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@bcrgmal-blog
this is an independent & private horror multimuse containing various original characters, as well as canon muses from The Magnus Archives (by Rusty Quill). mature content. heavily headcanon basedf. as reluctantly imagined by A (she/they).
➤ carrd ! ( includes muses & rules ) 𝄪 low activity. 21+
𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑳𝒀 𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺𝑯𝑨𝑫𝑬 . ( angst - oriented sentence starters . dark & potentially triggering themes are present . )
❛ no … no , why would you do that ? ❜ ❛ fight back . fight back ! ❜ ❛ when were you going to tell me ? ❜ ❛ don’t fucking touch me . ❜ ❛ you promised . you fucking promised . ❜ ❛ i never wanted to hurt you . ❜ ❛ run . run & don’t stop . ❜ ❛ you’re a fucking stereotype . ❜ ❛ please don’t go … please don’t go . ❜ ❛ i’m putting you out of your misery . ❜ ❛ what makes you think i’d listen to a word you say ? ❜ ❛ this is what you think love is ?? ❜ ❛ i never should’ve trusted you . ❜ ❛ i love you . is that what you wanted to hear ? ❜ ❛ you’re so fucking pathetic . ❜ ❛ nobody can help me . not even you . ❜ ❛ don’t act like you know me . ❜ ❛ i’ve got my own shit to deal with . ❜ ❛ i’m saying my goodbyes . ❜ ❛ please don’t go . ❜ ❛ i’d rather drop dead . ❜ ❛ i loved you , you know ? ❜ ❛ talk to me . ❜ ❛ what , was i just a charity case ?? ❜ ❛ i feel so fucking stupid . ❜ ❛ i want to be alone . ❜ ❛ that’s low , even for you . ❜ ❛ say that again , i fucking dare you . ❜ ❛ i can’t … i can’t feel my - ❜ ❛ i’m so fucking tired , i just … i can’t . ❜ ❛ we’ve missed so much . ❜ ❛ what , you’re gonna shoot me ? ❜ ❛ you’re nothing . ❜ ❛ stop looking at me like that . like i’m broken . ❜ ❛ you’ve lost a lot of blood . ❜ ❛ don’t shut me out . ❜ ❛ it’s not real . it’s not real . ❜ ❛ you’re just saying what i want to hear . ❜ ❛ i swear , i’ll kill you . ❜ ❛ stop … just stop fucking lying . stop . ❜ ❛ just tell me what you did . ❜ ❛ i already know what you did , i just want to hear it from you . ❜ ❛ i needed you to be different . ❜ ❛ how long has it been since you’ve eaten ? ❜ ❛ put the [ gun / knife ] down . ❜ ❛ what do you want from me ? ❜ ❛ we’ve lost so much time . ❜ ❛ i really fucking hate you , sometimes . ❜ ❛ i can’t … i can’t , i can’t do this today . ❜ ❛ you know , i never wanted to hurt you . ❜ ❛ i shouldn’t have to beg you to love me . ❜ ❛ i don’t owe you shit . ❜ ❛ don’t say it , don’t fucking say it . ❜ ❛ it sounds like you’ve been crying … ❜
sorry for going mia folks, I’m back at my family home after 2 years and running around fixing the place for my mum!
Airport sales staff: thank you very much, have a safe trip!
Me, an awkward: thanks, you too— wait a sec.
having the time and inspo to write VS having a sprained wrist: A Study In Pain & Pleasure, I GUESS.
A Sunlit Interior, Carl Vilhelm Holsøe
archiveye
❝ oh, but i think you do. ❞ cheap lies do little more than spur forth his rage, the likes of which already burned deep within the confines of his ribcage — a call to raw emotion that so few faces and names could elicit so easily, yet the man before him managed to do so with such ease. if he weren’t fueled by anything but anger, he might well have been disgusted by the fact. how quickly the man the infamous library of the ominous had been named for could make him lose composure. no — more than just that. how quickly the very same could force him to lose ground.
