you doing this weekend?

I don’t think I’m doing anything. He texted back. Why?

I have a gig at a local pub. You should come. Bring your idiot cousin if you want, but don’t let him embarrass us.

Kit snickered quietly at his phone. Will do. Where is it?

Siofra sent him the location, and Kit scribbled it into his notebook.

I’ll be there.

Great! See you then.

“What’re you giggling at?” Alistair asked. “Eat your food.”

“Siofra invited me to a show this weekend.” Kit replied, huffing in annoyance as he picked his fork back up. He poked at the chicken thigh on his plate, not very interested in it.

“What, to see her band? I don’t think I want you going out alone.”

Kit huffed in annoyance. “First of all, it’s in a pub, not a back alley. Second of all, she said you could come.”

“Oh, okay. Do you want me there?” Alistair said, slightly icily.

The older boy flinched. “Why would I not?”

“You act like you can’t stand me recently, scowling and huffing whenever I walk into the room,” Alistair spat, pacing agitatedly like a tiger. Kit’s flinch hurt him - most of him wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around him and hold him - but his recent behaviour was starting to remind Alistair of his own parents. They’d always sighed and rolled their eyes when he came into the room, shoving him away when he was still young and hopeful enough to go for a cuddle - “Go away, Alistair. You’re not wanted here.”

Kit cringed, withering into the corner of the couch. “It’s not like that! It’s not you! I just hate being babied and hovered over. It’s not that it’s you doing it…” he hid his face in his hands, feeling ashamed for being such a grumpy ass.

Alistair hovered anxiously, so close to running to him - but that doubt stung at the back of his mind, sharp as venom. “You promise? It’s not me who’s annoying you? You don’t wish someone else was looking after you?”

“No! Who else would? You’re all I have, Al. I just… I feel pathetic that I need so much caretaking…” Kit sighed.

Alistair ran to him, hugging him tight. “You don’t need that much. I just need to make sure you eat. I don’t have to wipe your arse or wash you or entertain you. You’re pretty low-maintenance.”

Kit managed a weak laugh at that. “Now you're making me sound like a pet. Will you put me on a leash when we go out?”

“Save that for Siofra, you kinky shit.”

Kit went red, though he laughed. “I barely know her!”

“Well, she’s inviting you out! Where are we going then?”

“Um, it's a pub. Not one I've been to before. Do you recognize the address?” Kit showed Alistair his phone.  

“I know the town, can’t be too hard to find it from there,” Alistair said.

“I’ll have Taddy take us.” Kit decided. He hadn’t seen his chauffeur in ages - he needed to apologize, anyway.

“Jules has been keeping him updated about you,” Alistair said gently, seeing the guilt on Kit’s face.

Kit looked surprised. “He has?”

“Oh yeah. He likes Taddy. He even called him last time we argued.” Alistair rolled his eyes. “That was fucking awkward.”

Now Kit was smiling again, snickering and grinning. “Did he really?”

“Yep,” Alistair groaned. “He was crying too. I bet Taddy thought I was a real prick.”

“Taddy knows you.” Kit reminded him. “He likely just thought you were an idiot.”

“It wasn’t a serious fight, anyway. We don’t really have those. We just have stupid ones about getting pancakes stuck to the ceiling and Jules always untying my boot laces even though I left them tied for a reason and he doesn’t need to obsessively untie them,” Alistair ranted.

“Wait, hold on.” Kit ignored his cousin’s complaining. “You got pancakes stuck to the ceiling?”

“Okay, it was an accident! I just tossed it too enthusiastically.”

Kit nearly snorted laughing. “How do you get that overenthusiastic?”

“I just wanted it to go up high, like you see chefs do on TV,” Alistair grumbled. “And the bloody thing just went slap on the ceiling and stuck there, and I had to scrape it off and it’s left this big greasy mark on the paint.”

Kit had to steady his plate so he wouldn’t kick it off his lap cackling. “Good lord….”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “I’m sure the fucking ceilings are low…”

“Why are you even allowed in the kitchen?” Kit shook his head, continuing to chuckle as he cut off a tiny bite of chicken. He paused. “You didn’t make this, did you?”

“No. Last time I made Jules chicken he got food poisoning super bad.” He sighed, flopping back on the sofa. “I felt terrible. Why am I so useless at everything, Kit?”

Kit rolled his eyes. “You’re not useless at everything. You’ve been taking care of me well, save for the cooking aspect.”

