#or an ambiguous ending or a sad ending?

[ultimate-shipper-blog]

How was I not supposed to love you?

“Are you dating yet?” Robin grabs at his sleeve.

“SHHHH” Steve’s eyes are panicked.

Robin rolls her eyes at him “Whatever it’s fine.”

“It is not fine!! He doesn’t even like me like that.”

“…he was just sitting on your lap.”

“And?”

Eddie peeks his head around the kitchen corner “Are you guys talking about me?”

“No!” Steve panics “Why? What’s up?”

“Are you ready to go?”

Steve exhales, “Sure, let’s go.”

He leads Eddie out reaching his hand behind him. He and Eddie have grown closer over the years since Vecna. They’ve definitely become comfortable touching which is why Steve is surprised when Eddie pulls his hand back.

“I don’t feel like holding hands,” Eddie grumbles.

Oh…

“What were you talking about? In the kitchen?”

“Nothing just work problems”

“Really.” Eddie sneers at him.

“Why would I lie about that?” Steve puts on his best puppy dog eyes hoping the conversation will end.

“Maybe I embarrass you.” He tilts his head to the side staring at the full moon above him.

“What?! They’re obviously ok with you and they know how I feel about you. Do you know how many times people asked me tonight if we were dating?”

Eddie’s eyes grow wide “Why?!”

“Eds you sat on me the entire time.” Steve deadpans.

“Why!? Sitting on laps is not gay.”

“It definitely is.”

“Well it’s not and we wouldn’t be dating anyway.” Eddie huffs and crosses his arms.

“We wouldn’t?” Steve feels his heart shatter.

“Of course not! We’re friends!”

“Why do you say it like that.” Steve says quietly.

“Like what?” Eddie looks at him confused.

“Like I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.”

Eddie’s mouth forms a little o before it settles into a deep frown.

“…don’t say that”

“Why not!” Steve argues. “We tell each other we love each other all the time-”

“As friends! Platonically!!!”

“You care about me more than anyone else. I know you think I’m attractive that’s not an issue. I know you’re not straight so why not? You notice when I bite my nails, when I haven’t eaten. You claim you don’t care for me but you’re glued to my side. You grab for me in your sleep. You want me to introduce you to my family. You want to live together because spending the night isn’t enough. You call me just to tell me you miss me. How was I supposed to not fall in love with you.” Steve tries to pull him closer but Eddie pushes away.

“You don’t love me you like the attention.”

“No,” Steve said sternly. Trying to convey every emotion he’s felt for Eddie in that one word. “You’re wrong.”

“But…” Eddie’s big eyes were watery with tears. Confusion apparent in his features, “We’re friends…”

—————-

Hate to say it but…inspired (almost word for word) by a conversation I just had….

Yes I’m the Steve in this situation.

As always I pour all my thoughts and emotions into my writing.

Will be going back to writing my happy steddie fics when I’m over this.

Sorry for the rushed job :P (and the pity party)

[vaguely-concerned]

what would I do without you. indeed illario.

lucanis trust me! indeed illario. the ea-nasir vibes on this shitty little rat of a man (somehow still slightly affectionate despite myself)

I am obsessed with WHERE this letter is found and what we're meant to read into those context clues. I don't have a handy save for this mission right now to double check the details, but from memory: It's the room across from what seems implied to be Caterina's room (Lucanis says these are the family quarters, so Illario has kept her locked in her own room all this time probably?? Oh oh house arrest, house arrest for grandmother for ten thousand years style)? We find the scraps of a letter from Zara to Illario, torn to pieces with one fragment still in the empty fireplace so presumably we're meant to assume he burned it, and this old letter from Illario to Lucanis lying neatly on a table. Whose room is this? Because here's a theory one could put together that has some real crazymaking potential for me specifically at least:

Considering that we're helpfully down to only three Dellamortes to account for, it's likely either Lucanis' or Illario's room. If I'm remembering right/let's for a moment assume that Caterina is being confined to her own rooms -- the fact that Lucanis is her favourite and also heir apparent I'd say tips the scales for me that it's likely she'd keep him closest, whenever he's home. Thus opening for the possibility that all this time Illario has been staying in the room of the cousin he murdered but as it turns out not hard enough that he didn't come back again like a haunting, reading his own old letters to him that Lucanis apparently kept all this time (!!! ow !!!), and sparing them from the spiteful fate he gave Zara's 'aww chin up you'll get 'em next time babe' one, right across the hall from where the grandmother he apparently can't bring himself to kill or seriously hurt even with everything else he's done is imprisoned and i n c r e d i b l y pissed off, if she gets out of there while he's sleeping or something he's fucked. Has he been sleeping in Lucanis' bed since kidnapping Caterina????? (did they ever share a bed, when they were children? for comfort if not ever out of real necessity?) is this some kind of incredibly fucked up way to try to be close to them both somehow even when he is the one who messed it all up to begin with? no matter what I have so many questions here what is WRONG with this family???????? (well I don't think we have time to get into all that right now that's a novel not a text post probably fhsdkj)

[lanternlightss]

dewdrop leaves

> this was written for day 3: immortality/corruption! and of course i could not pass up the opportunity to write a corrupted venti, and bard’s reaction to it <3

Though Venti does not necessarily feel the sensations such as “warmth” or “cold,” the sheer thickness of Dragonspine’s chill tries its hardest to threaten that motion. It clings to him, weaving around and through the fabrics of his clothing, wrapping his limbs. Frost dapples at the tip of his nose, extending to his cheeks. It coats his clothing, too, the material starting to crinkle, turn firmer, and rigid.

(During his flight to here, his hat had been tossed off, and his cape’s bow had been torn unevenly….. how he quite liked those….)

When he lands, sprawled out onto all fours, sinking into the snow and feeling how it gives in, the beginnings of ice fall from him in clumps, sloughing. He extends his wings, fluttering them, and watches as even more are flicked off from the action.

Going to stand, a sharp pain pulls at his chest, seeming to bounce off of the space where a rib-cage would be, before it spreads throughout the rest of him, pinpricks of blazing flares. He doubles over from it, his forehead and bangs pressing into sparkly white (his braids choosing to sprawl across them instead.)

Making the decision to fully lay his upper half onto the snow, and partly burrow there, wings folding to slide more onto his form, it—for a moment, upon the first touch—feels almost soothing. Rubs at the itchiness lying beneath this imitation flesh, one that strikes and tears and shrieks at him every passing minute that goes by. Each louder, more vicious, than the last.

Venti grimaces.

With a tremble, he pushes himself up, crawling forward to fresher snow—areas where he did not mess with. Raises his hand, watching as the deep blue (nearly a shade close to the night sky, dotted with small magentas) covering his fingers and palm reaches up, up, up, a little past his wrist, in splotches. Racing alongside the blue, is deep, fracturing golden lines and cracks, painted across in random strokes. He flexes his hand, wincing, and noting he has his talons, as well.

(There is a prickle on his back, too, where feathers begin to sprout, beneath the pair of wings he already has out.)

He huffs a breath and continues to stand, shaking off the snow when completely upright. Crouches slightly, one foot forward, stancing for a flight into the sky once more—for as much as he would like to, Venti cannot stay here, it is too close to Mondstadt still, and there is a concerning pressure building within him, one that he fears may blast away everything here.

Wings flap, he leans. Snow then scatters and sprays in various directions, from his take-off.

The corruption worsens as his journey continues—that accursed statue, but its situation was becoming harrowing—sending shocks so severe that it has his wings beating harshly to keep himself righted. Even more terribly is when the ruins of Old Mondstadt come into view, and the extra wings find this the perfect time to sprout in full, snapping out, and colliding against the ones above them.

That has him stumbling into one of the many strong currents dotted around; where he allows them to spin him in a lift, and he dips towards the ground when they let go, upon where he forces his wings to untangle, opening and catching wind. He twists, pivoting, aiming towards the ground, his surroundings a blur—and lands onto a patch in a cloud of dust. Once it has cleared, he remains in his position, sitting on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of them as he leans slightly forward.

(Belatedly, he realizes he has lost his cape, and shoes.)

