#i would say expect more but i would just be lying

[oldbutchdaniel]

iwtv fanfic friday <3

happy weekend reading!

all human decisions by LuckyDiceKirby (@luckydicekirby) m, 19k

Daniel’s bastard maker had the advantage over him: he could travel by daylight. By the time Daniel woke at dusk, sprawled on the couch and actually literally tucked in, there was no sign of him. Well, fuck Armand. Daniel might be a newly minted best-selling conspiracy theorist whose sanity was being publicly debated on every existing social media platform, but he was still a journalist. He could track down one monstrous extremely divorced serial killer, easy.

(armand is sooooooo annoying in this. he's everything to me.)

colour me your colour, baby by hederabug m, 2.6k

“Daniel.” Daniel hears the soft, but insistent voice first as a distant call, as if she’s submerged in water. She breathes air when Armand’s hand grabs at her shoulder. “Wake up, lover.” Armand is on all fours, hands and knees on the bed above where Daniel’s still lying down, so they’re face to face. Armand’s brown eyes are glinting with some manic light, her face cast in shadow, striking chiaroscuro, lit only by the dull amber glow of the bedside table.

(rest assured i will be doing a dm yuri theme week soon and rest assured this will be on it. but it was too good not to include here. i need like 17 more fics in this series)

With His Heart Still Intact (They Didn't Do It Right) by CaravanOfCrows (@asthedeathoflight) t, 6k

A series of collisions; in which free will exists but fate isn't going down without a fight. (surely Armand and Daniel only have extremely normal feelings about freedom and agency and destiny)

(WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THE DM SOULMATE AU AGAIN. CAN WE TALK ABOUT IT PLEASE)

marketplace heart-eater by eggalbumin m, 6k

Daniel picks up a blade from the stack of discarded tools in the kidney tray. It has blood on it. “I’m a little scared to ask,” he says, with the aura of someone who isn’t very scared of asking at all, “but who’s blood is this?” Mine. Yours. My master’s, twice-diluted. Why does it matter anymore? It’s poison either way. “The doctor was just showing me how to do incisions. It’s fascinating work.”

(really fucking awesome armand character study. the first time i ever found marius compelling due to the fact that he's written from the lens of armand's tangled knot of being. like i think he should be killed with hammers as much as the next guy but he makes for such a fascinating narrative concept)

did you believe in the glass city by tei @bloodripelives nr, 5.9k

"Yes," Armand breathes. "Yes. Is anything they did to me worse than what I have done to you?" Daniel wants to say yes, but shit, he's not even sure what Armand had done to him. And whatever it was, he is sure that he would have let him do worse.

(daniel tracks down marius for the sake of armand's tangled knot of being. it goes as well as you would expect. so fucking beautiful and soooo fucking compelling. made me cry at least twice. read it now)

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART VIII

summary: the trials and tribulations of falling in love or two idiots who can't get their shit together.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 6.3k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). angst!!! cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol and depression. feelings of hopelessness, anxiety. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello besties, here's the next part!! happy reading <3

masterlist!

Pedro hadn’t expected his career to take another sharp turn so soon after The Mandalorian. The call he received that night in January, while lying in a dimly lit hotel room in London, still felt unreal. Hazy, thanks to the Ambien coursing through him, but real enough to make him sit up in bed after the line went dead.

Something big was coming, and he could feel it in his bones. It would change everything—if things weren’t already good enough as they were.

A few weeks later, he was back in London to film The Bubble. Everything seemed to blur by—filming, meetings, and the quiet rhythm of his life with Julia. He hadn't expected to fall into a relationship so effortlessly, but here he was.

She was a producer he’d met during a project in Budapest, though nothing had happened between them until months later.

Late November, to be exact. By then, things had shifted.

Pedro was never good at deciphering if someone liked him or not, and maybe that was why, when she suggested coffee, he didn’t think twice. She was lovely—kind in a way that didn't feel overwhelming, and he liked the way it felt safe, uncomplicated. When she reached for his hand, the world didn’t spin beneath his feet, and that was comforting. It was normal, and maybe that’s exactly what he needed.

After that first coffee, there were more—turning into casual dinners, casual sex, easy conversations, and eventually, a steady progression toward something more.

By December, things had gotten serious, though Pedro still sometimes woke up disoriented, feeling as if he was living in someone else’s life. Julia kept him grounded. And though it wasn’t the kind of love that made him lose his breath, it was steady.

One morning, in early December, he woke to find a message from you. You’d mentioned him in an upcoming Vogue interview, a brief nod to his help in keeping you sane during those first chaotic months of the pandemic. Your publicist thought it might make a fuss for a while, and you didn’t want him to wake up and think someone had died or something.

Nothing too big, P, just the usual storm. Call when you’re back in the States. Miss you.

Pedro stared at the message for a long time, debating. You’d always known everything about him. Every high, every low. But now? There was Julia to consider. He sat on the edge of the bed, Julia still asleep next to him, the London sky a dull gray through the curtains. He’d thought about telling you about her for weeks—maybe he should’ve before New Year’s—but it was easier to let the conversation slip away.

