archcrawl

[archcrawl]

i'll make a promo & whatnot when the dash isn't dead but jude's archiving & moving, @itscrawl 👁👁

[archcrawl]

* unleashes the horrors upon you * consider this a cute lil plotting call.

[archcrawl]

here at 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐎™ one of our core values is NUMBER GO UP. our other core value is PROFIT GO UP. thank you for investing in our mission to exploit you! ... a study into JɄĐɆ, a lovecraftian-inspired entity that feeds off chaos and works for an interdimensional organization aiming to destroy reality! 

adapted from my own sci-fi horror narrative to fit within various forms of media. as dreamt by doll, she / her, 18+

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐓, 𝐖𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐓: carrd. pin. visuals.

𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 . . . cosmic horrors. unreliable narration. dimensions and limited perceptions. dystopian societies. the depraved parts of humanity. evil exists everywhere. the (in)significance of existence. media as the voyeur / big brother is watching. false prophets. eating as an allegory for power, and the catharsis of horror.

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i think,, i'm back for real this time :)

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purpose is the antithesis of chaos, linearity a foe of disorder. it is so lacklustre, this notion of eternity spent in a loop, the universe reduced to an ouroboros devouring itself, time and time again. it is not unlike getting the same movie stuck on play, credits and all. the entity's arms are crossed over her chest, head tilted, brows pinched in a frown. for all intents and purposes, she seemed displeased — whether she actually agrees or not, she is content to not disclose, for how dull the truth can be, and she is nothing if not contrary. so, the chaotic thing titters, ❝ a river can dry up and water is but finite. destruction is forever. ❞ keeping a reputable distance, she glanced upward to the god-wearing-a-man's-face; his is a tone necessitating utmost respect, but the thing has none much to spare, for it has lived many lives with many names, and by now, it has seen it all — from bibles to qurans to scripture to blah blah blah, from world to world and man to man, she knew a god to be an idol that could be toppled as any other, a figment of collective desperation; on a good day, she finds religion to be a sham and philosophy a scheme. the same story, repeated, fucking sucks. when she sticks out her tongue, it is an amusement that coats her words, ❝ entropy, hail ho! 's much more fun than your booo-oring circles anyway. ❞

@itscrawl / sc

"time will come back to its start, cycle through, and return again. like a river, like water, it is all but a cycle." Des's voice is soft, and yet it commands a certain ceaseless power to it. Blue eyes fixate on her, and he smiles.

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a   sentence   starter   inspired   by    “ MABEL ”    a   podcast   about   ghosts ,   family   secrets ,   strange   houses ,   and   missed   connections   written   by   becca   de   la   rosa   and   mabel   martin.   /   part   2.

did i dream you?

i think i conjured you.

you laughed, and i fell in love with you.

i love only you. only you. only ever you.

sometimes loves isn’t enough.

you are familiar and strange at the same time.

i  thought you were beautiful: a thing i could never touch.

sometimes i think i would eat you if i could.

it is not uncommon for us to want to eat what we love.

we consume what we love.

where does it come from, the thread that ties us together?

you know some of my secrets, i know some of your secrets.

i always thought the worst thing in the world was repetition.

do you know who i am? or are you only looking in the mirror?

i am different. i am not the same as i was.

you don’t strike me as the kind of person ever to have been afraid of the dark.

even the dark needs things to eat, things to love.

the dark was hungry. the dark is always devouring.

i never used to step on insects. it would make me cry.

nothing in this universe is what you think it is.

i have only anecdotal evidence for this, but it’s true nonetheless.

entropy, come to devour all.

would they be horrified if they saw my hands, do you think?

my touch has always ruined everything, hasn’t it?

i am unwilling to change for any purpose except my own will, my own apotheosis.

[archcrawl]

Gossip Girl - 1x12: “Gossip Gone, Girl”

[archcrawl]

i'll elaborate more on npcs some other time but... i'm always thinking about jude's bestie (reluctant colleague & begrudging ally) The Void: malevolent entity, etc etc. his control spans over modern media & tech, whereas it used to be limited to merely influencing those dealing with the occult. he found a niche and now, he's always watching through the screen. 👁👁

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the exposed lightbulbs tremble. the kitchen is basked in an old, yellow glow as if the room itself were diseased, teeth gleaming at the centre of the room, visible even in the shadows, where she stands. in the space between them sits entropy, the third guest at the table. ❝ a small nick in your warding. ❞ it answers and the laugh that follows is a ringing thing, macabre and morbid. the entity — which seemed half a hallucination and half a nightmare, depending on the shifty light's coy angles — stands by the counter and dips a frail martini glass in a round dish, covering the rim in salt, before pouring dry vermouth and gin, topping it with an olive. the papers she'd swiped from his desk detailing a case were crumpled beneath the weight of the utensil.

