NOTE TO SELF

[bluedprints]

there are fates worse than this (though none that spring to mind)!

bluedprints! rp blog by blue (29, she/her) canon and original characters.

muse list + prompts + archive 1 + archive 2

activity notice: slow. steady.

NO AI EVER

[bluedprints]

🎧 + fredfred!!!

sweet trip — air supply

well, here is my mission, my reason, my statement, my complaint.

broken bells — no matter what you're told

we blow all our chances thinking we know all the answers / and so it goes / with all the changes, nothing changes / no matter what you're told.

the psychedelic furs — only a game

and we talk just like jazz / like a song from the edge / and we move like a piece of the times.

[bluedprints]

🎧 kitseycass please

sbd — my girl

my girl loves me / for my tv / stays in shape on the rowing machine / every friday night we fuck on the floor.

tunng — eating the dead

i'm not going to experience my own death / my own dying, yes / but not my own "being dead".

father john misty — hollywood forever cemetery sings

you came, i think / cuz the marble made my cheeks look pink / but i'm unsure of so many things.

[rp-meme-glaceon]

Send “🎧 + a muse” and I’ll pick a song from my playlist that reminds me of them!

[rekant]

sure, yeah. let's argue about truth with freddie lounds. schedule's clear enough for the day.

"you thinking i'm full of shit does not make it so." it would have gone this way with any journalist. snide posturing just gets us there a little quicker. "just lets me know you're not as good as you think you are at cutting your way through tangled wires."

they light a cigarette. it's before noon, and they look like they haven't slept. fate's heavy hand has pushed them to where they stand. despite their protests, their legs carry them.

"but i guess in your neck of the woods, being full of shit doesn't make a difference, as long as people believe you."

[bluedprints]

freddie scrunches her nose into a half-smile. more than half and something worse might come out of her face instead, too ugly and wriggling. she knows that she needs to say this now before the words are lost to her forever: "i'm so glad you agreed to this interview."

if she wasn't so hyper-aware of her own body language—or namely how eden is perceiving it—she'd be scribbling away in a notepad, all kinds of observations. e. brandt meets me on an early tuesday morning, looking like something the cat dragged in. what so plagues the mind that bears responsibility for our favorite underground horror titles of the early 2010s? does genre mix well when shaken with real life? well, the theories are many and the answers few... this is writing itself and they're barely done sparring through pleasantries.

"some would call being full of shit your livelihood. i believe we call that fiction? and it's an admirable craft. i'm sure certain people love it."

she needs a piece of gum to wash the taste of that out of her mouth. rummaging through her bag, up comes her pen and recording device, might as well.

"i don't do fiction, eden. and that stuff'll kill you." fiction or smoke.

[bluedprints]

@bailheap x

young men these days want the grit but don't know how to close their teeth around it. puppy bites is what they keep doing. like there's no art in hanging on. meanwhile the rest get kicked.

sure, she's sat here drinking the same as them, but what they don't know is that the admiralty took her boat. took her fish, too. so technically she's on the job, tonight, north sea willing. only they left her here for the coast of norway and so eden's been walking around like it's something to do.

she aches. she doesn't move from her table.

"any old idiot could come through here and think you lot know what you're talking about."

[devotedecay]

❥      NON - SEXUAL   ACTS   OF   DOMINANCE . 

feel free to edit or elaborate as you please .   ( add  ‘ reverse ‘  to your message if you’d like to see how my muse would perform the action ) . otherwise , send in one of these for my muse’s reaction to   …

[ lit ]  your muse lighting a cigarette , spliff , etc. for mine . 

[ order ]  your muse ordering for mine at a restaurant or bar .

[ guide ]  your muse putting a hand on mine’s back to lead them .

[ pay ]  your muse paying for mine at a store , bar , restaurant , etc . ( you can specify where or for what . )

[ open ]  your muse opening a door for mine .

[ dry ]  your muse drying mine off with a towel after a shower , bath , swimming , etc . 

[ instruct ]  your muse giving mine instructions / telling them what to do . 

[ groom ]  your muse adjusting mine’s appearance , such as straightening a tie , fixing their hair , or buttoning their shirt for them , etc . 

[ direct ]  your muse taking mine by the chin and telling them to look yours in the eye .

[ disagree ]  your muse sternly telling mine  ‘ no ‘ .

[ rest ]  your muse resting their arm over mine’s shoulder / s .

[ clean ]  your muse cleaning a smudge of something off mine’s cheek , forehead , etc .   feel free to specify what and how . 

[ answer ]  your muse answering a question meant for mine . 

[ coat ]   your muse holds mine’s coat out for them while they put it on .

[ pilot ]  your muse taking mine by the arm , hand , shoulder , etc . to lead them . 

[ stare ]  your muse staring mine down . 

[ placement ]  your muse telling mine to sit down .

[ teach ]  your muse taking control of mine’s hand , arm , hips , etc . to make sure they do something correctly .  

[ patience ]  your muse telling mine to be patient .

