#gothsic

[daemondaes]

“there is no cherry, only zuul.”

no one here knows about my art twitter, but i’m crossposting this here because it features tumblr user @/gothsic, even if they don’t come around these parts anymore 😌 this marks the third year in a row that i’ve drawn cherry and jo as a horror film couple (and the fourth year that i’ve drawn alex a late birthday present).

[raxcity]

@gothsic​​.

          ❝ AAAAND WE’RE STOPPED  again.  julian, why are we stopped again ? ❞  despite forcing a little laugh along with his demands toward his driver, he’s clearly exasperated.  ignoring the man’s response, the once-ler stares out the tinted window from the backseat of his town car to find short narrow roads and swimsuit clad people carelessly walking in front of traffic.  unable to stifle an eye roll, he leans back in his seat, propping a foot atop his opposite knee.  ❝ just honk at them.  jesus. ❞

a sigh escapes him as he gazes out the front window, focus eventually softening.  while his eagerness to reunite with jonathan vastielle, the complimentary writer who interviewed him months ago, overrules any minor inconvenience like traffic, he imagined a place with a name like venice beach to ooze glamour.  to say the least, the dingy little shops and homes they drive past are not what he expected.  he supposes it could just be the beach that looks this trashy.  the golf course they intend to visit should be a refreshing change for jonathan.

when the car finally pulls in front of a tiny shack, the once-ler gratefully pops his door open and steps out.  he’s dressed in a ridiculous set of high-waisted plaid pants in kelly green, styled with a matching cap and pepto bismol-pink polo tee.  by the way he lowers his bulky sunglasses down his nose bridge in a casual pose, he clearly has a high opinion of this outfit.  he looks the structure up and down before turning back to his driver.  ❝ this is the address he gave us ? ❞  the man rereads the address aloud and the once-ler’s eyes widen, staring at what he wouldn’t quite consider a house.  ❝ ha ha, no big deal !  i’ll, uh...i’ll be right back. ❞

a polite smile plastered on his face, he shuts his door and steps along the pavement toward the door, careful to avoid the cracks.  by the way jonathan carried himself in their interview, he hadn’t expected him to live like this.  regardless, the once-ler can’t remember the last time he just hung out with a friend--let alone, an older, cooler friend.  he hopes desperately that this game of golf will solidify a friendship between the two of them.

he raps on the door and rocks back and forth on his heels as he waits.  he notices a rather large spider in the doorway inches from his face and he jumps back, letting out a little squeal.  when the door opens, his grin returns.

❝ heeey, there he is !  ha ha ! ❞  he boldly swings a long arm around his buddy’s shoulders, pulling him into a side hug.  ❝ i can’t believe you live here !  this place is so random, right ? ❞

[citialiin]

          ☆ @gothsic​​ ESTABLISHED FIRST CONTACT.

     ❝ DO YOU -- make these ? ❞

     PERHAPS THE question comes across as entirely unnecessary -- it’s rather obvious, isn’t it, with the strewn inks and pencils and papers all cluttered into Jonathan’s cramped excuse of a studio, but it’s difficult to parse his words into things a bit more elegant, with more nuance.  He doesn’t trust his human language abilities quiet yet; adequate eloquence will come with time for his translator implant to adjust.  Mismatched irises rove over the strewn artwork before him, delicate gloved hands carefully taking up the edges of paper swathed in laminate -- original inks, one day they’ll be quite pricey, really, because Mr. Vastielle is destined to become a cult-classic.  There’s a nervous little laugh, a quiet, shy smile as he carefully sets aside one sheet and withdraws another, index finger tracing the swirling black lines, black ink voids and little tumultuous crosshatchings.  