Until it didn’t.

That night, at Oscar’s New Year’s party, when you found out about Julia, he could see it in your eyes—the hurt, the shock, the confusion. You didn’t say much after that. Just told him you hoped he was happy, and if he was, that would be enough.

But it didn’t feel enough.

Not then, not now.

•••

Back in London, the routine of it all began to suffocate him. He spent his mornings reading lines, drinking bitter coffee, and answering the inevitable buzz of questions about his relationship status. He didn’t care to comment. He didn’t want to make it official in a way that felt like another announcement to the world. His job was to act, not live his life on a stage. Still, the headlines rolled out, and his relationship with Julia became another topic of conversation.

The days passed in a blur, but something bothered him. You had gone silent. Completely. Not only from his life but from social media, from the public eye, from everywhere. He called on your birthday. Oscar had mentioned you hadn't planned anything for the day, not that he knew off, and Pedro found himself standing on the cold balcony of his hotel room, dialing your number with a strange urgency.

You picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

Your voice sounded far away, thin and almost unfamiliar, like a melody he had forgotten.

“Hey.”

There was a beat of silence, a pause where recognition should have clicked into place. Instead, you sounded distant, hesitant.

“Oh. It’s you.”

His lips twitched into a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, it’s me. Did you delete my number?”

A soft shuffle on the other end, like you were shifting in place, caught off guard. “No, uh, I just picked it up without looking who it was.”

He leaned against the railing, gripping the phone tighter as if it could bridge the distance between you. The cold metal beneath his fingers bit into his skin, grounding him, though your absence felt like it was growing by the second. "Happy birthday, mi amor."

“Thank you, Pedro.”

The way you said his name, the clipped tone, made something stir in his gut, but he shook it off.

“You doing anything? I heard you didn’t have plans.”

“Nothing really, maybe over the weekend,” you replied, but there was a softness in your voice that didn't match the words, like you were choosing them carefully, holding something back. “I know you’re in London; that’s why I didn’t—”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t call,” he interrupted, leaning against the cold railing. His free hand found his hair, fingers tugging at the strands, trying to steady the unease creeping in. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been... You know how it is.”

Another long pause. For a moment, all he heard was the faint rustling on the other end, like you were curled up somewhere small, the space between you both stretching impossibly wide. He didn’t notice the silence for what it was—didn’t notice the way it wrapped around your words, cloaking the pain underneath.

“I do,” you whispered. It wasn’t an agreement; it was resignation. "Listen, I have to go. Say hi to Julia for me."

You hung up quickly, the words leaving him cold. The last part stung in a way he wasn’t expecting.

Days turned into weeks, and though you stayed in touch here and there, your conversations felt different. Lighter. Less personal. He tried not to let it bother him, but it did. The less he tried to think about you, the more you occupied his thoughts, living in the corners of his mind where you had always been. It felt like torture, the way your presence always lingered even in your absence.

When Pedro finally posted about landing the role of Joel Miller, the flood of congratulations came pouring in, but only one comment left him reeling.

So happy for you!!! You’re gonna kill it.

It was from you. Simple, encouraging, and yet it twisted something inside him.

His birthday arrived not long after, and he found himself back in LA, where his friends greeted him with a backyard party under the stars. Sarah held a cake with a single candle, and as everyone cheered, Pedro smiled, but there was an immovable weight in his chest.

Later that night, after the crowd had dispersed, he and Julia escaped upstairs to his room. They ended up half-dressed, tangled on his unmade bed. She smiled at him afterward, her gaze hazy with affection. “Happy birthday,” she murmured, running a hand down his chest.

Pedro wanted to stay in that moment, to let it be enough, but his mind wandered. He had that feeling of wanting to be trapped in one place, wanting to dig his heels in. It didn’t need to matter that that reality was waiting for him outside the door. It didn’t need to matter that you hadn’t called.

April 11, 2021

London, England

Pedro’s mood had been darkening for weeks now, but if Julia had noticed, she didn’t say a word.

She’d taken on a slew of new projects, coming home late most nights, leaving him to his thoughts and the silence that clung to their flat like fog. Pedro found himself pacing the empty rooms when she was gone, unsure where to place himself in her absence. He felt the weight of insomnia closing in again, the recognizable ache behind his eyes making the hours stretch painfully long.

That day, however, his focus had shifted. He was set to present Best Foreign Film at the BAFTAs, and his stylist had dressed him in a Prada tuxedo coat, a crisp white shirt, and skinny-fitting suit trousers. He looked sharp, elegant even, and for the first time in days, Pedro felt something close to confidence.

He and Julia arrived at the event together, but they didn’t pose for pictures side by side. Still, photographers captured fleeting moments—Julia holding his hand as they stepped out of the car, a quiet laugh between them under the canopy of flashing cameras. By the next morning, their images were all over social media, sparking the inevitable buzz about their relationship.

