selective and private multimuse â loved by wen, â97, she/any.
navigate. begin here, open calls, prompts tag.
notes. consistently sporadic activity. some quick ways to start interactions are by liking an open call; sending in an ask, whether from a prompt or otherwise; or shooting me a message in ims/discord so we can plotâĄ
* all prompts found in the tag are open indefinitely.
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not at all less busy for the foreseeable future but ! i'll be available on discord for plotting if i don't manage to squeeze in some time to write đđ
the change of topic is hardly subtle, but he supposes he'd been a bit too direct for the young sect leader to be receptive. he's never been good at navigating the intricacies of feelings, & in his concern, his words landed like an inquisition as opposed to well-meant kindness. nevertheless, it wasn't his place to push. latching onto the new topic like a lifeline, he says, " as it stands, you're in luck. " reaches into his sleeve for the bound parcel, a sturdy fan made out of pukui leaves. lips twitch imperceptibly, " for no reason in particular ... it reminded me of you. "
huaisang has always been good at ignoring the things he wants to ignore and putting away the feelings he doesnât want to feel. moment of melancholy avoided handily, huaisang jumps up and flings himself at li shen, drawing him into a familiar sort of hug â one that wouldâve had huaisangâs legs lifted off the ground and his full weight hanging on to li shen in the past, but only puts him on his tiptoes now. âwaa, you were thinking of me? i say, shen-ge, youâre not as cold as i remember!â beaming wide, huaisang exchanges his hold on li shen for the parcel before taking a step back. he's half focused on unwrapping it when a thought occurs. lips curling into a cheeky grin, he adds: âdid you pull that line on anyone else? met someone on your journey, practiced your flirting skills on thâ oh!â he picks the fan out of the mess heâs made of the wrapping paper, turning it this way and that immediately in examination. âitâs perfect! sure enough, youâre the only one who appreciates my tastes around here.â
" you've changed. " he observes quietly. outwardly, huaisang is unflappable as ever, yet there is a pointed deliberation in how he acts; a telling pause before he manages to execute what came naturally before. no doubt, the war has shaken them all. still, lishen feels uneasy leaving it all unaddressed. " while that much is understandable, i feel obliged to ask ... are you feeling alright? "
trust the family doctor to notice. huaisang tilts his head to look at li shen, birdlike. âthereâs nothing wrong with me,â he says quickly, smoothing out his face and then his sleeves in lieu of playing with one of his hand fans, since his brother had his favourite one burned the other day and huaisang hasnât had time to look for a replacement. thereâs also the constant fear, now, of worse things breaking.
itâs still a non-answer. âwarâs war. itâs not like we didnât see it coming.â huaisang even manages to sound flippant about it. âbut never mind that, shen-ge! how were your travels? did you bring anything nice back for me?â
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â do not get lost in the past. you must keep moving ever onward. â astraeve:D
her names bullet a list, each discarded into the next like graves beside graves â a deathbed of identity. the past is not held onto so much as leveraged, a trail burned, a ledger cleaned. that's before evelyn chevalier. now she holds tightly, carving a silhouette befitting the mold and praying it sticks.
release the past, move towards the future; no one says what to do when you cling to the present.
@yishuns knows her in ways evelyn doesn't know herself. "i'm aware, astra," fond, softened in the quiet of the limo's backseat, "but there are moments when the past should come forward, too." ; â.
the sky is unseasonably dark for this time of day. an ill omen, kaito would proclaim, if he believed in that sort of thing. as if reading his mind, akako, having materialized right in front of his desk, nods solemnly in agreement. âsomething bad is going to happen,â she says, with an air of grim authority that no one had ever taken seriously.
kaito, of course, staunch believer of magic but also of making your own fate, brushes away the premonition easily.
which is why it comes as a surprise when heâs in the middle of a practice run of his next heist and the little detectiveâs⌠older sister? babysitter? bodyguardâŚ? â accosts him, hurling wild accusations about kaitou kid kidnapping a child.