     ❝ I’M SORRY.  I know that you drew these.  I meant to ask you -- ah, I think ... how you make these, ❞ he remedies softly.  Another paper to the pile, another withdrawn from the portfolio; he could pour over these for hours, he could stare at these strange drawings until his eyes rotted from his skull.  They fascinate him.  They serve no purpose, and yet, they exist, made manifest by a careful hand and endless diligence -- what makes them different than the drawings he is used to, architectural blueprints, diagrams of anatomy, maps of the stars ?  ❝ Are these things real ?  Did you ... invent them with your mind ? ❞ The visitor peers up at him -- 683′s eyes are quick to avert, downcast, nervous, timid.  He hunches his shoulders and hides behind his curtain of long, red hair, some frail fallen star curled up on the filthy carpet of Jonathan’s bungalow.  There has to be a better word; he sets the sheet aside, withdrawing another, and his thumb traces over a graphite drawing of another human on a post it note, hair tangled into a little knot, funny little lenses over her face much like those of his ever gracious host.  ❝ Did you imagine these people ?  These places ? ❞

[prcphesise]

† @gothsic​​.

          ❝ DAMN. ❞  SHE STANDS  outside the local bookstore, staring at the sign out front in disappointment.  staring back at her is the face of the ruggedly handsome writer her best friend willow cannot stop talking about :  jonathan vastielle.  beneath his name, buffy reads and rereads the times of his book signing and could’ve sworn that it should say 6-9 pm, not 6-8.  cursing herself again, she checks her watch despite knowing that it’s well past eight o’clock.

disappointed, willow’s well loved copy of the author’s graphic novel (whose title buffy cannot pronounce) dangling sadly in her hand, buffy starts down the street to head for home.  a sound in the neighboring alleyway catches her attention and she’s surprised to see mr. vastielle himself having a cigarette alone.

before she can second guess it, she takes her shot and rushes to his side.  ❝ hi !  mr. vastielle, right ?  i totally meant to come to your signing...but i got the times mixed up. ❞  she clears her throat awkwardly, realizing she’s probably really annoying this guy.  plastering on her most charming smile, she continues,  ❝ i’m sorry to bother you, but do you think you could sign my book really quick ? ❞

[vulpesse-arc]

A THOUSAND WORDS WITHERING ‘PON INKED PAPER, thoughts and feelings and secrets being cruelly spilled only to afterwards be molded and contorted into something grotesque and impossible to recognize or categorize   ──   HER HEART IS A CHIMERA, a creature that ought not to exist outside of nightmarish tales and long forgotten reveries. An overly dramatic sigh throbs against the back of the young starling’s clenched throat and although it does wither ‘pon the tip of her  (  acidic  )  tongue, it still manages to deftly paint the expanse of peachy features into the sulky pigments of puerile frustration and annoyance.   ❝  Do you think there’s any topic that humans have yet to write or SING about  ?  Lately, everything seems to be so... Banal and uninteresting.  ❞

STARTER CALL !  ♡  @gothsic​ .

[abvnai-a]

@gothsic​ asked: ‘ like when you blink your eyes over and over and over again and all you really see are like, frames. it was emotion. ‘ ( pacific rim sentence starters meme! )

         ❝        how hard did you hit your head ? ❞ she questions, a flick of her eyebrow upward as she wrings the towel in between her hands, and then extends it outward in her right hand, offering it as a cold compress.  ❝ you do know it was completely INSANE of you to run out like that, especially in front of the hunt. they could have taken you. ❞ not like the damn fae give a shit. they didn’t discriminate and HUMANS were their playthings.  she gives a roll of golden eyes before she grips her whip, turning it over in her hands as she tosses it into the cabinet. ❝ they’ll come back for you. you’ve seen them, they’ve touched you, they’ve         probably marked you. especially considering you’re talking like that. you sound like a man who nearly died. ❞ now she needed to find some silver, and lots of it, since her khopesh wouldn’t work.  she turned over the spare arrows she had once gotten as a gift and breaks the shaft off with her barehand, moving to separate the arrowhead. ❝ regardless, you’ll be safe here, at least for the moment. ❞

[heavenwalked]

meme.   /   @gothsic:    ❛ what did one snowman say to the other snowman? ❜

             𝐒𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐂𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍      the laptop screen in front of her that she nearly   misses   the man’s question.   brows knit,   lips turning downwards,   and hands slow to a stop from typing.   wandering gaze draws up to the ceiling of the plane in thought.   this one sounds   familiar,   like a joke she’s heard from somewhere before.   but,   the answer itself is completely   LOST   to her.   the blonde shifts in her seat,   drawing in a deep breath.    ❛    i don’t know,   what   did   the snowman say ?    ❜

[dadadaemovedagain]