Pedro ignored most of it.

Two days later, while sharing a quiet breakfast in a cafe with Julia, he opened Instagram out of habit, and your face appeared.

There you were, standing in the middle of some forest, your expression serene. The caption read: Surprise. A new album drops at midnight. In isolation, my imagination ran wild, and this is the result—stories and songs that flowed like rivers. I hope you love it.

The post had already gathered thousands of likes and comments, and Pedro’s chest tightened as he stared at the screen. The timing of it all was almost cruel, but it was the impact of your sudden reappearance that left him reeling. You had vanished from the public eye for so long, and now, with no warning, you were back.

That night, Pedro lay awake next to Julia, the persistent itch of insomnia dragging him out of bed. He moved quietly so as not to disturb her, slipping his earbuds in as he stepped onto the hotel balcony. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled up your new album. He hesitated for a moment, but he pressed play anyway.

For ten songs, Pedro was transfixed. Your voice wrapped around him, haunting and familiar, weaving tales of heartache and isolation. There was a rawness to your words, an unflinching honesty that pierced through the midnight air. He listened intently, picking apart the lyrics, wondering if they were about him, if the pain you sang about was shared between you. It felt like an open wound, and yet he couldn’t stop listening.

Each song was a confession. Each melody a letter never sent.

When it ended, Pedro sat in the dark, overwhelmed. The emptiness gnawed at him, and all he wanted was to call you, to talk, to hear your voice. But he didn’t.

A couple of weeks later, he found himself shamelessly googling you again, hoping for something—an interview, a post, anything—but there was nothing. You had gone silent after the album drop.

No promo, no press. Just the music and then nothing. He congratulated you once, a brief message saying how beautiful the album was. You replied with a simple, “Thank you. It means a lot.”

That was it.

July 10, 2021

Alberta, Canada

Pedro arrived in Alberta at dawn, the skies painted in soft hues of pink and orange. The cab ride to the hotel was quiet, his agent and hairstylist riding with him as they prepared for the long months ahead. Filming for The Last of Us was finally starting, and though Pedro was eager to begin, a deep nervousness tugged at him.

Julia hadn’t come with him this time, staying back in London for her own work. She promised to visit, but Pedro wasn’t sure how often. In her absence, he felt that familiar loneliness creeping in, the kind that terrified him, mostly because it left him alone with thoughts of you.

He checked into his room and sat heavily on the sofa, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his vision blurred. He needed to eat, to call his family, to ground himself in something, but instead, he grabbed a beer from the mini fridge and settled back into the couch. His fingers hovered over his phone again, the compulsion to check your Instagram pulling at him like a bad habit.

But, like always, there was nothing.

Your only other post had been a month ago, thanking your fans for the love on the album. He had messaged you a couple of times—small, inconsequential exchanges that left him unsatisfied. He didn’t know what he was searching for in those brief interactions, but whatever it was, it felt futile.

Then, ten minutes later, like a sign from the universe, you shared an interview. A video with you talking about your creative process. Pedro couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed his laptop, another beer, and settled in.

As he watched, he couldn’t help but stare at you. You looked radiant, sitting across from the interviewer in the backyard of your California home. The conversation was easy at first, touching on the album’s success, but then it turned more personal.

"The pandemic was really rough, and also life in general, I guess," you said, your voice quiet. "I found myself post-breakup, isolated in a cabin in Calgary, and writing was all I had. But the inspiration wasn’t just from that breakup. It came from years of… things."

The interviewer asked gently, "You mean the breakup with your most recent ex specifically?"

"Yeah," you replied, your eyes dropping for a second. "It wasn’t entirely about that. I pulled a lot from my imagination, I guess. The lines between fantasy and reality blurred, and I found myself writing from perspectives that weren’t always mine."

Pedro’s heart clenched.

"There’s a song on the album," he continued, "the final track. It’s haunting. You sing about being hurt by someone you love but being unable to let them go. Can you talk about that?"

You paused, taking a breath before you spoke. "It’s a quiet resignation," you said. "That person and I, we hurt each other, but I love them. So, I guess that’s it. It felt like the right way to end the album."

Pedro’s world stilled. He realized, in that moment, what he had been searching for all this time. He had wanted confirmation, a sign that you still loved him. And with every word you spoke, you gave it to him.

Filming for The Last of Us began a couple of days later, and though Pedro threw himself into the work, your voice lingered, ghost-like, at the back of his mind. Days turned to weeks, and as production moved into September, the physical toll started to wear on him. He spent long hours on set; the Canadian cold started biting into his bones. Bella, his co-star, became a bright spot, their energy infectious, and though they bonded quickly, Pedro felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him.

In the early mornings, when the world was still asleep, he would take walks to clear his head, the cold sunlight grounding him. Julia came to visit now and then, joining him on these walks, but they often ran out of things to say. He could feel the quiet disintegration of their relationship, like watching ice slowly melt into water. He didn’t know what they were holding onto anymore.