“At least you tell me if it’s gross. Jules eats it all and then throws up all night. It makes me feel like I’m a toddler and he’s pretending to eat my plasticine food. Making all those yum-yum baby noises you do,” Alistair said, sighing.

“That’s not your fault. Julie is too soft for his own good.”

“I know. I told him that. I’ve stopped him watching the news because he gets depressed and cries all evening.”

“Sounds about right.” Kit chuckled and shook his head, just now cutting a second bite of chicken. He wasn’t just not hungry, he was trying to avoid the task to follow: journaling.

“You take a long time to eat, Kit,” Alistair sighed.

“It’s hard. This is my third meal of the day, and I didn’t even want the first.” Kit huffed.

“You need to eat. You need to live. I need you to live,” Alistair said, his voice quieter. He’d been wetting the bed again since Kit tried to commit suicide, much to his horror - and Kit couldn’t help noticing, of course. It didn’t matter how many times Alistair was told that it was a very common problem with abused children, he still burned with humiliation if anyone touched on it.

Kit slunk down in his seat, stabbing his chicken more purposefully as he cut another bite. “Sorry…” he mumbled, staring at his plate to avoid eye contact.

Alistair wrapped his arms around Kit’s neck. “Sorry. Don’t force yourself to do it fast. I just want to get this right.”

“Then maybe loosen your grip. I can’t eat if I’m being choked.” Kit was clearly just teasing - Alistair had (gradually) gotten better at not death-hugging him.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Shut up, or I’ll make you dinner tonight. It’d be tough to eat that.”

“I’ll be sure to aim at you when I vomit.” Kit grinned. He did his best to eat the rest of his lunch in a timely manner, though he was clearly struggling to finish the last quarter of the chicken. He was cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces, and taking longer to chew each bite and pick up the next one.

“Does cutting it up small like that actually help?”

Kit sighed. “Not really.”

“You should just stuff it all in. Get it over with. Like when Violet dared me to eat that worm when we were kids.”

Kit wasn't sure whether to laugh or retch. “Talking about eating worms isn't making me want to finish my meal.”

“Sorry.” Alistair grinned. “Chicken doesn’t taste that bad. From what I remember.”

“It isn't bad at all.” Kit said, “I'm just not hungry.”

“Your body is though, or whatever that nutritionist said. Imagine your job being telling underweight people to eat. Must be depressing.”

Now Kit just felt guilty, staring awkwardly down at his plate as he chewed the last bite of chicken. “Yeah, must be.”

“Oh, don’t pull that face. I was just thinking out loud.” He poked Kit’s cheek. “Smile.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know,” Alistair sighed. “I just want you to be happy.”

“If you want me to be happy, don't make me write in my stupid journal again.” Kit grumbled.

“But your psych said you need to. I thought you liked writing to Auntie,” Alistair said.

“I like writing when I'm in the mood. Not because some shrink says I need to.”

“Look, I’ll do it with you,” Alistair suggested.

Kit looked up at him. “You will?”

“Yeah, of course. It that makes it easier.”

“I think it will, yeah.” Kit nodded gratefully. “Gather up my writing things, and I'll put away my plate.”

“I haven’t spoken to Auntie in ages. We’ve got to catch up,” Alistair said, messing with one of Kit’s posh fountain pens.

Kit knew his cousin was trying to be funny, so he forced a smile. “Please be careful with that pen. I doubt Julie wants ink all over the carpets.”

“There’s ink all over me,” Alistair said, peering at the black marks on his fingers. “I’m using my art pens instead.”

“You’re only getting ink on you because you’re handling the pen wrong. But yes, use your own pen. Please.” Kit mumbled. He was twirling his pen in his fingers, anxious to actually start.

“This is weird,” Alistair mumbled. “We can acknowledge it’s weird.”

“You’re weird.” Kit huffed.

“You’re weird. Okay, I’m just going to start by saying hi…”

Kit nodded, picking up his own pen and starting to write. It wasn't hard to start, but once he did, he always got a little too into it. He hunched over the page, scribbling away like his life depended on it.

Alistair took a more light hearted approach, scribbling small doodles every so often to illustrate his news, sometimes swaying into a graphic novel format before starting to write again. Kit sat up as his page grew full, looking over at his cousin.

“Are you drawing?”

“Yeah?” Alistair said. “Why not? I’m illustrating. I’m still telling the story.”

“Just curious.” Kit shrugged, “I've never felt compelled to illustrate a letter before.”

“I illustrate all mine. If we ever need to correspond by letter, I’ll illustrate.”