(the thing about announcing your heists in advance, you see, is that people can predict where youâll be. in this case, a lone dark figure on the rooftop of the building across from kaitou kidâs next target certainly would draw the attention of anyone who thought to find him.)
before she can get a good look at his face, kaito pulls a brilliantly white cape out of nowhere and when it shifts away from him, kaitou kid stands in his place.
the air of dignity doesnât last very long. âwhat do you mean, i kidnapped your little detective? iâve beenââ he catches himself in time, thankfully. âi mean, ahem, i havenât seen him at all today. not that iâd seek him out for no reason. obviously. with how he is,â here he gestures vaguely at an invisible figure the height of a child, indicating conan, âisnât it more likely that he stuck his nose somewhere it didnât belong, as usual, and got himself into his own trouble? why must i have anything to do with it?â
despite the young emperor's insistence that it's nothing more than a particularly lingering cold, or how quickly he brushes off any concern for his health, it's undeniable that it's grown worse in recent weeks; what started off as seemingly only an annoying tickle has now settled deep in his lungs, and by all indication has no intent of clearing up any time soon. he's spent the better part of the morning doggedly fighting it, brow furrowed and lips pursed in an unhappy moue, shoulders shaking subtly with each fit he valiantly chokes back. xÄŤ jiÇ'Än hovers at his side, his gaze hawkish; if one knows the grand preceptor, then it's easy to see how concern renders every muscle of his imposing figure tense, like an over-tightened qĂn string threatening to snap. as shÄng yuĂĄn's coughs increase in frequency, xÄŤ jiÇ'Än --- normally so eloquent and unflappable --- stutters, backtracking on his words as if he's lost his train of thought. something about today feels particularly ominous: perhaps it's the heavy clouds in the sky, or the prickling humidity that renders the stagnant air oppressively heavy; perhaps it's the way shÄng yuĂĄn sits hunched forward today, looking unusually fatigued.
xÄŤ jiÇ'Än sets a scroll in front of his emperor, outlining the next steps of the lĂjiÄng canal project. just as he opens his mouth to speak, shÄng yuĂĄn starts coughing into his handkerchief again. it's far more violent than any fit he's yet had: he audibly fights for breath, coughs so hard he retches. once it's finally over, shÄng yuĂĄn hunches over, head in his hands, and murmurs quietly that his chest hurts.
accidentally, the handkerchief falls to the floor.
xÄŤ jiÇ'Än takes one look at it and whirls around; the look in his eyes is so fiery it could strike terror into the heart of even yĂĄnluĂł-wĂĄng. "liè-jiÄngjĹŤn," he calls out sharply, "get the imperial physician immediately ! his majesty is --- " a shaky inhalation as all the color drains from his face, " --- is ... coughing blood ... "
the moment lie zhanying realized he was in love with sheng yuan was an unremarkable one. it settled naturally like a weight on his heart between one breath and the next, and then it wasnât so much the sensation of falling than it was the abrupt impact of hitting the ground, a belated recognition that all along, he had been in freefall.
before: it must have started, he thinks, the first time he saw sheng yuan on that parapet. he was giving a speech to the crowd about unity and cooperation and hard work, and then matching action to words in a way zhanying had never fathomed a member of the imperial family would lower themselves to do.
even covered in dirt and drenched in rainwater, sheng yuanâs brilliance, like a lotus blooming in muddy water, could not be dimmed. he stood out like a beacon of light in the midst of a dull crowd, breathing excitement into anyone he so much as greeted and lighting a flame in all those who worked in any proximity to him by his presence alone.
having lived his entire life so far in this village, zhanying almost couldnât recognize his neighbors, so abrupt and momentous was the change that had come upon themâ gone were those eyes devoid of hope and bodies beset by torpor, those broken spirits that worked only to get through the day and minds that thought no further past their next meal, inasmuch as there was any meal to be had. and sheng yuan had changed that, too. with fair compensation for their labor, those who worked no longer needed to worry about providing for their family, and in times when resources were low, sheng yuan always made sure to prioritize those who were the most in need over those who had the most to give.
in all his years, zhanying had never seen a revival sparked so⌠intimatelyâ by anyone, let alone one who should already hold the world in his hands. zhanying had never met anyone like sheng yuan, had never known someone with such bone-deep goodness could exist, and that was enough for him to decide, then and there, to devote his life to this emperor.
he should have chalked himself down as a lost cause that very moment. like the sun, sheng yuan was the emperor around which everything orbited, and zhanying was nothing so special that he could resist that pull.