•••

When October rolled around, Pedro’s schedule clashed with the start of The Mandalorian’s third season, and it became clear that he wouldn’t be able to join the production on time. His agents scrambled to find a solution, but when Pedro’s stunt double was suggested as a replacement for the early scenes, he was left with an odd sense of detachment. And when his agent told him it had been your suggestion, something in him cracked.

The anger simmered for weeks. He felt foolish and abandoned, wondering if you had pushed him away to keep your distance. But then, just as the resentment began to harden, you showed up on set with two coffees in hand, flashing him a smile. "One iced caramel macchiato for me and one large quad over ice for you," you teased.

Pedro blinked, startled. He hadn’t expected your warmth. "Thanks," he managed, taking the coffee.

"You’re welcome," you replied brightly. "We missed you here."

"Did you?" he said, a hint of sarcasm slipping into his tone. "Because I heard it was your idea to keep me away."

Your expression twisted into confusion before you laughed. "I was just trying to make things easier. You were still filming, and I figured rushing back here would be a nightmare for you. I wasn’t plotting anything."

Pedro felt a wave of relief wash over him, mixed with the faintest trace of regret. "Well, in that case, I missed you too."

•••

For two seasons, your character hadn't seen his without the helmet. Today you were shooting the scene where, out of necessity, he reveals his face to you. It was written as a pivotal moment in your characters' relationship.

The moment the director called action, the air on set felt different. It wasn’t the usual hum of crew members shuffling in the background or the low murmur of cameras whirring. Instead, a heavy, almost sacred quiet descended, blanketing everyone as the scene unfolded. Pedro’s mind mirrored that stillness, a sudden and unnerving hush. It felt like everything outside of this moment ceased to exist, like time itself had bent inward.

And then—nothing. No words. No script. Just you, standing so close to him, your face inches from his, hands cradling his jaw.

You widened your eyes, a silent prompt, urging him to speak, to remember his lines. But all he could do was stare. He hadn’t been this close to you in months, hadn’t felt the warmth of your touch or the soft presence of your breath in what felt like a lifetime. His throat tightened, his words trapped somewhere deep inside. He knew the scene needed to move forward, but for one fragile moment, all he wanted was to keep you there, locked in this pocket of stillness, as if holding onto you would stop everything else from slipping away.

You read him, like you always did. You settled in, your hands still on his face, fingers pressing gently into his skin as if anchoring him. Then, softly, you filled the silence with a line—one that Pedro was sure wasn’t in the script, but it was perfect. You carried the scene, leading him back into it, your voice becoming the tether that pulled him out of the stillness and into motion. Pedro blinked, refocusing, forcing his body and mind to follow your lead as he finally delivered his line.

The scene moved on, but something lingered, thick and unsaid.

When filming wrapped for the day, the tension still simmered. You caught him at the edge of the lot, your expression unreadable as you approached him. Maybe you'll ask him why he froze like an idiot during that scene, or maybe you'll just walk past him without a word.

Instead, you simply asked, "Dinner?"

Pedro couldn’t say no. He never could when it came to you.

You ended up at a small sushi restaurant tucked away from the chaos of the city. The space was warm, softly lit, a sanctuary from the noise of the outside world. Pedro sat across from you, picking at a piece of sashimi, trying to focus on the conversation but finding it hard. You talked about the year you’d spent away from the spotlight and how you’d pulled back from everything.

"I mean, I’m doing this because I signed a contract," you said, lightly joking, but your eyes flickered with something that gave you away. "Disney has snipers; you know how it is."

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

Pedro chuckled, though he could hear the sadness in your voice, the weight behind your words.

"If I could’ve gotten out of it too, I would have," you added, your tone quieter, more reflective. "I guess I just needed to slow down. I’m tired of it all."

"You even skipped the Oscars," Pedro replied, taking a sip of his drink. "That's how you know it's serious."

"Yeah, I love the Oscars. Excellent champagne."

Pedro watched you closely, wanting to dig into your words to pull apart the layers of exhaustion and sadness you were burying beneath the surface. He wanted to offer you some kind of comfort, to tell you that he understood—that he, too, had been feeling the weight of it all. But the words caught in his throat. Instead, the two of you ate in silence, the kind of quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable but spoke volumes.

There was something about being with you, even without words, that felt…right.

Later, as he lay in bed, his mind kept returning to you, to your confession. He wondered what you weren’t telling him, what you were holding back. But as much as he wanted to reach out to ask, he couldn't.

The next morning, Pedro was on a flight back to Canada. The weeks that followed blurred into a rhythm of cold, grueling days on set and long, sleepless nights. He threw himself into The Last of Us, trying to lose himself in the work, but no matter how hard he tried, thoughts of you crept back in. You were there, always, lingering in the corners of his mind, and Julia could sense it.