[ tears ]  your muse wiping away mine’s tears .

[ swat ]  your muse swatting mine’s hand away from something they’re not supposed to touch .  

[ jewelry  ]  your muse clasping a piece of jewelry for mine , such as a necklace , or earrings . 

[ enough ]  your muse commanding mine to stop talking . 

[ retrieve ]  your muse requesting or ordering mine to retrieve them something .

[ invite ]  your muse inviting mine to sit on their lap .

[ lean ]  your muse inviting mine to lean into their side while they’re sitting or laying together . 

[ calm ]   your muse telling mine to  ‘ just breathe ‘ .

[ scold ]  your muse scolding mine for something .

[ comfort ]  your muse pulling mine into a reassuring hug .

[ approval ]  your muse complimenting mine on a choice they’ve made .

[ beckon ]  your muse beckoning mine to them without speaking . 

[ laces ]  your muse lacing , tying , or zipping something for mine , such as shoes , a dress , or a jacket , etc .

[ stay ]  your muse telling mine to stay in the car . 

[ defend ]  your muse defending mine’s reputation , dignity , or safety for them . 

[ feed ]  your muse feeding mine something , feel free to specify what .

[ volume ]  your muse demanding mine speak louder .

[ read ]  your muse reading something to mine .

[ refill ]  your muse refilling mine’s glass for them . 

[ possessive ]  your muse resting their hand on mine’s leg or the small of their back while they’re sitting beside each other . 

[soothfog]

#SOOTHFOG. independent original character named lee melanthom. a prophet, a prognosticator, an unwitting soothsayer. written by jordy.

A tall man was learning from a vendor how to pronounce churro. High in the sticky clouds of time, he kept repeating churro while eating a churro. How to say this made you want to live? No hand to hold still here it was: someone giving someone comfort and someone memorizing hard how to ask for it again.

[linusbenjamin]

Hannibal —2.05, Mukozuke

[widwer]

beverly redirects his gaze to the doorway and finds no color, no shape beyond what can be inferred from the negative space. his mouth falls slightly open and he gasps, soft and shallow and cut off, as though she’s just splashed him in the face with cold water.

“is it—” she’s seen the photographs. she might even know his voice if he were speaking, if at any point in her stay she’s trod near beverly’s room during a moment of deepest weakness, whilst he’s been replaying old voice messages on his mobile.

all at once he feels he’s lost him again. his chair seems to sink into the earth.

“does he look familiar to you?” his own voice isn’t familiar to him, watery, wavering, frightened for different reasons than molly might be. and molly might be.

“molly, love.” he changes gears: grieving husband to father. it has him rising to his feet before her answer, choosing to place himself between the two of them in some way. “i should’ve said.” what, exactly? “he hasn’t spoken to you? do you want—i’m going to press him to leave, yeah?”

[bluedprints]

beverly places himself on the floor where the other seems to be sitting on his shoulder, or stretched out behind him like a shadow. he looks scared, and molly's chest expands with guilt. it's strange to house both the fascination and the fear. she has never known the right words to soothe anybody and now the room has filled with creatures who need it.

she's seen the photographs. framed in the hallway going out the front door or in nestled a box under the stairs. an unused passport photo—overexposed or sun-bleached, cut from the rest—buried on the key tray with the safety pins and sellotape. occasionally a polaroid falls out of a book like a pop-up. there was love here once. there was warmth. he had a face and a body then. it's different than the one she's looking at now.

"it's not him. it's someone else." speak up. "it's someone else."

if she hadn't seen him materialize, she would wonder how they both missed the doorbell. when she breathes deep, there's such a sweet, stale taste to it—the skin cells that make up the dust. beverly's movement seems to have stirred up something.

"he's looking at you now."

[bluedprints]

@rekant: i can't seem to remember if it's today, two days from now, or yesterday. / eden + freddie

"eden—may i call you eden? or would you prefer brandt in the copy? personally i find nom de plumes to be a—distracting element." annoying, she means. "how can we trust our projects to be truthful if we, ourselves, are not?"

what we want from the truth is also an aspect of the truth. you can fill a front page—or your stomach—with an argument like that. makes it the easiest thing in the world to sleep at night. eden might not know it, but their name alone is enough to write an article on. or four.

but before anything can be misconstrued, quick like a previous page click-back, "not saying you're a liar, of course."

freddie clicks her tongue, part charm and part mirror. checking her teeth for any undesirables, including sharpness. not all pages can stand the tear.

"what i am saying is that i've been waiting for your call since friday."

[boykavalier]

LOOKING 1.07 “Looking for a Plus-One”

[bluedprints]

(...) drawn to and dependent upon the existence of the wrong and favorably mischaracterized as a reputable source. @hypocratic

[widwer]

even when they both know, when it's as shared an experience as this, he bears the weight of a lifetime of staunch disbelief, thus finds the forced acknowledgement to be a shameful, embarrassing thing. he would never have let slip in front of molly that he sees him, speaks to him. with the privacy he's usually afforded, he could easily have pretended to be conversing with an idea; imagining him there in whatever room she'd passed by at the right moment.

this, however, is so atypically bold and flagrant an act that he's beginning to doubt it's him at all. for her peace of mind, he chooses not to mention it.

his reaction is not one of love. his feathers would have settled by now.