“It'd be strange to write with you…” Kit mused.

“It would?”

“Well, first there'd be the challenge of deciphering your handwriting.” Kit grinned.

Alistair nudged him, grinning back. “You sound like my teachers!”

“And then there's making sense of your spelling.”

“I spell things phonetically, just sound it out.” Alistair said.

“Are you seven?” Kit teased, going back to his own letter.

“Mentally. What’re you writing about then?”

“Just what's happened lately.” Kit shrugged. “you can see when I'm done if you like.”

“Okay, thanks. You can see mine too.”

Kit nodded, pausing and tapping his pen on his chin as he pondered. Alistair didn’t ever stop to think, scribbling stuff as it entered his head, adding lots of drawings, mostly quick comical sketches or little caricatures. Kit went back to his page after a moment, jotting down a few more sentences.

“Okay... I think I'm done.”

“Me too,” Alistair mumbled, chewing on his pen lid. “This is actually quite good… I see why they make you do it.”

Kit nodded, offering Alistair his letter to trade. Alistair handed Kit his own considerably messier letter, holding it carefully, not wanting to stain it with his inky fingers.

My Dearest Mother,

I've been doing better lately. I think keeping Al around has helped. I get so low when I'm lonely, but I can bother him to talk at any hour.

I still feel bad about how it ended with Elle, but I've met up with the girl from the pub and I really like her. She's Irish, like you. She has the loveliest hair, it's almost a rose gold colour, shiny and wavy and all the way to the small of her back. She plays violin and sings in a band with her brothers - she invited me to their next show.

I’m still staying at Al’s to avoid Father. The Christmas party is coming, I don't know what I'll do. I can’t not go, but last year was already sour, with Violet mad at me, and now…

I suppose I'll deal with that as it comes. Maybe I can invite Siofra (the girl I'm seeing). She's so brave and strong, I think I'd feel safer with her there. Yes. I think I'll invite her. Wish me luck.

All of my Love, Kit

Kit moved closer to the lamp, struggling to read without a proper light.

Dear Auntie, That sounds so weird and formal, doesn’t it? What a silly way to start a letter, we wouldn’t be talking like that in real life. Anyway, I don’t really know how to begin. Hi. It’s Alistair after all this time, though I promise I didn’t stop thinking of you.

Lots of stuff happened over the years. Lots of dumb family stuff, you know what they’re like.

Here there was a drawing of Reggie as a grizzly bear and Howard as a doting Lefou following him around.

Grandfather didn’t give Mother any inheritance, which was pretty funny, but she wouldn’t let me see Kit for a long time. But we met up again when I was nineteen (and was completely astounded by the change in him, he looks like a pretty tattooed you).

He’d drawn a picture of Kit looking all bright and glossy next to a scruffy looking Alistair with a tiny bird nesting in his tangled hair.

There’s been lots of messy parts. I really really wanted you there for lots of it, because you always had a way of making things better. I seem to have a knack for making stuff worse - but at least Kit is talking to me now. I don’t mind when he wakes me up at night, it’s progress.

He’d drawn a softer picture of himself and Kit cuddled up together, sharing a blanket.

I send my love to wherever you are. Not heaven, I know you didn’t believe in it. I like to think you hover over Kit like a guardian angel. Maybe you’ll see me then, and my fiancé. He’d have loved you.

I think I’ll write more of these letters with Kit. It’s almost like talking to you. Just know that I love you and miss you too, and I remember everything you told me to remember (see, I was listening!). And I’ve still got Sally.

Love, Alistair.

He’d drawn a little picture of Sally in the corner, looking beaten up and bedraggled.

Kit hadn't expected to be so stricken by a letter. He thought it might have been the illustrations - the little drawings all seemed to have so much love put into them, especially the ones of him. He couldn't bring himself to set it down, pressing it to his chest despite the perilous inkinesss of the page. He sniffled, trying to contain himself, but when he dared peek at the letter again, he started crying properly.

Alistair shuffled over and hugged him tight, his head close to Kit’s. “I can come to your party with you if you’re worried. I’ll dress up and behave and everything.”

“Are you sure?” Kit blinked away tears, a puzzled expression crossing his face.

“Yeah, of course. I don’t want you stuck alone with your father and Violet.”

“I was… I was going to invite Siofra…” Kit mumbled, not sounding too confident in the idea anymore.

“Well, you can invite her too. But would your father like her? Well, I know he doesn’t like me either, but would he like her less?”

“I think she’d have the common sense to behave politely. She’s a firecracker, but she’s not an idiot.”