She didn’t say anything at first, but Pedro could feel it—the slow unraveling of their relationship. It wasn’t sudden, like a crash or an explosion; it was quiet, a gradual dissolution. Every day, a little more slipped away. He wasn’t sure what he had expected from this relationship, from this life they had built together. Did he think they would buy a house, start a family? Had he ever really seen himself in this life with her, or was it just easier to disappear into hers?

Finally, Julia said it. Brightly, almost too casually. "I think maybe we’re done."

Pedro didn’t fight it. He didn’t have the energy. "Yeah," he murmured. "I think that was my fault."

•••

Christmas and New Year’s came and went in a blur. Pedro went to Chile for a few weeks, seeking the comfort of home, of family. There, surrounded by his siblings and nephews, he found a brief pause, a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in a while. But even in the warmth of his childhood home, memories of you still haunted him. He saw you in every corner, heard your laughter in the echo of the hallways.

One night, after too many glasses of wine, he called you on a whim. It wasn’t about anything important—just small talk, catching up. You sounded good, better than the last time you spoke, but there was a distance in your voice, a kind of finality that made Pedro’s heart sink. For some reason, he didn’t tell you about his breakup. He kept that part of his life hidden, not out of secrecy but because it felt irrelevant at that moment.

What would it change? What did it matter?

You didn’t talk much after that. Your silence felt deliberate, not like a missed connection but a closed door. It was as if you were telling him, without saying it outright, that this was where it ended.

In the days that followed, Pedro did his best to push you out of his mind, but it didn’t take long for the thoughts to creep back in. They always did. Anger. Sadness. Regret. They whispered in his ear, insidious and unrelenting, reminding him of what he had lost, of what he could never quite hold on to.

February 7, 2022

Los Angeles, California

The suitcase lay open on the bed, half-packed, with clothes spilling over the edges like an unspoken reflection of your mind. Each item you folded and placed inside felt heavy, as if carrying pieces of the last year with you. Taylor sat cross-legged in the chair by the window, scrolling through her phone while talking, but her words barely reached you over the noise in your head.

“I’m surprised you said yes, that’s all,” she said, her voice light with curiosity. “You’ve basically been a hermit for a year now.”

You laughed softly, your hands smoothing over the fabric of a sweater. “I needed the break, you know that. ”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push yet. You were grateful for the acceptance, even if you knew she was waiting to bring it up again, the same way she always did.

“One day, you’ll tell me what really happened,” Taylor continued, her voice taking on a familiar teasing edge. “You'll tell me what had you sulking at home like a sad Victorian poet for a whole year.”

You folded another shirt and placed it in the suitcase before responding, “I’ve told you countless times. Nothing happened other than…he got a girlfriend, and I stayed out of the way. That’s it.”

Taylor squinted at you as if she didn’t quite believe it, her eyes narrowing with the kind of suspicion only a close friend could afford to show. “Aha,” she said slowly, drawing out the sound.

You rolled your eyes but smiled.

“I wasn't sulking,” you admitted, trying to keep your tone light. “I was…relaxing. It was my year of rest and relaxation.”

She chuckled at that. “Good one, smarty pants."

Outside, a breeze rustled through the palm trees, carrying the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of LA traffic. You imagined the street below, the shuffling of photographers leaning against their cars, lighting cigarettes, and murmuring to each other. They had become a permanent fixture, appearing gradually over the months, staking out your house like ghosts waiting for you to return to life.

It never ceased to surprise you how much people cared about what you did off-screen. You couldn’t just let your work stand for itself. No, you had to prove yourself over and over again, reminding the world that you were still an asset, still someone worth admiring.

You shrugged, half-smiling, but there was something sad in it. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m only doing this because I've been dying to work with this director, and it’s a closed set. Once those eight weeks are up, it’s back to my hermit status.”

Taylor shook her head with a dramatic sigh. “So we’re missing the Oscars again this year?”

You threw a pair of socks at her, chuckling. “Seems like it.”

But inside, everything wasn’t as lighthearted as your words. Last year, you’d taken a step back from the spotlight, and while you didn’t want to attribute it to the hurt you were feeling over Pedro, the truth was, it had everything to do with him. Well, at least a huge chunk of it. It hurt not to have him. It hurt to see someone else kiss him, hold his hand so freely, so easily. The pain wrapped itself around you like a second skin.

The world expected you to bounce back, to emerge from this self-imposed exile with a smile and a perfect soundbite. But the truth was messier. You had spent a year nursing a heart that hadn’t fully healed. You loved Pedro in a way that still hurt, in a way that sometimes made you feel like a child who didn’t understand why they couldn’t have the one thing they wanted most. You wanted to be the bigger person, the one who could let him go gracefully, but instead, you had hidden.

You were blue all the time. Some days were okay; some days you barely got out of bed.

There were moments it felt paralyzing. The weight of the world outside your window, the expectations, the love you still felt for him—all of it crushed you. Some days, you simply couldn’t move. You stayed curled up in the safety of your blankets, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It wasn’t long before someone intervened. Your PA was that someone.