(it wouldnât have saved him the yearning, of course, or even lessened the eventual grief, but at least he wouldâve tried to hold on tighter to every moment they spent together, not knowing how little time was left to them in actuality.)
in time, the coughing became commonplace. like always, sheng yuan reassured them that it would pass, that it was simply a minor recurring cold, and like always, zhanying tried his best to believe him.
so when it happens, he witnesses these events as if in slow motion: sheng yuan coughs and doubles over with the intensity of it. his handkerchief slips from his grip and falls to the ground, sliding almost dramatically to reveal the blood staining it. before zhanying can even begin to rush to sheng yuanâs side, xi jiu'anâs raised voice is sharp with a command.
in zhanyingâs years of being in the palace, heâd never seen the grand imperial preceptor display such deep fear before. zhanying dispenses with the formalities and runs straight for the doctor.
itâs not enough, of course. people like him, the ordinary ones, deserve ordinary things. he should have resigned himself then to losing sheng yuan. something so extraordinary was not meant for zhanyingâs hands to hold, let alone to keep.
but sheng yuan forges on despite the physicianâs pronouncement, brimming with so much hope that zhanying could only pretend with him that nothing was wrong. in a world they imagined, maybe a miracle cure would come about at the last moment. if not for zhanyingâs sake, then at least because sheng yuan, in all his fairness and kindness, should have deserved at least that much.
but the world was neither fair, nor kind.
the moment zhanying realized that sheng yuan was going to die rendered the weight on his heart feather-light in comparison.
if he hadnât spent years in sheng yuanâs company, he might not have recognized the signs: sheng yuan tired more easily as the end drew near; his smiles became strained at times, though zhanying could see that he was trying not to let the effort show; there was a look in his eyes, sometimes, something dark and faraway, and it reminded zhanying of the people from his village before sheng yuan had come along.
when sheng yuan stopped putting up a brave face and simply collapsed onto zhanying for the first time, he knew they could not pretend it away anymore.
but no matter how tightly zhanying tried to hold on to sheng yuan, it didnât stop the inexorable pull of fate.
sheng yuan leaves, like zhanying had always known he would.
after: they say sorrow shared is halved, but the weight of grief pressed down on zhanying and xi jiu'an in compounding measures, getting only heavier as the days passed. each in their own way, they felt the loss keenly: it caved xi jiu'an in with rage, his focus narrowing solely to the pursuit of vengeance; whereas it drew zhanying into a downward spiral of guilt, like his love was a star that had collapsed into a black hole of grief that ate away at everything else and left a gaping emptiness inside him.
he drifted through his duties by sheer force of habit, only occasionally halted by the sharp sting of loss whenever he turns to remark on something and finds an empty space where sheng yuan used to be, and then reality would set in with heartrending clarity, echoing sheng yuan is dead in the wake of his footfalls throughout the rest of the day.
if there was ever a flaw to be attributed to sheng yuan, it was this: that he left things, and people, and zhanyingâ better than he found them, but greater heights only led to more catastrophic falls.
itâs an unremarkable moment when something in zhanying breaks. heâs drifting through the day again, one week blending into the next in an indecipherable sequence of time, and suddenly a piece of him that was still holding on to hope against all odds starts to crack, shatters into unrecoverable shards. sheng yuan is gone.
he packs his bags that night with the intention of leaving the capital by dawn.
despite the fact that the management of imperial affairs had fallen upon (or, depending on how you viewed it, taken up by) the imperial grand preceptor after he had⌠put affairs to rights, (again, depending on how you viewed itâ) it was still more an act of courtesy than formality that zhanying writes xi jiu'an a letter of resignation and leaves it on the table where he takes court now â having been the same table sheng yuan held court at before his passing, it was unavoidable that zhanying felt the stab of pain through his chest where it had never healed.
thereâs nothing left for him here anymore. still, he stumbles in a moment of hesitation as he retreats. when the light hits the throne just right, zhanying could still picture the halo that seemed to always follow sheng yuan sitting pretty on his head; could picture sheng yuan, animated and joyful and making a joke at his own expense. sheng yuan, alive.
he thinks sheng yuan would have appreciated the notion that as long as someone remembers him, heâll live on in their hearts. zhanying has no intention of forgetting, in his entire lifetime, someone so remarkable as sheng yuan.
lie zhanying fixes his gaze upon the throne and bows deeply to it for the last time. then, for the first time in years, he leaves the capital city behind.
realized i don't have any open calls at the moment so here's a plotting call that may or may not eventuate in a starter. like this post and find out(:<3
there are few greater experts in the corrosive properties of the miasma than the high preceptor of yunkui summit, and fewer still who survived the fall of the old capital.