“Yeah, but your father would moan about her being common,” Alistair said, rolling his eyes.

“But you’re common because you got disowned. I’m not sure if that’s worse or not…” Kit mused.

Alistair snorted. “That makes me common? I was common way before that.”

“Then that makes you double common, so you’re definitely worse.” Kit grinned.

Alistair smiled too, hugging Kit. “That letter writing… It’s nice. I see why you’ve been doing it all these years.”

Kit nodded. “The idea of a regular diary always seemed stupid to me. I’m not Anne Frank, it won’t be published. I needed someone to write to so I could focus my thoughts.”

“I’m glad you’re not poor old Anne Frank. And I’m glad you can still stay connected to Auntie like this.”

“Yeah. I… yeah. I just… it hurts… To know I’ll never get a reply.”

Alistair nodded sadly. “Maybe...maybe she knows though. Maybe she really is watching over you.” He sounded unusually hopeful.

Kit looked like he might cry again, but he nodded. “Yeah… maybe.”

[farhcn-blog]

(honestly look at him i hate him already)

aye lookie here, it is still i, holly the trashcannot. lmao. same old account tbh but i’ve dropped freddie and have decided to pick up a new muse who i am so excited for??? and i really hope you’ll love him?? anyway just a warning, he’s a real mess and i’m apologizing before hand for the trash he is. under the cut are just some few information about him. i apologize for the length but it’s been cut into different sections so feel free to sort of browse through and be picky on what you want to read and what you don’t??

but anyway i would really love to plot with all of you?? so if you’d like to plot, feel free to either hmu or like this and i’ll come to you tbh!! i’ll most likely go around asking for plots lmao. but anyway lets goOOO.

ps: please bear with me in terms of choices when it comes to gifs and whatever. rahul kohli doesn’t have many gif icons, so what i’ll be using varies from gif icons, medium sized gifs, weirdly sized gifs and static icons ))):

i’m not the only one who just saw rahul kohli walk by, right ? oh, wait, that was farhan chauhan. i don’t know much about them besides that they’re thirty years old and moved into golden horizons two years ago. everyone calls them the cataclysmic because they’re calamitous and impetuous, but also witty and forthright. i’ve also heard he is currently a comic book artist/frequent underground street fighter and identifies as cis male.

FAMILY BACKGROUND

initially from santa fe (new mexico) but moved to san francisco when he was 11.

both his parents came to the united states from goa, india.

farhan is the oldest in the family of four – farrah is his younger sister.

grew up pretty much attached to his father by the hip. he idolizes his father like mad, and they held a very close bond. they would spend a lot of time together and he would always play sports with him and all that boys stuff.

his relationship with his mother was a lot better than it is now tbh. he loves his mother dearly (still do even if he doesn’t say it out loud) but things got in the way during his parents’ divorce.

the divorce was messy to say the least. they didn’t really sat down as a family and discussed what was going to happen.

instead, his mother, without any notice, together with farrah and farhan, moved to san francisco. she gave them no reason other than “it’s not safe here”

farhan was just 11 so he barely knew what was going on. all he knows was that his father’s “a bad and dangerous man” and that his mother “was protecting him.”

that alone wasn’t enough of an excuse for farhan. with the months going by not understanding why his father had left him or why his mother had left his father, he started to throw tantrums here and there; resenting his mother for years and would cause trouble for her.

basically, he made his mother’s life a living hell lmao.

but it wasn’t until he grew a bit older to understand that his father had a gambling problem, and not only did he spend all of their college’s funds, but he had reached out to shark loans; hence why his mother was so desperate in running away.

he does still love his mother to bits tbh. like he probably regretted how childish he was and would beg for forgiveness but his relationship with his mother has become so broken and strained that he can’t find himself to face her tbh.

with that said, he lost all respect for his father and is overall heartbroken about the real person his father had hid from him. he no longer idolizes his father nor does he hate him but he swore to never be like his father. he is however angry. lmao farhan has quite a lot of anger inside of him tbh.

in regards of his sister; after the fall out from both parents, farrah is possibly the only person in this entire world he care about. like he would put her first rather than him tbh.

even though he’s the older brother who was supposed to take charge and look after his family, he pretty much abandoned his responsibilities as such the second his mother decided that it was best to leave their father. he was a child then, so i mean….. what do you expect

but anyway, farrah took up the role of the older sibling, leaving farhan being the irresponsible and immature younger brother lmao.

she took care of him majority of the time seeing as he fails to look after himself and would put himself in danger lmao.