"often." they're no closer to an answer. "can't make it out at the moment." then, dreading the worst—that she's gained something vital to him which he has suddenly lost—he returns his full attention on molly. "you can't see him, can you?"

[bluedprints]

her voice goes small,

"i see him."

like if she whispers it can't be true.

because the shimmering nothing is filling out into a person. it happens slow, while she watches. started from the floor up, a dirty ceiling leak, or a bucket run along the brackish floor of a river, until the sludge calms and settles into the shape of legs, torso, neck. it's a man. he looks ordinary, but her nervous system rejects him, the way nature rejects dead things.

it feels overwhelming, having both of them look at her like this. she dog-ears the page in her book and then undoes it, does it again, creates a ladder of little diagnoal lines in the corner of the chapter. she thinks it would be nice to wake up now. she thinks it would be nice to.

the face settles last. the eyes, the very fine, undecisive grains of sand. molly holds her breath, knowing that alone seems enough to disturb it again. he—whoever he is—seems wonderfully fragile, dust-mote colored.

"he's just looking at me."

[rassvetiye]

this isn't really trevor's thing. chris had known that the same way he knows there are other people there in the club but chooses not to notice them. does this make chris a bad friend, bringing him here? it's getting harder to tell as his chronic tension starts to unspool, shaking loose a playfulness that used to outweigh everything else.

will you hypnotize me? confused, chris licks his lips, his mouth tingling with the residuals of clear liquor. trevor's face looks like a dreamy, illustrative version of itself, immersive lights putting little blue and pink fireflies in his overblown pupils. they flicker around the shape of chris inside. show me how?

he feels the heat of trevors breath in his own lungs. his chest swells to accept it.

fuck, lands somewhere heavy and warm within chris's stomach. he tries to focus more on what he knew when they first walked in together, not what he's learned about himself suddenly in this moment: he wants trevor to have a good time. really. what could be so bad about that?

" i can try. " rhythm is something he was blessed with enough to spare. the dancing ebbs and flows like a tide; chris instinctively reaches out again to anchor trevor by his waist.

this feels like being a sculptor. testing the elasticity of trevor's hips under his hands in time with the bass. he leans down,

" the awkward part is the hands. never knowing what to do with them. " a beat. " hold onto me. "

[bluedprints]

he's malleable. hot wax. he can flow in all directions.

trevor never knows what to do with his hands on any type of floor. he goes searching over the fabric for little dents on chris' torso where the soft parts of his palms fit perfectly—below a rib or muscle.

it's a fine line to walk, letting go without letting it in. for just a second his focus blinks and the room opens up again, loud, hungry, and everything comes rushing: cylinders of light flashing on beat, bass line like the stomp of a heel. the bodies, the sweat, and the scratchiness of chris' shirt. overwhelming. come back. over the music he can't hear their breathing, but he can see where it sits in their throats.

"you're good at this."

being held always feels good.

all that's left to do is move, if he can, and he can. trying, fumbling, then melting. easing into it. using chris as a mirror until he finds he can take his hands off the steering wheel, so to speak—still very much holding on, running a piano scale along his waist with his fingertips—but something lifts itself off him, frees up his axes. trevor's neck surprises him by becoming the softest part. so this is what it feels like, letting your shoulder blades sink down into their natural, pre-flight, position.

"everyone's looking at you."

[widwer]

"unless we have visitors." though he doesn't let himself show it plainly, beverly is unsettled, too, by the prolonged and heron-still presence of something he would normally be able to see. the surrounding air is disturbed by it, motes floating and falling wrong, and the light from the corridor appears to be doing battle against it. too dim, then too bright; sometimes shining through and sometimes trapped behind, creating the vague, flickering shape of a figure that evidently wishes to loiter covertly.

because it hasn't moved, bev's eyes won't stay with his book—each time they dip to skim it it's for a shorter period.

he does glance at molly, expecting he owes her an apology. "haunted but you won't notice" had been his unspoken selling point, and now the third flatmate is putting on a show.

"should be my husband."

[bluedprints]

the weight in the room does shift—a sliding scale—suddenly every heavy glance and breath collects near the hallway entrance. something that is nothing wants to be served. and strange, even with that weight she feels her gaze drift off when she tries to look at it, that spot, like a force-field is making her glance at wallpaper instead, or pine knots in the flooring. how the energy drifts round itself, back and up again, like a marble rounding a drain.

"the husband."

is dead.

"right."

when this ends up being a dream it won't be her strangest one. when. the room feels awake, though. maybe even more so now. she looks back to beverly to check if he's unsettled out of novelty or out of love.

"what does he want? —do you ask?"

[rassvetiye]

when you show up to the yearning contest and see your competition is trevor quinn @bluedprints

[bluedprints]