NOTE TO SELF

[bluedprints]

bluedprints: indie rp blog by blue (30, she/her) original and canon characters.

muse list + prompts + archive 1 + archive 2

activity notice: slow. steady.

NO AI EVER

[bluedprints]

every birthday message now saved securily on my devices. i'm warm and thankful and i will be keeping them for ever

to @variations and @kindrewind too thank you so much it's all beyond sweet. i appreciate you both and i'm glad to have you here

[paperpush]

Better to lose time on the clock than off it, he always says.

He drinks from a coffee cup that says may contain vodka. It's not his. He doesn't remember making the coffee, but he's glad that some version of him seems to have had the forethought.

"We were yelling. What were you yelling at me about?"

[bluedprints]

"you started it."

didn't you start it?

like blue lightning in the brain. the kind of anger, sudden, that makes you laugh—unbelievable! the stumble, and then after, you look around hoping no one sees.

the seconds are moving on without him, and so are the feelings, and he is left to finger-trace the ink blot memory of them. or lack of.

he picks up a blank piece of paper from theo's desk, smells it. hint of lemon.

"don't drink that."

[paperpush]

@bluedprints: fuck me? fuck you!

Time of Theo's inappropriate outburst on ██████ property: 08:58:49.

Time of Control's inappropriate outburst on ██████ property: 09:01:06.

He looks left, looks right.

Points to the clock on the wall.

[bluedprints]

there are twenty seconds unaccounted for. a blip. longer than a blip.

he catches the tail end of theo's and then the beginning of his own. the rest is blank and now his hands feel clammy. back of his tongue disturbed. he looks at the clock.

"fuck this."

[eyeshone]

MOODBOARD: margot verger & will graham.

@eyeshone + @bluedprints

“Were Will a woman, Margot might have laughed. To laugh is, really, a kind of respiratory menstruation. With comedy, cycles can mythically sync. Strictly noncompetitive. Surrogate joy.”

[rassvetiye]

outside, the storm threatens to swell out of a clear afternoon sky and become something too unsafe to drive in. simon enjoys this from his seat at the window, the pane cracked just enough to cover the smell of his cigarette with petrichor.

he ashes into the small amber tray on the sill, inviting her to the empty seat across from him with the other hand.

" are you scared of them? the butterfly mouths? "

[bluedprints]

"strange little tubes."

proboscis. taking in the world by the strawful. which seems like a strange, narrow way of taking in anything. molly is not claustrophobic, but she drinks her water at home directly from the tap, leaning in over the sink, staining her shirt.

she sits.

"but the wing ones? nnnot really. maybe. sitting there i would think there'd be so many in a row... outnumbering me. in reality it was just two or three."

which would outnumber her anyway.

"their legs i don't like."

[rassvetiye]

the table feels familiar to chris, though it's missing the faded stains of water rings on the grain, and highlighters rolling off onto the floor in desperation to find one meaning inside of another without allowing himself to decide just what it is yet. this is how he spent all his time at acn, a lifetime ago. in dc, a lifetime before that.

weirdly comforting to think that his and trevor's minds work similarly, and maybe even to similar ends. this is painful, too, the way nostalgia demands to be. as this occurs to him, he flexes the ditch of his elbow against the back of trevor's neck with affection, pulling him deeper under his arm.

" and now you're perpetuating the cycle of abuse with your own students? all children become their parents, that sort of thing? " he mumbles ominously, his smile tracing the shell of trevor's ear to maintain the quiet air around them. " they'll probably thank you one day. "

[bluedprints]

"it grew on me. i guess they call that a lesson."

chris' breath in his ear pulls out his words like teeth. he'd like to sew his mouth shut. point seven millimeter needle, the ones used for embroidery, stitch up some new things for him to say. something clever and neat, tie neatly down the edges so he won't fray, not-here-not-now.

"but only after i left. the connections, they," he opens the fingers of one hand slowly like an explosion or a sun with its heat spreading out, soaring while looking down at the table below, carnage-to-be, "you, don't just pick things up," he picks something up, "and put it down." to demonstrate, he holds on.

and with his face stiffly pointed forward and down, it falls to the rest of his body to follow the magnetism. he turns a little. he holds on. it's all wood and carpet in the room, quiet tones. neutral grounds, free space. but he is excited about the prospect of ruining something: his other arm snakes over the small of chris' back, in slow motion. he almost tilts his head in hopes to cheat chris' lips to his helix, skip a few steps. trevor setting his own rules, then hating having to play pretend.

"it stays."

[paperpush]

@bluedprints: where are you headed? can i offer you a ride?

theo's pulled the collar of his trenchcoat over his head in a futile attempt to shield himself from the rain. the thud, thud, thud of control's windshield wipers on full speed the only sound beyond the weather ticking away while he weighs up his options, standing dead still in the storm he's been watching creep closer and closer all morning on the radar.

he squints through the mist.

there really isn't a choice.

"you — okay."

begrudging. fine, if you insist.

even in the passenger seat of the car, he holds his briefcase to his chest. might as well be cuffed to his wrist.

"bus didn't come."