❝ who do you think you’re fooling, jurgen? not yourself. certainly not me. ❞ the ceaseless watcher cuts through the poorly-veiled smog of deceit as easily as a knife through flesh. it sees, and it knows. it understands. whether the man before him chose to acknowledge the fact, or whether he would instead choose to feign ignorance, cling to some modicum of hope that his stammering sidesteps might deceive … — to elias, it mattered so very little. the greys of his eyes are set upon jurgen leitner’s countenance with rapt focus, and his voice, his words, are sharp as a blade — underlined with an unsettling distortion, the sort of buzz in the back of one’s mind that no amount of head-shaking would cast aside.
❝ tell me. 𝑯𝑶𝑾 𝑳𝑶𝑵𝑮 𝑯𝑨𝑽𝑬 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑩𝑬𝑬𝑵 𝑯𝑰𝑫𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑫𝑶𝑾𝑵 𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬? ❞
have you ever been KNOWN ? not in the sense that people use when speaking of each other ( ‘yes, I know them, we have worked together-‘ or ‘of course I know them, we have been together for-‘ or even ‘how could I not know them? flesh of my flesh, DNA passed on through reproduction-‘. human knowing is so…. . . .. …limited. limited by sight. limited by understanding. )
this… it’s something different. he’s been hidden for so long that Elias focusing on him as the whole object of interest, in this tiny room, made him feel like a fish yanked out of water into the full sunlight of summer at midday. and slapped against cement. repeatedly. ( it also makes his skin crawl. almost literally. nails digging into every single nerve at his spinal cord, pulling him taut. he can feel, feel his very safe, very comfortable cocoon of non-existence –––created by a handful of cleverly applied words––– chip away. Jurgen observes it with almost morbid curiosity.
almost detached from it all. almost. but oh, how a whole world can be built on almosts. almost falls remarkably SHORT, in this instance.
almost enough time. almost safe. almost gone soon enough, before . . . almost, almost, bloody almost. )
it takes a great deal of force of will, but Jurgen shuts his eyes. the lack of visual stimuli only makes the sensation worse. something churns inside of him, like a sort of vertigo. like peeling the skin off his flesh, flesh off the bone, bone stripped down to the marrow—
Jurgen blinks.
“ really, there’s no need for that. ” he replies, and it’s genuine, punctuated by the hand that moves up from his side, motion languid, and pats the air as if it were the head of a child. a soothing gesture. might as well have patted Elias’s head. ( if it’s unconsciously patronizing –––––– well. blood has a way of manifesting itself at the most inconvenient of times. this particular trait is something he should thank his father for. )
the air distorts, resounds with static that licks long lines along the gyri of his brain, then dips through its grooves. it’s a very strange feeling. “ long enough, ” Jurgen replies, and what he means is years. . “ longer than you knew, certainly. ” without your even suspecting it, for so long. “ I rather wish it had been longer, if I am being honest. ” which is all rather unfortunate.
the chair screeches against the floor as he moves to stand, fingers instinctively reaching for— ( safety. if Elias could, so easily, remove one obstacle from his path, one that he had had some use for… )
“ …..is this really necessary? you and I can certainly reach an understanding. ”
Elias: in order for my nefarious plans to succeed, I need a supernatural librarian who is deeply familiar with each of the fourteen fears.
Jurgen Leitner: hi! I’m a supernatural librarian who is deeply familiar with each of the fourteen fears!
Elias: *immediately murders him*
Elias: now that i’ve dealt with that interruption, I can return to the task of orchestrating thirteen horrific encounters for my barely-competent trainee librarian, who has thus far been marked by exactly one (1) fear.