Venti heaves. The pressure from before is unbearable now. The blue-gold has creeped up his arm, the splotches trailing off in fading dots when it reaches where his archon form’s gloves would end, and he presumes it is the same for his legs—though, he can feel a weight at the back of his head, half-formed, in what could only be a halo. Go and break him down to his more divine forms, why don’t they!!

Bubbling. Too much of it, his grasp on everything fraying, thinning, even as he scrambles in an attempt to keep it locked shut, fingers twisting and flailing—the threads of wind, patches of time, the weather, it slips, becoming fuzzy. A gratitude undercuts it, a vague thankfulness that the ruins have sunken enough to fit the wrath of a thrashing God, a vague thankfulness that Dvalin had been sent away beforehand, before it is overrun by the thoughts—what if this is not enough? Will they fall, to his hands, just as the tyrant had done to them? Will he lose what he has fought to protect, what he has set everything to prevail for?

He cannot lose anyone again—

His imitation heart splinters and spills, the corruption truly sinking in. His vision blurs around the edges, flashes of gold tracing them, his breaths coming out labored..

(He knew, when Dvalin had been corrupted by the Abyss, that he was hurting—if it was to this extent, he wishes he could have soothed away everything.)

Around him, the wind races, becoming erratic, kicking at any surface it can find, zipping across in uneven lines. He leans further, wings curling, and the distant sounds of this place are doused, muffled, becoming white noise—a consistent ringing, overlapping

Underneath his hands and legs, the ground shrivels. The wind grows harsher, rocks being scraped across, propelling into the air and torn asunder, the glowing crystals diminishing to mere crumbles of rock. Both the dirt and grass are dragged from the ground, plucked and ripped. The intensity continues to ramp, the noises becoming overwhelming, ringing in his ears pitching, finding that his hands have raised to grip at hair, that his wings seem to wrap around him completely as he—

As rapidly as it had seemed to start, it feels as though something grabs hold of him and yanks to a halt. Venti gasps, cut hair strands falling around him.

The winds stutter, and the ringing fades. He jerks up, hands still embedded into his hair, and finds that… the place he landed in was not so deserted. Their tree stands, swaying, waving hello.

And, that everything had truly come to a messy standstill; threads of teals dipped in a bleeding mixture of a blue-gold suspended in a whirling vortex, a few parts of the wreckage they had caused gently floating besides in its grasps. The threads are not all the same, some of them cutting in dotted lines as they zoom, some of them having their lines wavering to point it threatens dispersing, some of them are thoroughly solid, some of them are splitting into branches, teal twisting and curling, and—

And—

And…

Blue eyes blink, fluttering as if just awoken.

He rubs a hand at the right one, brows furrowing at his surroundings the more aware he becomes of them. Pure raven-black braids sway, as he swivels his head, and Venti notes with a whirlwind in his mind, that the locks have stray strands flicking out from not only the braids, but the bangs, and hair that frames the face. Windswept. The clothes, as well, are missing the tear in the bottoms of the shorts, the tops of his boots, and his right sleeve. If he were to turn, there would certainly be holes in his cloak, too.

But—if he does not have those, then how is he…?

A gale is thrown into the cliff, repeatedly, tearing apart the ground, as they respond to Venti’s dread.

His eyes widen, then narrow.

No, no, no, no, no. Stop looking at him like that.

Venti hunches into himself, talons clenching and shredding more strands of hair. The gale intensifies, lashing behind him, carving out chunks and causing the ground to rumble in its fury. He bares his teeth—wanting to shriek, to grab at his head and!!!!

Stop looking at him like that!

(Why wouldn't he?

A wind out of control? A wind that slices, destruction in every path? Why would he not back away from it?)

He tilts his head, starting to stand, and his expression shifts at Venti flinching away from his approach, the wind whipping to a higher degree with the flinch. He goes to take a step forward, the grass he steps upon having a simmering, bubbling line of a thread hovering there—and there is a quiet screeching as the threads are forced away, unraveling in spools and flinging out towards the cliffs; it has him jolting away from it, one step taken back, boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust.