HIS READING DISABILITY AND HIS TALENTS

okay so lets see, farhan struggles through a reading disorder (dyslexia)

it was his sister, farrah, who noticed his disability considering how close they were.

he often cried a lot as a kid to farrah for how “dumb” he is so farrah pretty much figured it out. she was constantly teaching him and all that jazz.

his parents knew of it and tries to somehow have him adjust.

but anyway, he did very badly as a child in terms of his academics?? the fact that he had adhd didn’t help either lmao – he’s not medicated cause his parents thought it was just kids being kids. but despite not being medicated, he grew to adjust himself.

as a result, he did not do very well at school which of course affected his confidence level and earn him names here and there.

he was often called “stupid” and “dumb.” unlike farrah he wasn’t someone who would swallow all that down, which resulted him into fights and becoming quite a problematic child with explosive anger issues.

this continued all the way through high-school; and he battles through his dyslexia on his own through his own ways.

despite how horrible he is at academics, he’s artistic and finds talents in art.

he would scribble and sketche all over his desk and it gets him into trouble

lmao not just desks, he would scribble all over his test papers, text books, tissues.

he gradually found love for art and subconciously drove his attention towards that direction

he would draw mini comic strips and cartoons of people besides sketching.

he’s good in all kinds of arts; like he can paint, he can sketch but he’s extra great at graffiti and cartoons.

with that said, he does graffiti; obviously illegally

and he likes to doodle but not the cute picture kind, more of like this led needs to be thicker and darker. his sketches are…. something…

WORK (COMIC BOOK ARTIST + UNDERGROUND STREET FIGHTER)

moved to new york on his own with his step-father’s sponsorship when he was around 20 years old (farhan never really liked his step-father so like that was his attempt to buy farhan off tbh lmao)

studied graphic design + art history there

graduated and worked in new york as a graphic designer and freelance illustrator for a bit??

as much as he loved art, he didn’t like what he was doing in terms of designing book covers and shit like that lmao

so he quit his job (it’s not like the company he worked for liked him anyway he was mega problematic) and leeched off his step-father’s money

he eventually got really lazy and when his step-father found out he decided to stop the money-tap lmao

farhan was pretty much unemployed for about a year or so

but it’s okay because he got himself involved with underground fighting???

growing up he has quite a lot of anger in him?? he would usually fight people back in san fran during high school, so when he went to new york and did boxing to release his stress, he eventually found the pleasure in street fighting??

during his time in new york, even before he quit his job/or fired lmao, he got involved in the street fighting scene??

he eventually found the thrill he’s been looking for and the release?? and decided to participate more than he first intended to

he was first dragged by his friend who has a gambling problem (yikes) and they made a bet on fighters and shit like that but it got him thinking like?? why don’t he put his strength to full use and earn money from that??

so he trained himself and eventually got into the ring

after winning many fights he eventually earned himself a name among the underground scene. earning himself a good handful of friends/connections as well as enemies tbh lmao

but anyway because he would appear at work with bruises and shit he was eventually fired but he claimed to have quit lmao

it’s okay tho. after a year or so being broke and relying on fighting he was scouted and worked for marvel entertainment as well as freelanced here and there

he struggled a lot in new york tbh. he didn’t have a good cv so he wasn’t paid much but anyway….. he earn money from street fighting and drawing

rn in san fran he’s working as a graphic designer and illustrator again but is low key working on his own comic book and selling his stuff online and shit like that lmao idk he’s aimless in life

but majority of his money comes from street fighting. he searched high and low for the scene and managed to get in so wow how fun.

PERSONALITY AND FUN FACTS…. I GUESS.

okay so like something to highlight??? farhan is lowkey a criminal. he doesn’t do things according to the law and have been arrested here and there for a lot of stupid shit he does tbh lmao

he’s very impulsive and he doesn’t think twice before he does something. he’s always just on the go go go

he gets into a lot of fights easily cause he’s so tempermental

literally the most laziest person you can ever meet lmao if it wasn’t for needing money to survive he would just spend his day on the couch sleeping tbh

moody asf???

but also straight forward asf

he’s so fucking intrusive he doesn’t even know what privacy is

what you see what you get kind of person

but he hides parts of himself here and there

always seen with a grin on his face tbh

a hard core aries???

a big jonas brother’s fan – so BIG he literally stalked them, and like…… got 2/3 restraining orders filed against him.

literally cried outside the church when kevin got married :///////

also a big fan of other boy bands like BLUE, and NSYNC he literally know all the dance moves im serious………….

still hung over baby spice )))): he loves the spice girls so much

he’s an adrenaline junkie who does not care about his life tbh lmfao

stab him he lit do not care

very ill tempered and can get so annoyed to the littlest things

he graffitis… i think i said that before

he signs it anonymously but with initials of the doritos flavour he’s feeling that night

so some days it’ll be cool ranch (c.r) and some days it’ll be spicy sweet chili (s.s.c) i know, very ~charles bukowski~

skates!!! he skates a lot.

even though he’s old like wtf?? wyd?????