@lady-archivist said: “ teach me! “
he’s comfortable, laying down here, the pull and stretch of the leather embrace welcoming and familiar. by all accounts, Oliver is perhaps a little too comfortable. but Ruby has made no moves to—— ( consume him. swallow him up whole. dissolve him in a pit of acid, until only bone and memory remain, instead of everything that is in his head ) ——make his visits… ah, disagreeable. ( the prospect of his own death never truly held any fascination for him. he’s dipped his toes into the icy waters of endings enough times to know that nothing lasts. people, most of all. in your life, in your bed, or on earth altogether. )
“ I don’t know if I could, ” he replies, and it’s quiet. you’ve been around longer than I, after all. the smell of old books, all around him, grounds him. he doesn’t know why. perhaps it tugs at a thread of his memory. or perhaps, like many things, with familiarity comes ease. ( and the illusion of permanence, which brings comfort. ) Oliver’s eyes shut, but do not press closed too tightly. he’s too awake to fall asleep ( and this isn’t a place for sleep, unless you wish to make it into a more ….permanent…. ordeal ) and dreaming holds no fascination for him anymore.( it’s quiet, quiet, quiet here. and the only darkness dances in the floors below, a swarming mass of tendrils that disappear behind closed doors and spiraling corridors. it isn’t something he’s asked about, and likely won’t. it’s really not his business, and this tranquility is balancing on a delicate edge. )
“ but I suppose…. ” his eyes open, and although he’s staring upwards, he doesn’t see the delicate, intricate moldings of the corners of the ceiling. instead, darkness spreads before his eyes, punctured by sharp needles of light. the memory hits him low in the gut. “ …do you know the last time something really fascinated me? after I grew up, was no longer a child....? out in the country. no light pollution. billions of dead stars, connected by flashing threads of light. it was like watching the synapses fire in god’s brain. have you ever seen it? ”
send me “ teach me! “ for my muse to teach yours to do something mine loves. ( could be skill, activity, etc. )
The world is entire, and I am outside of it, crying … —
katrien de blauwer / edith sitwell / e. m. forster / anaïs nin / virginia woolf / h. g. wells
Send in 📜 and I’ll use this incorrect quotes generator using your muse and my muse. (Please specify how many muses//which muses for multimuse blogs!!)
vcrtigoes
he can hear it, the rattle of oxygen that shifts in veins, the way it spirals and carries through undeserving lungs, a candle’s light so simple to blow out. it was a shame, he idly thought, that gerry could not have had the same honor. others like him, the both of them, robbed of youth, robbed of life, all for one pathetic man’s hubris scattered to the winds. like a thumb brushing teasingly over throat, the air would feel strangely lacking, cold and thin.
mike’s expression remained nonetheless chillingly impartial, form stock still. he could not - would not deny the passing accusation. there was no part of him that was not dripping with innocent blood, countless lost to the endlessly yawning void, countless more to be. reasoning in the end, did not matter; survival, hubris, some sick monsterous need. maybe in that respect, they had some commonality.
“ what can i say? you have a successful model. ” pale eyes glitter something unspoken, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. one more would be of no consequence. you wouldn’t even be able to scream. “ i - i suppose i should thank you, you know. thanks to you, i’ve had the opportunity to get … a much grander perspective, if you will. ”
all at once, the air around them shifts ( invisibly – naturally, but enough to be felt. as if suddenly projected into a high altitude, where everything is crisp and razorsharp. it’s a threat, he knows, but somehow, it takes him back to his childhood. a strange juxtaposition ; something so dangerous is able to bring comfort. Jurgen’s parents were still Norwegian, even if he was raised English. they still brought him on tur, every weekend. from the (modest) peaks, everything seemed clearer, somehow. cleaner. more alive. and you, on top of the world. )
it’s a threat, reflected strangely in those eyes. Jurgen’s own gaze follows the strange patterns of his skin. it leaves him a little lightheaded, and his mind grappling with the possibilities of which danger he is facing. ( he knew being on the streets was a bad idea, even under cover of darkness. ) he knows better than to consume too much of anything, so his gaze returns to the top of the other’s head ( nice and safe. )
had he been privy to the other’s thoughts, he would not have judged them harshly. the misplaced anger is unsurprising, and suffering is an eloquent defence. ‘I see you must have stumbled upon one of my books’, Jurgen’s eyes say, and pity slithers beneath the understanding in his gaze.