His gaze snaps up to Venti’s.

(He has a fleeting thought, a moment where the minuscule inch of himself that the corruption has not touched speaks; that he should fix everything, that this mess has gotten severely out of hand, to fly off deeper into the ruins before he does something truly regretful.

But it is just that—fleeting.

Because at the attempt to follow through with the ideas laid out, the corruption rushes to overtake that last final inch, smothering and snuffing it out without regard. It halts Venti’s hands when he tries to wave them, refusing to let them budge the Bard in front of him, dark blue and gold chaining them to remain where they currently are. You do not truly want that, do you? It whispers, false care and comfort in its voice. You wish for him to stay, so here he will stay.)

That gaze of his shifts once more, briefly scrutinizing, then the ever so slightest of widened eyes, before reaching a blankness. It seems that something has clicked. He tries again, purposefully angling his path to the swirling threads, and Venti grits his teeth as he moves them away, hooking a finger round them and pulling, so that no interactions happen between them and him.

(And, how during this, he sees—for a moment—a glimmer of something magenta across his form.)

And blast it all—

Venti raises himself and situates his legs into a crouch, his wings flaring unraveling from around his form. And bounds.

He crosses the distance between the two of them in seconds. Nose mere centimeters away from his, Venti grits his teeth, watches as the other blinks owlishly at him, as if not expecting to be approached so suddenly, especially not like this, Venti poised in a manner similar to that of a cat pouncing still.

“Keep off from those,” he nearly growls, “Can you not see that they—”

Hands shoot out, to place themselves on his cheeks. Venti falters, words dying in his throat.

“What has happened to you?” He murmurs, gently tipping Venti’s head up, to the side, checking the dark-blue that has climbed up to his face, “Your teal… where has it gone? Have you always had gold?”

He swallows. A twitch goes throughout him, one that does not go unnoticed by him.

And, oh. That was what had clicked.

The words build, his tongue bubbling, bitterness and sweetness coating it. A name he has not said for centuries, a name he has kept clutched close to him, hidden in the palms of his hands, in the place where a heart would be beat.

Venti’s mouth opens, and croaks: “Cecil….?”

He pauses, meeting Venti’s eyes.

“Hello, little bird,” Cecil replies, softness in every feature of his. “Ah—I suppose you would be an angel now, hm? How much you have grown…”

The softness does not last long, his brows knitting as he thinks, a frown replacing that wondrous smile of his. His fingers trace the edges of the colors, outlining them, almost, a silent fury and puzzlement to the actions. “But, my friend—why are these… like veins? Why do you hurt? Did someone else do this to you?”

(I will hurt you, I will hurt you, you need to get away from me—)

“No one. This is my own doing, you see,” he says, offering a reassuring look, “I am not hurting at all.”

And—that is true, if partly. There is no stabbing prodding at him any more, attempting to wrench him towards the ground so he stays there. It aches most certainly, however, the wind underneath his skin thrumming as it races incessantly.

Cecil’s brows scrunch.

He steps forward to pull Venti closer, his right hand falling down to his waist, tracing a tear in his clothing, and… ah. Ah. He revokes everything he had said about snow and their so-called “soothing effects” beforehand, this is so much better than it, he curses them and nearly purrs at the feeling of his friend being a breath away from him, his touch curling into his bare skin so softly, lovingly.

Venti chases it.

All but lunging into him, Venti dives his head into Cecil’s chest, careful of the halo behind his hair—do not want to slam it against him. The rest of his body follows suit, his arms encircling around Cecil’s torso (with his hands carefully closed, knuckles pressing into the fabric of the green vest), knocking their legs together so that he can hook it around one of his dear’s, and his wings complete it all by flaring out to then snake around and envelop them both. Feathers brushing against skin and cloth with every other breath.

(The wind has gone still.)

“Oh,” Cecil gasps, startling at something, “you have six wings? I only saw four… have your limbs been multiplied, too??”

Does he? Venti thinks dazedly. It must have happened when the pain was ramping up, he could not distinguish it under all the other sensations attacking him. He had wondered how far the transformation would go—his most divine form has much more than four wings and a halo.