ALSO DOES PARKOUR

has a lot of tattoos on him

smoke a lot

drink a lot

does a lot of drugs and likes to experiment. he doesnt even mind being a lab rat so like drug dealer hit him up pls

fucks around because this boy has needs

a pyromaniac. he loves playing with fire and is often carrying around a customized zippo

such an art hoe tbh??? he likes to wander around museums but i mean, this man doesn’t look like the type so he often gets dirty looks lmaol

allergic to flowers

not a big fan of kids lmao BA HAMBUG!!

very insecure tbh even though he sort of hide behind the easy going personality

especially when it comes to reading??? he enters bookstores and tries to find a book but comes out empty handed

secretly loves reading tho. he acts like he doesnt??? but he would try to read on his own??

he reads out loud tbh cause he needs to hear himself when he reads so he’s always on his own when he does and its usually late at night

scared of horror films. lmao i hate him

pick pockets from time to time just for the fun of it and knowing he can get away with it

also great at being a thief lmao

horrible driver lmao he owns a motorbike tho

very attached to his beard. he name them a new name every time he shaves them off like rip gloria, rip maria, rip karla.

hc that he also does this thing on insta call subway doodle

POSSIBLE CONNECTIONS

be his drug dealer please like make him your lab rat

exes?? im not sure??? he’s not much of a relationship person but lets do it??

someone he trains with in terms of fighting or boxing or just working out in general??

ride or die aye aye aye

roommates - good luck lmao he’s the messiest person on planet earth

neighbors who don’t get along, or do??

step-siblings??

friends with benefits??

enemies with sexual tensions or with benefits

someone who goes to a book store a lot and sees him around alot idk??

this is messy asf but i s2g i’m creative

JUST COME PLOT WIHT ME THANSK

[toddmichaelrogers]

Letter to You

All in due time

I am obsessed with the concept of time. When I read an article about light moving across time and space to reach us from distant galaxies, and how...what we are viewing in those distances may have already passed into death thousands of years ago, it gets my dick “Super Mario 2 (Japanese Version) hard”.

I think about equations of time v.s growth on a nearly daily basis. I am obsessed about it.

Some may feel possessed

I myself obsess about it

My youngest brother was born twenty-two years ago. His name is Ben. This week, he came for a surprise visit by telling me he would be here and then allowing me to forget. The added bonus was we got to celebrate his birthday together. That night, I drove him and his friends and Kelsie around (they may all be kids to me, but Kelsie’s been my brother’s partner for longer than I’ve known my own). We spent the night at a false speakeasy, and a giant championship pool hall, empty but for a few of us. As the night ended I drove the kids up to a hill called love circle, where a year ago I had imagined killing myself (I had a concussion, it’s cool).

In the car Michael, this kid I had not seen in a decade, popped in a song that maybbbbe three people in the world might have known. It’s a B-Side which could only be known to someone such as myself, someone who cares entirely too much for a half-forgotten Scottish 1980s group. 

“Is this fucking Big Country?” I asked. And then both parties continued asking in astonished voices if the other if they enjoyed the same band, until Michael ripped his shirt open to reveal a 1986 tour tee. “What the fuck?!” I screamed. And then preceded to tell him that Spell Saga was inspired by this band’s music; there was no need to explain what Spell Saga was to the kids in the car, they had seen the card game and its stacks of packages sitting in my living room.

The game has continued to haunt me. The rest of the packages will be sent out sometime in the next 30 days, and the manufacturer will be paid up for services rendered in the next week. That is about 1500 days since I decided to pursue the project, and over 800 days since the Kickstarter worked and we knew it was going to go to print. 

Sometimes people write very frustrated messages online wondering where their packages are, but the comments that mean the most to me are the ones where people are nice hahaha. No, I shouldn’t laugh, it’s haunting. Trying to do something right and trying to handle your own mistakes in public is about as nerve-wracking and humiliating as anything since 7th grade.