[bluedprints]

the start in him when he sees himself, doubled, at the bus stop. control almost swerves the car clean off the road. but no, it's someone else.

a genuine sigh of relief, though it's tacking another link onto the already long chain that is today. he can't fully tell if he feels sorry for him the genuine, or for the version of himself that's in his place, in some other timeline.

but it's enough to crack the passenger door open for him. the dashboard radio bleeds static into his sternum as he leans over, holding his breath. the rain has time to darken the outermost fabric of the car seat before he gets in and closes it: forgive me this. beggars can't be. and all that.

the world sounds underwater now as they drive. he turns the radio down but the rain keeps going. it blurs, too, between every wiper swish. he almost dares to let his eyes go soft: the distant rumble makes him nervous. "the timetable reads like a comedy."

[bluedprintsarchive]

[bluedprints]

because he still couldn’t get the feel of the wall off his hand, no matter how hard he tried.

[bluedprintsarchive]

my own face is in the trees.

[bluedprints]

"control's mother often seemed to him like a flash of light across a distant night sky. here and gone, gone and here (...)"

[rassvetiye]

suddenly this becomes an area where jayne feels more comfortable, taking the wrap of nervous energy in his hand and gathering it tightly.

he thinks he's due that, having stumbled into something that shouldn't have happened. they both seem to understand so given how the other man goes to collect the traces of his presence from the room.

“ he just left you here? alone? ”

the reason why this feels wrong is immaterial if it's not up to him; he scans across the living room to the open bedroom doors at the end of the hall—there’s empty graves on the walls where jayne had expected to see pictures. paintings.

all he finds are attempts to scrub jayne’s existence out of christopher’s internal world, smoothed over with plaster where the nails used to be.

sick with the challenge to assert which of them doesn’t belong, jayne turns back, confused and expectant.

“ in our house? ”

[bluedprints]

he just left you here? alone?

like a large dark pool of shadow spreading slow on the floor. dripping, suddenly, from the outside. the real world made it in. everything he wants to explore now requires him to get elbow deep in it, he'll really have to pull it out like teeth. and he can't turn back to the shelves now, he'll only be staring at himself there.

trevor presses the smooth edge of porcelain to his middle chest. cold, too.

"in yourrrr." house. great.

where's the nearest window? will someone cushion his fall? his shirt is still on the floor of chris' bedroom. the wallpaper's changed color. he has to move now or he'll be stuck here and become the furniture. to die here sounded nice a second ago. but jesus christ, this guy is huge.

"i'm not staying. my stuff is just. i'll grab it. he didn't say. he didn't. uh." trevor downs the last half inch of coffee left at the bottom of the cup. it trickles down his chin, he collects in his fingers. "i'm just heading out."

[rekant]

they shrug.

eden's soul's out there too, easily accessible to all who want to witness it. you get used to it, as the years roll on.

"— to?"

[bluedprints]

"to the full thing."

in truth he kind of prefers it to the full thing, and now he feels bad that he's gone out of his way to set himself apart from people, who aren't at all that far removed from him, really, who are really all that he has ever wanted to be, and he's here to see them. was.

(no titular panel this year: he sat in on a discussion alongside a bunch of horror ficlet writers discussing whether jumpscares are transferable to print.)

"they had me add a few characters, plot points... some called it redundant." he hikes his eyebrows up and takes a sip of lukewarm coffee. almost asking, but not wanting the answer: would you?

[bluedprints]

@eyeshone: "just forget you ever saw it." (the other other arctic)

if joey sees control's hands shaking, he doesn't know where that information is going to end up. the way joey works in this closed off tundra box of an ecosystem is still a mystery to him, he hasn't known how to put on the right voice to ask. if he's lucky, maybe they are similar: information stacked on top of information until it's all swallowed down some great black maw. joey is asking him to forget, after all. pass that over here, let me have a taste.

"you saw them too." them—the plural pronoun, rather than the singular it—doesn't feel good on his tongue. what else to say? you attempt to civilize away your animalistic instincts but you can't forget how to count. just the weight of the thing. he heard the foundation crack.

"the lights."

like eyes on the ice.

[bluedprints]

@eyeshone: newton geiszler beckoning control to him without speaking.

the guy in charge of the wireless clicker has a hand tremor, nerves or neurological. every so often he accidentally changes the presentation slide prematurely and fumbles, loses the thread to go back—he's standing one-third into the glowing projection screen so he keeps trowing glances down himself to check if he's on the right page—the page count printed right above his navel. every time this happens, it's like a neuron-sized insect mandible takes a bite out of the inside of control's left eye socket.

he blinks hard to waft away the feeling. in between every other blink he is focused and alert. and every other blink, newton's white fleshy ghost appears to wave at him just out of the corner of his vision.

control tries not to look. looking would mean acknowledgning which would mean actualizing. whatever it is, he doesn't really want to know. but the pinch of recognition that starts in the doorway widens out to envelop the whole room: more heads are turning towards him. now they all want to see what it is he is going to do.

his chair scrapes against the floor, and the presenter skips two slides when his heartrate spikes. nerves. on his way out control attempts to elbow-hook newt with him—doesn't really commit all the way—sort of just folds in his arms on himself, which he plays off by crossing them over his chest once they're out in the hallway.

"i refilled my post-its. i read them after lunch." you could leave a message.

[bluedprints]

grace truly doesn't hold back on him at all in chapter one