She didn’t push you at first. She’d just knock on your door, leave food outside, and ask if you needed anything. You’d spent three weeks in your room, moving only to get water or occasionally sit by the window.

One afternoon, Renata came in and found you in the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. She placed a sandwich she brought on the counter and looked at you, her voice careful, but firm. “You need to talk to someone.”

“I’m talking to you,” you replied simply, taking a sip of water.

“No, you know what I mean. A professional. It’s okay if you don’t feel…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

“I’m fine,” you said, starting to walk toward the stairs.

“You’re not going to eat?” she called after you.

“Not hungry, but thanks,” you mumbled, disappearing into your room again.

But Renata didn’t let it go. She pushed gently, week after week, until finally, you let her schedule an appointment. She promised not to say anything to anyone, especially Taylor. You didn’t want to worry her.

The word depression had seemed too big to say aloud, too heavy, but that’s exactly the word your psychiatrist had used.

“You’ll need to take these every morning,” he said, handing you a small prescription bottle. “And it would be good to write how you feel. Keep track of things.”

You sat there, legs crossed in an oversized chair, staring at the prescription bottle in your hand.

•••

You watched from the sidelines as Pedro continued to rise, landing roles in The Last of Us, becoming the face everyone adored. You were thrilled for him, of course, but the distance between you felt insurmountable.

The only interaction you had was through a comment on his Instagram post, and even then, you weren’t sure if it meant anything. You didn't dare to call him on his birthday; you didn't want to stain his day with sadness. Every time you looked at your phone, tears threatened to spill. You felt as if the moment he spoke into the phone, you might collapse.

He's better off; he might not even notice.

The album you dropped in the spring had been a release of every emotion you hadn’t been able to speak aloud. Each song was laced with love and loss, heartbreak and longing; every note was a confession you’d never let yourself voice. You wondered if he listened to it—if the lyrics registered with him, if he knew they were about him.

That same week, you saw photos of him in London, holding her hand. You cried yourself to sleep that night.

The months passed in a blur of avoidance. You busied yourself at home with anything you could find that didn’t involve thinking about him. You did the one interview your publicist insisted on. It was with Zane Lowe; you liked him, so it was mostly okay. You found yourself talking about the songs you wrote during that time. As you listened to your own words, you realized that the music had given you a voice when you felt silenced by heartache.

It was a bittersweet realization.

By October, filming for The Mandalorian had loomed on the horizon, and when you found out Pedro was still tied up in Canada, you suggested beginning production without him. It felt easier that way, like a reprieve. But when he finally arrived on set, the connection between you two still crackled beneath the surface. There was an unspoken understanding in the way he looked at you during that intense scene—the one where your character saw his face for the first time. He froze, and you wondered what was running through his mind—what thoughts had stopped him from continuing.

You hesitated, but after the scene wrapped, you found yourself asking him to dinner. It was a slippery slope. You could pretend you were okay all you wanted in the brief moments between takes, offering coffee and smiles, but no one saw right through you like him.

Still, you asked. It was a small gesture, just a way to extend the fragile thread of connection between you, to hold onto him for a little longer before he left again.

But you’d learned how to stay in your lane. You’d learned how to love him from a distance, how to let him be happy with someone else. It was an act of love, really—letting him go, stepping aside to give him the space to live a life that didn’t include you. At least that’s what you told yourself.

Taylor’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “Do you think you could be a hermit in Greece next? I could use a vacation.”

May 29, 2022

Los Angeles, California

Between promoting The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent and wrapping up the final scenes of The Last of Us in Canada, he had little time to do, well, anything else really.

It was late May, just after the Star Wars Celebration. He’d worn a blue two-piece set that felt more like pajamas than anything formal, which was fine by him. Comfort was the priority these days.

But something was missing. You. You hadn’t been there. Out of everyone from the cast, you were the only one absent, and that absence settled like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

"She’s just taking time off," he’d tell himself, repeating the words like a mantra. “She’s probably busy; she's okay.” But the nagging feeling wouldn’t leave him alone.

Pedro had even caved one evening, calling Taylor. It had been late, after a full day of press, his voice rough from interviews and late-night whiskey. He had only meant for it to be one drink. But then he thinks back to the fact that you've plagued his dreams every night this week and that there was a song he kept hearing repeatedly that reminded him of you, and one drink had turned to three, and now here he is.

“Taylor?” He had sounded more vulnerable than he intended. “Is she... I mean, everything’s okay, right?”

Taylor had reassured him, of course, her voice patient, telling him you were fine, that you just were busy. Pedro wanted to believe her, but it gnawed at him. Something felt off.

He still woke up some mornings with the urge to tell you something, a joke he heard or a weird dream he had.

•••

By August he found himself in Spain, the arid heat of the desert sinking into his skin as filming for Strange Way of Life began. The project felt like a strange departure—something raw and gritty, something that required his full attention—but even then, in quiet moments between takes, his mind wandered. He’d sit in his trailer, his phone in hand, thumb hovering over your contact name, but the messages stayed unsent.