In the meantime I’ve taken all those worries and embarrassments and pushed them into the next Spell Saga release (Deck 1.5 The Under Sky) which may or may not work, we’re about to find out in March. The concept and design are so ridiculous and in depth that I’ve been forced to finish the entire thing before playing it at all--something I have not done since Spell Saga 4.0 was finished to show at Gen Con back in 2011. The whole thing could be rendered nearly pointless if the game isn’t fun to play--but then again, how can you know? Countless hours of Photoshopping and weird little doodles for an unknowable outcome. If that isn’t the official theme of Spell Saga, or indeed, everything I make, then I don’t know what is.

Speaking of time, games, and 7th grade (and as was mentioned in previous correspondence) this Autumn, after twenty years of waiting, I will be releasing a card game I started making in 7th grade. The illustrator is my friend Weshoyot, who just sent me the final pieces this past week. This is after we began working on it together 9 years ago! My god, I know this blog has a sort of theme running through it but even that takes me aback, (it also takes me a-straight-back, to 2009, when I was getting married to my first wife, designing EPIOCH instead of planning a wedding, and about to start work on both The Novel & Spell Saga...what a fucked up year…)

The novel I started still continues, and work goes well, actually. Yes it’s been 8 years, but after forcing a second draft on New Years day of 2016 I have now arrived, one year later, into new territory. Most of last year was spent agonizing through a muck of the same few chapters. It was almost nerve wracking to pick it back up, after a month’s rest, and knock-out another two new chapters without a hint of friction.

I was talking to my brother while he was in town (we always have the same talk and he hates it, but I always push it) “why aren’t you making things” I ask him every visit. I know he wants to. And I can’t speak for him, or rather, I won’t but I think there’s this perfectionist thing that hits in varying degrees. (I’m speaking more about myself then him, right now) I’ve read that  perfectionism is linked to depression, and alcoholism--this idea that things need to be a certain way, or they aren’t worth it--when really, that’s not true at all. 

Things just need to be as good as you can make them at the time, and then finished. I spent most of last year stuck on the same songs, and the same chapters, unsure of how to move forward, yet sure they had to be brilliant or cool.

But, I’m not either of those things. I don’t know how many passes I think will bleach the uncoolness out of something, but it doesn’t work. There’s something to be said for taking one’s time--and of course putting something away and rewriting it is definitely in everyone’s best interest...but still, finishing things as best you can is important.

I was talking with Meagen the other day about this, about how we as human beings tend to think if something is not hard or time consuming that it must not be good--that a novel should take ten years and not, say two. See? I even wrote the word “one” there and had to erase it. A novel? In a year? How drab.

We as artists don’t believe in ourselves, and pretend that putting time into a project will make it that much more special--or even better, waiting forever to start it...Fuck the fuck outta that. Make it and be embarrassed and move on. Just make it as best you can.

I am afraid of many things, including the new chapters I just wrote, because they happened quickly. But that is how art appears! It boils up like feelings because that’s what art really is. The craft is in getting past yourself to sit down and start the thing past your own fears. The craft is in making it sound good. the craft is in finishing it. I hope my brother starts making things, and I hope I start making things quicker.

The last day he was in town, I put on the pants I bought when I was 22. They were my favorite pants to write in for years, lasting through a full marriage and into a new one. A pair of 2005 women’s jeans so old the crotch is ripped out (my dick hangs like a cotton bulge). I looked at myself in the mirror, decided against them, and picked out another pair of pants for the evening. It was President’s Day, and my band EFFORTS was about to play our first show.

I had spent three weeks wanting to vomit every time I thought about it. But the date on the flyer appeared and with it, our last practice before loading our gear. By the end of practice I was too hungry to be nervous, and Zach, Geoffrey and I arrived at the venue to drink.

Meagen appeared, worried about a friend of ours. We stood in a parking lot across the venue and I tried to console here, it had been a rough couple of days for the both of us.

Last week was Valentine’s. I spent the night before the holiday of hearts holding our dog, Ellie, as her heart began to fail. It had been three years since the doctor told us she would die any day, and now it seemed the curse had come to claim her. I whispered nice things into her ears as she melted across my chest, and then we both feel asleep. 

I dreamed she could talk, and she told me she was hurting. And then she transformed between a young girl and grown women, back and forth again as Meagen and I held her. At the end of the dream she told me to look up at the ceiling to see what death looked like for dogs; it was a dance of shadows and light that made no scientific sense, but I understood all the same. When I awoke Ellie was staring at me, alive and well, he heart has since settled to normal.