@gothsic​: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ che you are one of the only reasons i come back to this hellsite and its because i adore your muses and i adore YOU, like a lot. but you know that and id repeat a thousand times over for you!!!!! would die for cherry x jo

send me a ⭐ if im ur fav (and why) — ACCEPTING

     ALEX...PLEASE...that’s laying it on really thick? i know i’ve said it before (or i think i’ve said it before) but like, wow, what an honor...icb my mere presence is enough to drag you back into the pits of hell LMAO

     thank you...thank you so much...cherryjo gives me life...a wreck like him and a junior wreck like her probably should not have existed together lbr but it happened and they’re so layered and they’re BEAUTEOUS and i’m grateful for the one meme that started it all (’:

[pcsitivibee]

positivity for gothsic : positivity for tumblr user @gothsic, who is such a talented writer and (now i've realized) also a really great artist !! they have an AMAZING oc with a ton of well thought out lore for jonathan and their replies are always so well done and thoughtful !

[themadvigilantist]

+12

@gothsic​ | @symptomofinsanity​ | @rebelgargoyle​ | @cardshcrp​ | @sebaldcoded​ | @companionperfected​ | @demayoproud​ | @surgikill​ | @doctorvii​ | @talktoten​ | @ofamazonia​ | @northpolebear​ |

She was almost up to her Earth apartment door when she heard something go off outside following screams. V let out a sigh as she turned back to the direction of the sounds. “We were so close...”

[horrormaestro-a]

happy  birthday  to  the  love  of  my  roleplay  life ,  my  grotesque  loving  ass  new  best  friend.  i  am  so  thankful  to  have  you  &  jo  in  my  life  &  i  wanted  to  show  you  some  love  today  by  gifting  you  these  dumbasses  in  some  manips.  basically ,  it’s  law  that  you  have  the  best  day  possible.  i  love  you  so  many! ♥  @gothsic

[entitaem]

starter for @gothsic from famine

“I’m a fan of your work.” How she got into his apartment is unknown. But there she is, long skinny limbs sprawled sideways over the armrest of an easy chair, digging into a take-out box of Chinese food with a utensil she seems to have brought herself. It is a spork with a black handle which creates odd distortions, when light hits (or rather bends) around it. She uses her own lighter to light a cigarette (also stolen from him), and regards the human with a broad but false smile. Human perception of her food theft is a funny thing, logically they know she is eating their food, but given that as soon as she takes her final bite, that same food would return to where she found it, the initial theft is never truly a problem. “Especially The Somnambulist.”

[citialiin]

              ☆ ESTABLISHING TRANSMISSION WITH: @gothsic​​ 

     IT’S NOT his fault.

     WELL, MAYBE it is -- it’s not his job to acknowledge when he’s at fault, mostly, and he typically has no desire to indulge in pathetic sensitivity when he’s got so much more to occupy his time.  Girls are dime a dozen, Jonathan was one in a billion, and Annie is, altogether, something he can’t quite quantify in currency metaphors.  She is pretty.  And she is quaint, just like all other human girls he’s come across.  And she is cautious, and she is introspective, and she engrosses herself in her own thoughts to a fault; it’s hard for her to see beyond the rim of her round glasses, let alone understand the immense aptitude for talent that she may hardly even know she possesses.  She creates -- she makes stories out of nothing, she weaves words like he weaves his lyrics into meandering tapestries of imagery, thought, ideation, and she is sensitive, she is sad, she is deeply disgusted with someone who he thinks he may or may not be deeply in love with.   She was never dazzled by him; she called him out on his bullshit, she snapped the sutures searing that mask to his face with little more than a few well-meaning words and a stuttering little apology afterwards.  

     BUT IT’S not his fault -- or his problem -- that humans get so involved with one another, an inherent flaw of their speciation; still, even if repeats this to himself like a mantra, he is the one standing here at her doorstep, impeccably dressed as ever in a smart black shirt with his sleeves cuffed at the elbow, navy trousers perfectly tapered to his vinyl boots.  He’s armed with flowers, so many flowers, spilling from his arms and placed in vases by her door and all but hiding his face behind an explosion of vivid flora.  The door opens --  ❝ Annie, ❞ comes a voice from behind a bundle of blooms, and the slightest hint of cherry red hair from the crimson scarlet bundle lets her know that this isn’t just a disembodied pile of red roses.  Humans like flowers.  He can’t blame them.  There aren’t many types left, where he’s from; he likes them too.  ❝ I’m -- ❞ and his voice is oddly muffled, a grumble of exertion as he shifts the weight in his arms to finally meet her eye, blinking at her with an oddly off-guard expression, no manufactured plastic perfection, no smug conceit, no charming charisma.  