âdon't you think it's time you move on from me?â the voice speaks.
but knowledge does not mean resistance does not grant immunity, and yixuan, who had been a sister long before she became high preceptor, is particularly vulnerable to any piece of yijiang this world lets her put back together.
the warning bells ring in her head, sounding like wind chimes, tinkling a faint âwelcome homeâ in her voice.
she so rarely dreams of her sister anymore.
the voice that speaks is kind, and gentle, and beguiling. the voice is hers. the voice is not her.
yixuan reaches out anyway.
the image distorts when the fog holding it together parts around her hand where she makes contact, swirling the body of yijiang into something nebulous and tinged an ominous purple-red that feels like a black hole drawing her in.
she pulls back and the shape reforms.
âi should.â yixuan huffs out a small laugh, self-deprecating, as her head falls and tilts closer to touch her forehead to the shadow of her sisterâs. her eyes are closed; she doesnât dare look at what yijiang has become this timeâ doesnât want to know if sheâs lost the ability to even hallucinate touching her anymore. âbut itâs so hard to let go. you never taught me howâŚâ
the vision is not her sister, but yixuan imagines that her kindness and care lives on in the world and watches over her where yijiang herself cannot, and the thought clears her head for long enough to register the distress signals her body is sending out. as her vision begins to double and her limbs grow heavy, yixuan knows this is as far as she can push it.
with a practiced hand, yixuan draws a sigil in the air that explodes in a blast of auric ink and the miasmic energy consuming her is destroyed in a flash.
itâs a one-sided goodbye. her heart lingers.
âi miss you already,â yixuan hears herself say. it sounds like until next time.
@espyrot, unprompted â "don't you think it's time you move on from me?" yijiang @ yixuan perhaps in the miasma
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[ SLEEP ] one muse discovers the other napping and simply joins them. akira n ryuji naptime?
one little known fact about the phantom thieves, other than, well, everything about the phantom thieves â considering the way they toed the line between legalities and were subjects of an active investigation â is that they spend pretty vast amounts of time in a bus.
ryuji likes to imagine theyâre on a road trip sometimes to make it more palatable. mementos feels less like a horror funhouse when you blast music loud enough to drown out the creepy tunnel-amplified bgm and the weird slithery sounds coming from the vines crawling all over the walls. not to mention the shadows, with their stalking forms and that hovering thing most of them defaulted to as an idle animation.
oh, the point got away from him. the point: a lot of what constitutes phantom thief activity is, to put it simply, just some teenagers hanging out in a bus.
the amount of sitting still is one of ryujiâs least favourite parts of each mementos run, tucked somewhere between one, the lack of distinction between its real and fake walls â because as much of a fan of brute force he was, crashing into walls just because you might break through them didnât lend itself to a great experience of being in the vehicle doing the crashing â and two, having to talk sense into shadows, but he suspected the first was universal distaste and the second was more of a personal flaw.
he respects joker for having the patience of a saint, but ryujiâs own patience thins with every new shadow trying to justify the actions of its owner. each argument they make really doesnât help curb ryujiâs urge to say, letâs just beat âem up and move on.
all that to say, theyâve reached a point where ryujiâs tired. heâs sick of it, the way the shadows twist themselves into shapes approximating humanity to pretend theyâre not monsters. heâs sick of the fact that heâs stuck in a moving vehicle that talks too much for a cat pretending to be a bus, neither of which are meant to have the ability to speak, and thereâs nothing in here for him to direct all that nervous energy at, so somewhere between shadow thirteen or three thousand, ryuji closes his eyes and, rather aggressively, despite it only being in his head just like everything in here is in the heads of everyone out there, begins to count sheep.
surprisingly, itâs the buzz of his phone that startles him to wakefulness. thereâs less chaos than he had expected â the dungeon bgm was reduced to a hum in the background, and the sound of monabusâ engine had stopped. they must be at a rest stop. heâs not sure when, or why, really, they stopped.
then he stretches and the movement dislodges something from his side that makes a noise approximating a groan as it shifts and straightens up and a bit of akiraâs hair is pulling free from where it had caught on the zipper of ryujiâs jumpsuit and ryuji freezes in place as his mind pieces the logical series of events together.
thereâs a moment of silence.
it sits long and heavy until ryuji, face flushed and unable to stand it any longer, raises a hand and speaks: âuhh, hey, so⌠maybe we should get home and get some proper rest, huh?â
new message: phantom thieves of hearts !
takamaki ann: [photo attachment: an image of ryuji, skull mask and all, asleep in the back of the monabus, his mouth half open with a line of drool trailing down the corner. next to him is akira, his head resting on ryujiâs shoulder, tilted at a degree that most likely was going to result in a crick in his neck when he woke, but overall looking far more dignified than ryuji did in his sleep.]