He does not give Cecil a response. Choosing to nuzzle into his clavicle instead, head going even fuzzier, thoughts narrowing to Safe safe safe, stay stay stay, love love love, here here here.

And—what an idea.

Cecil’s chest expands, as he inhales, exhales. It takes a moment, but he begins to reciprocate, an arm going around Venti’s back, between the middle wings and bottom ones. The other arm lifts to the space above Venti’s shoulders, near his nape, pulling him further into himself. He rubs at those places, in small, circle-like motions, and it has the God wholly melting in his arms.

“Is this alright?” He asks, “Is this helping?”

“Mmmmmhmmmm…..”

Gradually, the threads dissipate, dropping closer to the ground, and having the wreckages they carry collapse against the water around the tree, the dirt and rocks. Twist higher into the air at the end, then wobbling, and falling apart. He watches it all, a steady thrumming sounding in the air the longer he holds onto Venti. For one of them, he tests, to see; what would happen if he nuzzled into Venti’s cheek, patting at his back? The answer: it causes the threads to speed up, swooshing so swiftly, that he hardly has time to blink before the teal is fading.

Eyes wandering, they slide to—

Ah! Cannot have that, can we? Venti blocks his view with his right most top wing, fluttering the appendage to truly catch his attention, making his dear jolt in surprise. See, if Cecil is to stay by Venti’s side, then it should be away from here—the safest spot is the Tower, but he would not like that very much. Perhaps they should cross to the Dandelion Sea?

“Venti?”

“Hmm..?”

Cecil raises his hand up, to tap to the back of his head, his knuckles briefly brushing against the halo. He lets it stay there, for long enough that he can weave strands of hair around his fingers, to light tug at them—a non-serious scolding, for the blocking he did. They drop to rubbing circles on his nape after. “How are you feeling?”

Right, right—conversation happening.

He shuffles backwards, only a few inches, so that his dear is not forced to let go of his grasps—skin still tingling and fizzing with that loveliness. Tilts his head, then, to where Cecil gazes at him, a quiet concern and pure curiosity to his eyes, now.

Another wave of winds zip by them, these ones far lighter, livelier, and peppy than the others from earlier were—however, still the same mix of colors, if slightly more solid, slightly lukewarm in temperature. They swirl around them, teasing at hair and cloth, dancing in chiming sweeps and dives; that of which distracts Cecil for a moment, his hair blowing into his face, a muffled sound of a “wuh” escaping from him when it has strays loosing from the braids he wears. He shakes his head to rid of them, glaring halfheartedly.

A beaming grin tugs at him, at the sight. One that lifts the bottoms of his into soft crescents, slowly revealing how his teeth have grown sharper canines. His pupil—still a lovely teal, though, now captured around blue-gold—shines, constricting to a thin slit, as a glittering gleam dances across his gaze. He hums, unclenching his hands from fists to press the palms of them more firmly into Cecil, scraping the talons across his vest.

“Much better,” he says, a lilting, distorted pitch to it. Extends his right’s hand index finger, while he talks, to prod at his back—tracing a symbol there, one that causes Cecil to minutely shiver from it, unexpecting the action. “Thank you.”

And perhaps it is that, that has Cecil truly understand what has happened; that Venti is really not so much hurt as he is a far, far worse thing, that there is something gripping at him. Or perhaps it is the way he looks upon him, as though he were the sun, a gleeful, thrilled and eager gleam to his gaze. Or perhaps it is the way his wings gradually tighten around his form, not constricting him, yet he suddenly feels the reason they continue to be folded (and twitching, fluttering, so often) is not that Venti just wishes to hold him with everything he has.

Whichever it is, whether it be a combination of all of them, it has him widening his eyes, a near whisper of “Oh,” trailing into the winds. Winds that take the words greedily into their hands, rolling them over—winds that tell him murmurs, almost frantically, a gentle urging in the way the threads crowd further around them both, hushed jingling of bells accompanying it: stay, stay, stay, stay?

Oh.

[shesnake]

but what if they subject us to poppyian endgame bc that's the only material they have on hand....................

