real-thick-black-magic

[real-thick-black-magic]

i don't know how to put this any other way so, uh, i'm quitting

not necessarily quitting tumblr, but i'm just not going to write anymore. it stopped being fun for me a while ago and has just started to stress me out. i've gone on so indefinite "hiatuses" that i think it's time i just come clean and stop. it's just not my thing anymore

i've thought about it and we've talked about it and decided that instead of selling or abandoning my characters altogether, i'm giving them to my friend @biracy . she's a good writer and a good artist who deserves it more than i do ���

i'll try to post more on my main @blondeleader 💕

[real-thick-black-magic]

i can’t talk rn, i’m doing hot girl shit *reanimates a corpse*

[real-thick-black-magic]

so sorry i didn't see this sooner!! this is so cool, maria, thank you!

Little teeny tiny doodle fanart gift for @real-thick-black-magic bc I love her story sm…. check her out

[real-thick-black-magic]

Evil mad scientists are great but consider, additionally: chaotic good mad scientist. Mad scientist with good intentions who usually somehow gets the results they're after, just through some ethically dubious means. Mad scientist who brings people back to life to be nice. And thus had a dead person in the freezer for a while

[real-thick-black-magic]

i like mad scientists bc i think we should all get to indulge in being gay, evil, and insufferably smart

[real-thick-black-magic]

wrote a little something tonight, put it under the cut. it's not my best, but it's something!

content warnings for mild dereality and references to death

I wake up in a damp room, a room with a vaulted ceiling and muddy light filtering in through tall, Gothic windows. It looks like a cathedral that’s been stripped naked.

I feel very dirty, although I remember showering before I went to bed. I look at my hands, and there’s dirt under my nails. I pick them clean and run my fingers through my short hair, which has gotten tangled although, again, I remember brushing it before I went to bed.

When I look again at the nearest window, he’s there, even though he wasn’t before and I certainly didn’t hear him approaching. I can just make out his face in the dim light, his massive, pale brown eyes unblinking. They have swollen, purplish bags beneath them, like he hasn’t slept, although he does not look tired. He has them every time he comes to see me.

I walk up to stand next to him by the window. It’s raining. I realize then that it’s cold.

“Yes, I’m cold,” he says, although I didn’t ask him anything.

“D’you want my jacket, then?” I ask, shrugging it off. I do not remember falling asleep with my letterman jacket on.

“Can’t wear it,” he says, his breath fogging the windowpane. “You know that.”

“I just think it’s strange,” I sigh. “Doesn’t it ever get to you?”

“Every day.”

We’re standing outside. It’s still raining, and the water is cold. I’m very conscious of it on my skin, running down the back of my neck and making me shiver. We’re in a cemetery, and no matter how close I get to the headstones, I can’t read any of the inscriptions.

I look over at him, standing with his hands in his pockets, his long ponytail whipping in the wind. I can see the wound at the back of his neck, his freckled skin rotting away. He reaches up and flicks a worm off the edge of the gaping hole.

“Annoying little buggers, aren’t they?” he asks, frowning slightly. I nod.

“Must be difficult.”

He walks towards one of the headstones, his boots crunching the grass loudly, although the ground is soaked with rain. “I’m here somewhere, I just know it. Looks a bit familiar, doesn’t it?”

I nod again. I’ve never been to a cemetery like this before. Of course it’s familiar.

“Sorry I can’t help you, Dad. I’m not allowed to read the headstones.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it, love. You’ll get there in time.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is dry. I’ll get there in time.

He squints over at the cathedral we were in before, nothing but a small chapel with mold-covered bricks and a caved-in roof. “Think you better be going.”

“Mm-hm. Got school tomorrow, I think.”

“I’ll keep looking while you’re gone. Don’t forget.”

I smile. “I won’t, Dad. Don’t worry.”

[real-thick-black-magic]

wrote a little something tonight, put it under the cut. it's not my best, but it's something!

content warnings for mild dereality and references to death

I wake up in a damp room, a room with a vaulted ceiling and muddy light filtering in through tall, Gothic windows. It looks like a cathedral that’s been stripped naked.

I feel very dirty, although I remember showering before I went to bed. I look at my hands, and there’s dirt under my nails. I pick them clean and run my fingers through my short hair, which has gotten tangled although, again, I remember brushing it before I went to bed.

When I look again at the nearest window, he’s there, even though he wasn’t before and I certainly didn’t hear him approaching. I can just make out his face in the dim light, his massive, pale brown eyes unblinking. They have swollen, purplish bags beneath them, like he hasn’t slept, although he does not look tired. He has them every time he comes to see me.

I walk up to stand next to him by the window. It’s raining. I realize then that it’s cold.

“Yes, I’m cold,” he says, although I didn’t ask him anything.

“D’you want my jacket, then?” I ask, shrugging it off. I do not remember falling asleep with my letterman jacket on.

“Can’t wear it,” he says, his breath fogging the windowpane. “You know that.”

“I just think it’s strange,” I sigh. “Doesn’t it ever get to you?”

“Every day.”

We’re standing outside. It’s still raining, and the water is cold. I’m very conscious of it on my skin, running down the back of my neck and making me shiver. We’re in a cemetery, and no matter how close I get to the headstones, I can’t read any of the inscriptions.

I look over at him, standing with his hands in his pockets, his long ponytail whipping in the wind. I can see the wound at the back of his neck, his freckled skin rotting away. He reaches up and flicks a worm off the edge of the gaping hole.

“Annoying little buggers, aren’t they?” he asks, frowning slightly. I nod.

“Must be difficult.”

He walks towards one of the headstones, his boots crunching the grass loudly, although the ground is soaked with rain. “I’m here somewhere, I just know it. Looks a bit familiar, doesn’t it?”

I nod again. I’ve never been to a cemetery like this before. Of course it’s familiar.

“Sorry I can’t help you, Dad. I’m not allowed to read the headstones.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it, love. You’ll get there in time.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is dry. I’ll get there in time.

He squints over at the cathedral we were in before, nothing but a small chapel with mold-covered bricks and a caved-in roof. “Think you better be going.”

“Mm-hm. Got school tomorrow, I think.”

“I’ll keep looking while you’re gone. Don’t forget.”

I smile. “I won’t, Dad. Don’t worry.”

[real-thick-black-magic]

Good Morning Blondie ~ Jack Stauber

[real-thick-black-magic]

[real-thick-black-magic]

Alice Cooper and Vincent Price on the set of The Nightmare, March 1975

[real-thick-black-magic]

Sock Six by David Firth

[real-thick-black-magic]

i am absolutely unable to organize my thoughts right now, but i'm thinking some jezebel thoughts and maybe, finally, some world-building is being done in this house

[real-thick-black-magic]

hi!

hi! i'm gia, i'm sixteen, and i write stuff, technically!

started up a sideblog to put writing stuff! my story is currently a massive wip, but i want a place to put my thoughts! my story follows a scientist named jezebel and her communication and strange relationship with her late father

i'll probably post both original content here and anything that "vibes" like my characters.

my main aesthetic blog is @blondeleader