she repeats the process, casually sliding one drink toward constantine as she leans onto the surface, grinning, swishing around the other. ❝ you're getting sloppy. gotta be careful, baby, or else you'll have god know what crawling 'round your vents. ❞ the lights flicker once more, before steadying.

there are different types of hunger: food-hunger, love-hunger, soul-hunger. at the kitchen table, the heart of a house, all is divulged. appetite and anger, after all, are stored in the same place. it is a carnivorous sensation that eat away at one's own gut; by that same metaphor, the urge to sabotage this most recent case had been larger than the wrath she harboured still, even if this endeavour entailed occupying his living space. hollow eyes trace his movements as he bites into the abomination he calls a meal curiously, her head canting to the side, though she does not care to mask the roll of her eyes. not for him, anyway, ❝ wined & dined? oh, lower your standards, john. 's more of a hit-and-run situation with you. ❞

( ✞ ) ⎯⎯ @itscrawl : when the universe fucks you, let it.

            should've known better, really. when crows masquerade as warning calls, grotesque neons elicit a chill down the dorscum. quarter to two strikes entropy like a kiss with a righteous fist & of all the entities to find at the shoddy kitchen table, this is arguably the worst / witness underneath doorframe, rickety frame at a slant coming down from another bad dream. ( perhaps you still are: vision edge with a whiskey softened haze & the nightmare is grinning back. do you even care ? ) lungs rattle with suspire, pluck a silk cut from it's crumpled packet ⎯⎯ an echo of a callous snap & hiss from the fingertips. ❝ jude, darling, how d'you get in ? ❞ the warmth of the flame / cool exhale of smoke as timbre croaks awake with aggravation.

he's not home, backstreet crafted key by the doorway, but she's not welcomed, either. intricate fuck off sigil etched into the withering door reduced to nothing. keeping a safe distance perched by the unfamiliar kitchen sink, ( landlord's vile as most bottom feeding demons, reservations set aside amongst other grudges. ) laughter makes a bold escape, bewilderment from an otherwise mulish demeanour. ❝ if this is the universe's grand way of havin' a peg, i ain't bloody interested. ❞ a prompt bite of burnt toast & sriracha, tastebuds were six feet under. ❝ it'd be nice to be wined & dined before getting fucked. ❞

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jude's bones and flesh have the opposite effect of a rabbit's foot. having them on one's person leads to bad luck, higher risk of death, etc.

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open to mutuals!

the bones of thousands of times are cradled in her mind's eye, a glimpse through the door of fate: thus divulged through the spread of cards, their backs gleaming in this ill light as they await their turn to be revealed. time doesn't seem to move forward, nor does it move backwards, and it feels like a trap, like a loop. like a dream, decomposing. at the centre, the woman is sat crisscrossed on the floor, back straight; her head is cant ever so slightly to the side, inspecting her companion. there is nothing comforting about her hollow presence, but the darkness that seeps all around, beyond her circle of candles, seems to be infested with far worse, its waiting eyes and mouths poking through.    ❝ pick three. ❞    jude instructs as she motions theatrically toward the spread deck on the floor, golden trim playing tricks at the behest of the waning flame of the candles lit around them.  ❝ it is your soul that lies here, you cannot choose wrong. ❞

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dynamic like joi and officer k from bladerunner where someone is enamoured with jude, as the version of her that exists in & haunts their dreams. i am asking for this politely (🔪)

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Psychout for Murder (1969) dir. Rossano Brazzi

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every establishment, nearing its closing hours, enters into a state of liminality. it stands that a room not fulfilling its one purpose of being filled skews away from perception and thus, away from comprehension: people invent ghosts to haunt their empty houses — it is the primal urge to alleviate the ache of loneliness, to seek out company, despite the horror of it. yet still, this dinner seemed to her more a threshold than a location locked to one time & place, and even empty as it is at this hour, specks of conversation collecting in the corners like dust, it creates the feeling of being full. her eyes go through the ordeal of skimming the menu placed before her, more for show than genuine interest, and she finds herself thinking that the convergence of universes was almost overwhelming.