The days passed in a blur of rehearsals, early morning call times, and late-night script revisions. He spent his downtime with Ethan, exchanging stories over beers. But there was a quietness to Pedro that hadn’t been there before—a missing piece of him he couldn’t quite place.

•••

November 22, 2022

Miami, Florida

The night was sweltering; even by late fall standards, the air was thick and humid. Pedro was grinning, wearing a loose-fitting animal print shirt that made him feel playful, like he was stepping into some exaggerated version of himself for the evening. Lux was by his side, vibrant as always, their laughter mingling with the clink of glasses as they arrived at a wine event.

But it didn’t take long for Lux to notice the shadow that hung over him.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, side-eyeing him as they sipped their drinks by the bar.

“I’ve been busy,” Pedro answered vaguely, swirling his glass and watching the amber liquid catch the light.

“Sure,” Lux replied, smirking. “And when are you both going to stop being idiots? It’s getting tiresome, hermanito.”

Pedro nearly choked on his drink, laughing in surprise. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Lux’s voice was matter-of-fact, cutting through his defenses with that typical bluntness only siblings could pull off. “You and her. It’s obvious. To everyone.”

Pedro sighed, leaning back against the bar, the Miami night buzzing around them. “It’s not that simple.”

Lux raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re both so afraid of what might happen that you’re stuck in this limbo. It’s ridiculous. Why let it get this bad?”

Pedro stared into his glass, her words echoing in his head.

"Because I love her," Pedro finally admitted, his voice quieter, weighed down by the truth. He stared down at his drink, swirling the ice around the glass. "I love her so much I’m willing to let her go."

Lux didn’t say anything.

Pedro shook his head, a bitter smile playing at his lips. "I would only hold her back. I know her so well. She’d sacrifice things just to be with me, and I can’t let her do that. I would only hold her back. She deserves so much better."

Lux tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “And what if what she wants is you? What if she’s out there feeling the same way, thinking she’s the one who isn’t good enough for you? Do you ever think about that?”

Pedro let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. "Of course I’ve thought about it. Every day. But what if I’m wrong? What if she gives up things she shouldn’t for me? I can’t let her do that, Lux."

Lux leaned in closer, her voice gentle but firm. "Maybe it’s not your decision to make. Maybe she deserves the choice. Don’t you think it’s a bit arrogant to assume what’s best for her without even asking?"

Pedro met her gaze, feeling exposed. “I just... I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to ruin her life.”

Lux smiled, but it wasn’t pitying. It was knowing, soft around the edges. "You’re not ruining anything by loving her. But keeping it to yourself? That’s where the damage is, hermanito. You think you’re protecting her, but all you’re doing is pushing her away. And trust me, that hurts more than anything else."

He had always been so afraid of losing you, so terrified of not being enough, that he hadn’t even realized how much distance he had created.

Lux’s voice softened again, the words cutting through the noise in his mind. "She deserves better, Pedro? Maybe. But who says you don’t deserve her, too?"

a/n: please like, reblog and comment! i love reading your thoughts!! next part will be posted in a bit ;) aaaand something might be happening ;)

[radioapplerevue]

Hello!!! I was wondering if u had any radioapple headcanons? :)

Hello! I am... very sorry it took this long for me to reply. I saw the ask at work and then closed it to answer later, but once it was closed and out of my view then in my brain's opinion, it promptly ceased to exist.

Anyway my headcanons are a bit malleable depending on the situation/how they got together/the environment they're in/etc. But I'll try and jot down a few.

Alastor picks Lucifer up a lot. I mean look at him, he's tiny. Sometimes Alastor will have conversations with people with Lucifer slung over his shoulders, hanging from the crook of his elbow, or in the occasional princess carry. Alastor enjoys this because he thinks it's embarrassing for Lucifer. Lucifer enjoys this because he gets to be carried (even if he acts like it's embarrassing so Alastor will keep doing it).

Their coming together was slow, and started by them just learning to be in the same room without going for the throat. Eventually it turned into them talking, and then their chairs getting closer, and then Lucifer showing interest in one of Alastor's hobbies -- probably music. Because they are both overenthusiastic weirdos about their personal interests, and while Alastor doesn't share some of Lucifer's (the ducks, the circus, all things fruity and sweet, etc), Lucifer shares quite a few of Alastor's (music, dancing, cooking, disliking television, well tailored clothes, etc).

One of their favorite things to do is just hole up in a room in their respective spots and read. Their tastes in fiction don't always align, but they learn enough about the other's tastes that they can recognize what they might like when they come across it. Lucifer starts bringing Alastor books as gifts, and eventually Alastor starts to reciprocate, but only by leaving books in places that Lucifer is likely to run across them. If Lucifer tries to thank him, he'll disavow all knowledge.

Lucifer enjoys listening to Alastor's radio show.

Alastor enjoys listening to Lucifer sing.