     HIS DRIVER makes his way behind him, placing a last bundle by his feet, and Ziggy shoos him away with a nasty look and a frustrated hiss.  ❝ I -- I’m really terribly sorry, ❞ he manages, and there’s piles of them, vases and bundles and the enormous explosion he’s got in his arms.  ❝ These ... are for you, ❞ he stammers, as if he had just hauled a garden to her doorstep for no particular reason.  ❝ ... Could I come inside, please ? ❞

[florensflos-archived]

—  Long midday hours were probably the WORST in Curly’s opinion. But did any of his siblings care when he told him that ?? Well, of course not !! They just up and left him with the heaviest workload of the day. Talk about a bunch of lazys. . . Though, in hindsight, Curly probably would’ve mooched off if it weren’t for his mother specifically asking for him to come fill in the schedule.

Augh. . . Whatever. He decided he could deal with it. Besides, for it being a Friday afternoon, it was pretty empty. Usually, hundreds of nearby office workers who were cramming to get all their work done were filling the store with shouts for coffee. With the little foot traffic they were currently getting, he felt rather at ease. The line had even died down, leaving no one but students chilling in the lounging area with their laptops. With a heavy sigh, he decided that he could turn his attention away for just a brief moment. Hands were quick to reach for his phone, leaning casually up against the counter as he didn’t think there would be anyone else coming in anytime soon. But like with most things in his life, he was wrong. . .

Brown eyes momentarily glanced upwards from behind circular frames, catching a single glimpse of the man who now stood in line. Wait. . . Wait, wait, wait. . . Back up just a second. . .

Forget getting a customer out of fucking nowhere. . . This guy looked TOTALLY familiar. A single glance became a full-on stare as Curly stood there, mouth slightly open in pure confusion trying to figure this one out. There was a brief squint given, Curly mentally ignoring whatever had just been said to him by the other. . . Why couldn’t he figure this out !? He definitely had it on the tip of his tongue. . !! And yet, the only words that he could muster were, ❝ Sorry uh. . . What was that ??  ❞

@gothsic // x

[innosen-a]

lyric starter / accepting !!

❛ i'm a good pretender , i'm NOT REALLY cool . . . ❜

@gothsic / pretender feat. lil yachty and ajr

[toooldforgermany]

hannah you know how i feel about your portrayal but ill emphasize it again - it's marvelous. your love for we happy few and connection to arthur really shines through your prose. your interior writing is what stands out most to me personally, because i get a sense of arthurs core there. also, your effort to keep him as close to canon as possible is commendable so i wanted to emphasize that as well! all in all this is a really terrific character study and you're doing an excellent job imo!

💊 i don’t normally like these, but  |  if you want.  ✿❧

i don’t usually like reblogging these because i always feel that random, out of the blue compliments always feel much more – just… i don’t want to say honest? but just more from the heart. not that these aren’t, but they just feel better, if that makes sense. but i usually reblog these if i’m feeling ooc, just to see if anyone has any say in what’s going on.

the fact that you mentioned me trying to stick to canon is really, really important to me. i am personally not a big fan of canon divegence, lest those people use canon to prove it otherwise. then i can understand. i myself have done that in the past. but usually i believe sticking to the material there is, is essential; otherwise you might as well just make an oc. i know that’s a very unpopular opinion but when i feel canon, i feel comfortable. i like sticking to it a lot.

i’m kinda surprised, though? i know arthur and i are very, very similar but i didn’t realize it could be seen through my writing? god i hOPE IT’S ALL GOOD. sometimes my writing feels so bland these days. and the dialogue just doesn’t have alex wyndham’s voice anymore.

i’m just hoping i can give him justice, since most of the fandom doesn’t.