[boredomsbonedeep]

"my fandom is so small!" i say, perusing the 4 thousand scorbus fics on ao3

"oh god" i say opening one of the 14(!!!) Delphi/Victoire fics on ao3

[canongf]

and if i said i had a new crush. what then.

[justfriendsbestthings]

if Young Royals actually ends with Simon and Wille in love but not together then it’s no better than all the other queer movies with open sad and or ambiguous endings that I’m so sick of there is simply no other option but wilmon endgame

[angy-grrr]

I don’t get why ppl keep saying bkdk is dead or Horikoshi broke off bkdk. If that were true, this extra would look very different as you pointed out multiple times. The extra was still heavily focused on them and I hate how ppl are letting one no dictate the entire relationship. Izuku asks him to be a special lecturer too. I think the no just needs more clarification but other than that it is mostly fine. If a ship were to be shut down by the creator, it would look very different. Same logic for if a ship were to be canon, it would look different than what we got in the end for izu///ocha. This extra was bad in different ways from ships. It was just a whole lot of nothing that doesn’t meaningfully add anything to the story but I guess we shouldn’t be surprised since it is an extra. It is still an ambiguous ending that can be pretty fixable by one shots by Horikoshi in the future or even better by fanfiction lol. Except for the Toga part. That is just inexcusable

himiko-chan :(

and yeah! like even tho 431 is terrible not only for pairs but also for the whole story, it only confirmed Katsuki feels something really strong for deku and he doesnt notice bc he doesnt consider himself to be that great; they keep talking, and they keep being in each other's lives with no problem -they also imply they will work on communicating their feelings, as the special lecture is about this topic and deku also thinks katsuki doesnt see himself in a high regard. This is actually something that could be used in the future, as their relationship and arc isnt completely finished -in the way that they arent at a point of no miscommunication, no yearning, etc. They still need something to work with in regards to themselves and each other in the process. When it comes to midoriya and uraraka, idk what exactly could develop from what 431 tell us -seems to be mostly about paying attention to the ppl in your life instead of just letting life happen I guess? But idk what conversation or arc they could have together that wasn't resolved already, it was a really weird choice to focus on them as if there needs to be more explored -which is why choosing to not make them talk to each other nor think of the other in these years is potentially interesting, like the only way they could actually need to talk things up or have a separated special moment is if they just stop being friends and want to talk more from now on. Like, if they kept their friendship these years and were part of the other's life, there wouldnt be a moment like this at all.

I think it hurt mostly ochako -and deku if we interpret it as "deku just wants to be teacher, he is super happy about it, and loveeees so much his ex bestie after 8 years of no contact and never thinking about her"-, more than the bkdk relationship.

It would be interesting to see those one shots, if he does them -I know he said he wanted to do more things and little drawings and content for it, but idk if he will do something elaborate or just one page of something silly. I think he still has to opportunity of working with the material and make something at least not this bad -or completely ignore 431 and just continue with their adventures like 430 implies lol If he wants to double down with the "romance" I have no idea how he could do it with what he has tbh, unless he just ignores the plot and their personalities.

[ceramicbeetle]

actually it's kind of funny how people will say Alex's fatal flaw is that he 'doesn't ask for help' and that it's his determination to handle things on his own that leads to his deterioration and eventual death when his whole introduction to the present-day timeline was a very literal cry for help that simply went ignored

[divorcemotif]

the latter part of the latest tsv remind anyone else of the premise of that one eskew episode

[archersgoon]

you can do whatever you want with ocs forever. i made my character second cousins twice removed with tesadora. who gives a fuck

[lazyrunawayphilosopher]

Koreeda about the ending in Cannes interview.

[ineffably-human]

Just saw sonic 3 and holy shit man

Gonna tell the kids this was nandermo

[circlesroundthemoon]

diska just ended????

[alphabetboyluvr]

Once the thrill expires pt 2 when? 🥺🥺🥺

ahhhhhhhhhh about this

ive been debating for a little while over it and have the bones of the second part (about 4k words in total) and I just... I think it should be left as a one shot :(

[13eyond13]

.