( because… of course. it is something he has been long hunted for, and for all the wrong reasons. --- how ironic his life turned out to be, in the end. to always have to be reminded of the mistakes of his youth, when he was kept afloat by hubris and deflated by his own naiveté. the road that led to his own hell was, indeed, paved with good intentions. )
understanding ––– to a degree. as much as one in his shoes can understand…. something like this. ( someone like this. ) because he has lived enough years now to recognise that it is easier to carry such a burden when you can shift all blame onto a precise ( knowable, reachable ) object, and pour all your suffering, like bile, into its cup. like the old medical practices of blood-letting, it lets something go ( although at great expense ) and therefore lightens you ( or maybe that is just the placebo effect ). for the entr’acte – for that single moment – the air is cool and quiet and still, leaving room for possibility. Possibility. then there are words, and Jurgen finds himself answering them.
“ I am afraid that this is my first meeting you, ” he replies, voice calm even as the intake of breath feels like icepicks to the lungs. Jurgen exhales. his mind reaches out with lazy fingertips to remind him that it is both lack of oxygen and the accumulation of carbon monoxide in your bloodstream is enough to make you lose consciousness before they kill you. he doesn’t know why he finds that so amusing.
“ therefore, I must beg your pardon, but I can hardly have had a hand in…. your unfortunate experiences. though I am sorry for them. ”
@archiveye said: ❝ do i need to ask a second time? i hate asking a second time. ❞ ( some long lost meme. )
his breath settles, aching and cold, somewhere between his solar plexus and the throat. ( out of breath. out of time? ) then, as one releasing the smoke from their lungs, Jurgen exhales, slow and almost indulgently, his breath saturated with doubt. it’s an unspeakable unknown, but something more raw rakes its nails along his spine.
he stares at Elias Bouchard, straight in the face, for a full ten seconds, forgetting to blink. the silence feels tense and chilly and wholly out of place ( what’s the worst that Elias could do to him, anyway? STARE and LOOK him into oblivion? ). but Jurgen’s older now, or at least old enough to know that although the ground on which you stand may look solid enough, at any point, something might happed and it could drop right out from under your feet.
call it an odd but knife-sharp sense of… self-preservation.
“ elias. I’m not sure what you mean— ” it’s a cheap lie, and perhaps an even cheaper diversion. worse, they both know it.
“I feel that it is necessary and ordained that I should be alone, a stranger and an exile in relation to every human circle without exception.”
— Simone Weil, from a journal entry featured in “Waiting for God; The Letters and Notebooks,” (via violentwavesofemotion)
@twistingdeception //: continued from here .
it’s a bit of a private jest, you see ( there is nothing durable about the human body. it is easily shred and easily broken. disposing of people is straightforward. keeping them alive…. ah, well now. there’s the rub. the actual challenge. ) he smiles good-humouredly at his own jest, even as pain bleeds through its edges and contorts his mouth into a twisted, fluttering thing. still. all life, in the end, is a struggle –– a bit of a brilliant flash, a meteor across the dark sky of the universe. but people still cling onto it with greedy little fingers. he knows his own body does. he can feel its rush to try to mend, to contain, to reach some semblance of homeostasis in this crisis.
he is not knowledgeable enough to diagnose his own condition, to attempt to tease apart internal bruising from internal ruptures or bleeding or whatever else can go wrong when a (figurative) bull encounters the china-shop-fragility of the human body.
. . . .. .... where did that mental image come from? the thought makes him chuckle. he’s never been inclined to waxing poetics about much ( let alone his present condition ), but his thoughts are broken and incoherent whispers, fragmentary utterances that he attempts to piece together like puzzle pieces, to make a coherent whole out of with trembling, stumbling mental fingers.
but he hasn’t lost his bearings enough not to be wary of The DiStORtiOn. its words seem all too simple and natural and coherent ( but so akin to the solutions of dreams, which are hardly ever coherent, that it turns his blood to ice water. )
it lies. it lies, it lies, IT(s) LIES.
“ most obliging, ” he chokes, clears his throat, digs his nails into the wall as if to anchor himself into reality, and smiles at the irony of the words, all too amused. “ but, ah, I’ll think I cannot accept your… most obliging offer. ”his steps begin. falter. he breathes. he keeps on breathing, and that’s a start. if he could only———
“ alas, I am in no fit state to fully…. experience it. ”