when she's asked for her order, she spares one last glance at the folded menu before her chin tips upward to @clochanam. the grin that spills over her features is like blood from a wound, crudely carved. ❝ choice is an illusion. ❞ the woman leans forward on the table and lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug, ❝ i'll take... the first thing on the menu. doesn't matter, really. ❞

aisling muses, ❛ i think there are many ways to matter. ❜

❝ there are exactly as many ways to matter as edward tryon thought the total amount of energy equalled in the universe. ❞ which is precisely zero. she says this with a wink, before lounging back in the booth. it is not that she cares to indulge philosophy, especially in this particular dimension, especially with humans, but the temptation of stirring a pot full of ideologies and outlooks is a promising one, ❝ the universe's our daddy and he's long abandoned us. do yourself a favour and don't be lookin' for a purpose where there isn't one. aaaand, i'll take a cola with that, please! ❞

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shitty horoscopes sentence starters. book i - iv.

holy fucking shit.

the answer is no.

bury yourself with the affairs of the living.

fuck you.

fuck you. yes you, specifically.

please practice blinking. others can be unsettled by your inhuman ability to maintain an unbreakable stare during casual conversation.

what did you ever do to deserve this?

none will love the butcher. don’t take it too personally.

don’t take it too personally.

some relationships, like warts, can be handled with the tactful application of liquid nitrogen.

wash the memories from your mind and body.

wash the clothes you were wearing.

frostbite is considerably difficult to heal from.

there is poetry in brutal efficiency.

people would take your raging far more seriously if you weren’t crying the entire time.

what made you so vindictive?

some bodies may be temples, but all are ruins at your feet.

you’re notorious for rubbing salt in the wound.

arson is not the answer.

you are a bone-deep fury.

accept your impending expiration.

stop trying to swallow the sun.

embrace the inevitable.

there are things outside of your control. most of them don’t care for you.

when it all goes to hell, remember it’s what’s inside that counts.

your teeth are only porcelain, your ribcage simply glass. like all delicate things, they can know no permanence.

please don’t cry.

in time you’ll learn that “just” and “right” only mean the same thing when they’re coming from very specific people.

you may not want to change, but the world is unforgiving.

sometimes we put our hearts in the wrong places.

what the fuck is it doing in your teeth?

nothing can stay.

dying is dying and rot is rot.

loneliness is the fracture that never heals quite right.

you will watch the skies.

no loose ends.

you will not be swayed by the morally destitute.

an eye for an eye. a tooth for a tooth. a knife for the ribs.

devour death like crows.

this time around, get inventive.

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i'm just imagining jude slithering into your muse's dream and being flabbergasted because their dream is weirder than anything she could've haunted them with 😮

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along one of the park's mud-trodden paths, there is a half-eaten apple strewn on the ground, but it is rotting, and even the worms have abandoned it. everything living is sacred, for God made the dry land, and seas, and plants, and man. life here, at this park, runs as one would expect, going through the motions as if on tape: the fountain spews a ballet of droplets, the people go through the motions, dogs bark, birds fly across, but the apple rots, and the little seeds of evil have already been swept by the wind, seeping into the soil, within the water. the remnants of something sacred that has rotted, or has taken root - rotten roots. eventually, that little girl on the swing-set will go home and she might be inclined to smother her pet. the tree over there, it will be eaten by disease. the dog by the bin will grow rabid and kill a biker. it stands, then, that evil exists in every living thing.

but the woman-wife-demon is the apotheosis of all that is evil, or so it were by way of doctrine. first there was lilith, then there were eve, jezebel, delilah, babylon, or so she had heard it told. the woman-witch, the woman-whore, the woman become synonymous with wicked. jude does not understand man's affinity for such tales, but she finds them curious, the way one would a morbid book with an unreliable narrator, engaged in the act of picking fact from falsehood.

the eyes of the little marble angel perched at the top of the fountain, a hollow carving, seem to fall on the two women, prying into an odd conversation. jude watches it, too, lounged on a little bench. she kicks the apple away, letting it tumble down the path. its stained in lipstick, where her lips had touched, and discolored by something else, where her teeth had sunk.

layla asserts, ❛ i can be wild. i can be stubborn as weeds, and you will not root me out. ❜

lilith-who-is-not-lilith, but here is called layla, sits at the other end of the bench, and when the entity's blank eyes shift toward @mekhashephah, its gaze cuts down to blood, bone, and below: the flesh that divulges a bundle of broken images, of the sea which turns to blood. there is confusion, but mostly there is intrigue, and jude feels it is just like sifting through the facts within the falsities.

❝ talking to me or 'im? ❞ she grins to the woman beside her, before her eyes land on the angel statue, scowling at it. ❝ because, baby, you got me all wrong. why would i scorn your stubbornness, when you are no less creature than me? ❞ she shrugs, ❝ be wild, be a goddamned nightmare, the world'll hate you regardless. ❞