So Meagen and I were already wound up when some really bad shit went down for a friend. I tried to console Meagen across the street, minutes before the soundcheck. I was already hot in my leather jacket, but I kept it on because the homemade arm band was tied around my right limb. The arm bands were an idea I had floated by Zach months ago and, black for mourning, with our logo, the crucibolt emblazoned upon it. I had sat down sometime between my dog trying to die and the show to make the both wraps at home using ribbon, velcro patches and iron-on sheets cut carefully and branded by my wife’s straightening iron. (i. have. never. been. cool.)

Meagen asked if I was nervous, and I said yes. Then, we walked into the venue to smoke and drink some more, Geoffrey and I both having quit tobacco except for rare occasions and the first-show-ever exception.

I waited 32 years to perform music--it still feels like a daydream that was never actually supposed to happen, but at the same time, if I’m being honest, events were always leading to this. It feels like I pulled off a miracle that was always going to happen.

On stage we were surrounded by a dimly lit room, filled with lots of people we knew. I didn’t know what to do so Zach instructed me from his drum kit on what to say to the sound guy. Then we launched into our newest song, “6 pack, nice abs!(stinence)” and I immediately heard my own vocals for the first time ever. It was an awful shock. But that feeling was overwhelmed by the rush of sound screaming out from behind me as I stared down at what my fingers were doing and sang as well as I could.

It was Zach’s idea to start with “6 pack”. I had spent two years planning for this moment, certain (god-damn-it, certain!) that when I got to play this shit live, the band (whoever that would be, there was no band, barely any songs, a pipe dream), we would start the show with the opening track of the album “everyone will leave and you”, but two hours before the show Zach said we needed to open with  6 pack, it, and it was agreed. Plans are just plans, sometimes real shit needs to happen.

Here’s a video of it.

We got through the first pre-chorus, and then I was almost smiling as we launched into the second verse

Some may feel possessed

I myself obsess about it

By the end of the song I was already sweating from the stage lights and the leather jacket; and the way I was screamed, stooped with the guitar strap across my shoulder, I felt myself nearly black out several times, a moment that would continue throughout the show.

It occurred to me afterward the opening lyrics were written while driving down the very same street the bar was on, near-as-exact to a year ago as I drove to buy airplane bottle liquor while texting my Father in an AA meeting.

Dad’s on his way to a meeting

I’m on my way to the store

And there I was, holding the guitar I grew up pretending to play, the cherry-red-heavy my Father let me borrow as he left for California, a son who had never written a song, asking someone he didn’t know very well for a guitar they never used anymore. 

He used to write little songs

He don’t write nothin’ no more

Then, the song ended and I heard people yelling and applauding. without looking up, Zach clicked us into the next one and we slammed through another two minute punk song about feelings (the boys and I recently decided to call our genre mid-punk, as we are so damn old compared to ‘dem kids’). It was during this one my head started to get away from me, that I began to realize I was, somehow on a stage and not in my imagination, and I had to grip the guitar pick tighter and focus on what I was doing. That is how insane it felt. And then, at some point during the set, stage lights started to jump and bounce everywhere and the surreality lifted into some sort of mega-dise of everything I had ever wanted.

My favorite part of the entire show was turning to Zach & Geoff between songs and laughing before we launched into whatever was next. Here was the set list, lest we ever forget:

6 pack, nice abs!(stinence)

everyone will leave and you

may you absorb all evil

the bridge song

better off without you

I saw a pale horse

west coast

ash to dust

word waster

vera

Everything ended with me singing a song I had written about a time 5 years ago when Meagen and a friend--the very same one I was consoling her about--were playing Super Mario 2 (Japanese version).

I’ll never be as happy as I was

On those Winter nights

After the show ended, Ben walked up on stage to give me a hug and congratulate me. “I can’t believe you just watched me play a show!” I shouted. I hope he noticed how perfect it was not, as I sure did.

It is so important to just go for things, and fuck up, and not be perfect, and then try over, and over, and over again. When it comes to art, you can do anything you want (if you’re meant to do it). And why would you want to do it, why would you dream about it everyday, if that dream wasn’t meant for you?

Work hard. Fuck up. Fix it. Let go. And finish.

That’s my plan, over and over again, and somehow, it looks like it’s starting to work. If you’re waiting for a package, I hope you have it by the time you read this. And if you’re ever in Nashville, I hope you can see EFFORTS play a show.

-mE.