Mei Changsu's smile quirks again, in that usual way of his. His attention drifts away from the brazier, lingering on @yishuns' downturned face. General Lie isn't here on Jingyan's terms, which is a small comfort, but also the beginnings of a possible headache. What would Jingyan think? What would the general report back? A sudden bout of coughs tears through Mei Changsu, convulsive and agonizing. He covers his mouth with a hand, shrinking into himself as the coughs continueâunbidden, relentless.
Between the two men, the brazier crackles nonchalantly.
Mei Changsu inhales cautiously, as though resigned to the fragility of his body. The taste of his own blood, long-familiar to him, remains in the back of his throat. A white handkerchief appears. He dabs at his mouth, carefully bunching the stained fabric together as he lowers itâso the general won't see the red splotches. His hands fold together, disappearing beneath the simple fabric of his sleeves.
"Does His Highness still have doubts?" Or is it just you? An edge to his voice, demanded by the role that Mei Changsu fulfills. His gaze flits across General Lie's face, lingering briefly, before it moves on, past the general, to stare at nothing in particular. The refined bookshelf full of books. The flowers Fei Liu had plucked. The blank walls of the room.
He shivers. He feels cold.
His attention has returned to the brazier, the flames licking at the charred wood. He turns his hands over and over, slowly, feeling the warmth inch into heat. He recalls, sharply, how it had felt to reach his hand into the flames and let it burn him. He picks up the tongs from beside the brazier, pushing at the crumbling wood pieces.
"My illness has been getting worse."
It is not the kind that gets better, is left unspoken. Wei Zheng was my Lieutenant, is left unrevealed. After a time, Mei Changsu sets the tongs aside. He doesn't bother looking at Lie Zhanying again.
"Our Lord still has a difficult road ahead of him. He needs focus, not potential distractions. He needs people he knows he can rely on. Dependable people, such as you."
âhis highness worries about many things,â lie zhanying says, keeping his hands still against the urge to fidget. even if he has blanket permission to speak on these matters, it doesnât dispel the feeling that he was doing a discourtesy to the seventh prince by having this conversation behind his back, without him present.
âi do not think he doubts your skills. we have both witnessed what you can doâ what you have done. the result of your schemes are undeniable. however⌠i do not know if he trusts you.â lie zhanying trusts mei changsu with the ability to discern his meaning. for even though he had saved wei zheng, even if he paid for it with the setback in his recovery, he had done it at the point of xiao jingyanâs ultimatum. what trust the act itself bred had no choice but to be diminished by the conditions that triggered it.
âthe people are important to his highness, moreso than the authority you have won him. that only matters because it gives him the power to protect those who need protection. he does not trust you because he does not know that you would not sacrificeââ
click. a realization.
ââŚyou do not plan to sacrifice anyone,â zhanying starts again slowly, looking horrified at the image of what heâs just put together, âbut yourself.â the pieces make sense all at once: the worsening of his illness, the absence of a search for a cure; the constant brushoffs, the distancing.
his highness cares about people.
it becomes clear to zhanying then, that all along mei changsu had known the prince better than him, and perhaps that is the part that stings the most. lie zhanying felt like he was being dismissed even as mei changsu acknowledged that he was needed.
âyou know i cannot keep this from his highness.â his hands begin trembling without his notice, beyond his control. no distractions.
lie zhanying understands.
he looks up at mei changsu, a challenge in his gaze for the first time. look at me, it begs. if for his sake i must hide this from the one i serve, if i must bear the consequences of lying to him once this is over and you have gone, at least look at me while you tell me soâ âam i to keep this from his highness?â
playing a game where i shuffle a playlist and open whichever draft the current song reminds me of. to no one's surprise this is resulting in a lot of half written drafts and very few coherent ones
â if you want to survive, youâll have to betray me at times. â ..ferfaye as well
it was neither that their acquaintance had been brief, nor shallow. in fact, ferdinand prided himself on being one of the people â in recent times, at the very least â that faye most confided in. that it came naturally with being the only one on the ship who was not part of the exclusive circle of people faye tended to grouse about was not something ferdinand particularly wanted to examine too deeply. even by necessity, it was nice to be wanted.
âit would be survival,â ferdinand acknowledges, a thoughtful sincerity bleeding through, âbut it would be dishonorable. i remain in your debt for not turning me in at first, and for allowing me to stay here, with you all, after. to turn against you in spite of that debt would be a slight to my own pride â i do not know that i would be able to live with myself for it. even if i did survive, i do not know if it would be worth living, having to carry that. the weight of betrayal seems far too heavy for my liking.â
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