Lucifer, as an angel, existed long before sex and gender were even things. Thus, he doesn't have any particular attachment to either. He's been in one form for ten thousand years because it's the one that Lilith (and later Charlie) knew, but he's fine with shifting it around as he pleases. Regarding sex, Lucifer enjoys it, but doesn't need it. If his partner isn't into it, then neither is he. What he desires isn't sex, but intimacy. He wants to be wanted, in whatever form that takes.

It takes a while before Alastor trusts Lucifer enough to even begin to allow any sort of sexual activities, but he quickly relaxes once it's proven that Lucifer will not only not force anything onto him, but will not expect anything of him, either. Lucifer will be just as happy if the night ends in a cuddle, or even just lying side by side and talking if Alastor's not up for that.

When they do start having sex, though they will play around with different dynamics as it suits them, Alastor tends to prefer letting Lucifer take the lead. Since his interest in sex is most often not the sex and more about being close to Lucifer and enjoying being the source of his pleasure, he doesn't feel any particular inclination to be the one making decisions. Plus, this way Lucifer has to do all the work, and Alastor's the center of attention the entire time. Why would he pass up on that?

Alastor doesn't feel like he's lacking any control when Lucifer leads in bed. There's a heady sort of power that comes from the knowledge that no matter what they're doing, no matter how close Lucifer is to climax, all it takes is one word or one unhappy noise from Alastor and Lucifer will stop completely. And if Alastor says so, then that's it for the night. He's tested it, in the early days when he was still skeptical, and Lucifer never complains, never pushes. (There's safety in this as well as power, but Alastor tries to think about that less.)

Lucifer, for his part, understands how much trust Alastor is showing in him by allowing himself to be that vulnerable. This makes him feel touched, honored, possessive and honestly, very protective. (Angel Dust has learned the hard way by now not to ask for details about how Alastor is in bed -- and it wasn't from Alastor. Lucifer will protect Alastor's vulnerabilities with his life).

I'm thrilled that fandom has run with the "Alastor's shadow is affectionate with Lucifer" idea, because it's one of my favorites. I also believe that his shadow is an extension of his own feelings, particularly the ones he hides behind his buttoned up exterior -- so when things start to get friendlier with Lucifer, the shadow shows Alastor's growing interest before Alastor himself does. And when they do get farther along... well. Good luck reining that thing in. (SHADOW RIGHTS)

When Charlie first found out, she thought it was a prank on their part in order to get them out of bonding exercises.

That's some of them! Hope that'll do!

[bialy-lis]

And they said, "Speak now"

Rise of the TMNT Leonardo/Yuichi Usagi One-shot THIS IS PART OF THE SERIES - might be confusing to read without context

Ao3

---

If Leo had known whose wedding they were going to, he would have dressed a bit better. He would have gone a bit wilder with accessories, chosen a shirt whose collar better accentuated the line of his chin, maybe even, who knows, he would have reached deeper into his roots and decided on a few more Japanese accents. And he would have definitely put on better socks.

Not that he looked bad the way he was, 'cause he didn't. He might not have worn clothes every day, but he had always known fashion and how to present himself in a way that would catch the eye and be the center of attention. It just always could have been better. And it would have been if Big Mama had been a little more specific about what kind of party she was inviting them to, instead of giving them the date, time, and a quick note that they should dress elegantly because someone was planning to say the sacramental "I do." Although maybe not "sacramental"; Leo still had no idea if yokai had any religion, and he kept forgetting to ask.

Anyway, he was dressed well, very well compared to his brothers, and more than ready for his first real, big party. Because he didn't think Big Mama liked small, modest ceremonies. So he was excited, slightly impatient, and ready to open the portal and go through it himself at any moment, since his family had decided to dawdle so much - when it suddenly hit him that in the heat of the moment he had completely forgotten to check that everyone was taking it as seriously as he was.

The reason, to be specific, had just appeared in the doorway, dressed in a blue tracksuit with arms filled with a giant pumpkin tied with a pink bow. And had the nerve to still call himself his boyfriend in such an outfit.

Leo looked him up and down, twice, just to be sure, trying to convince himself that this wasn't so bad, but even he wasn't that good at lying to himself. And he'd had a lot of practice at it.

"You're going dressed like this?" he made sure, still with a faint hope.

With a sigh of relief, Usagi set the pumpkin on the floor and waved his numb hands, frowning.

"Do I look bad?" he asked, glancing down as if he wasn't sure what exactly he was wearing and was looking for a clue. He apparently didn't find any, because when he looked back at his boyfriend, he seemed confused and maybe even slightly offended.

Leo opened his mouth and then closed it, deciding that honesty might not be the best option.

"Nooo..." he finally denied, very convincingly. "Not that it's bad. But it's so..." He twirled his hand in the air. "Normal. Too casual for a wedding."

Usagi looked down again, this time checking the back of his pants just to be sure. He spun around, adjusting his sleeves, and finally rocked back on his heels as if to make sure he hadn't forgotten his prosthetic.

"I don't understand what you're talking about," he finally said. "I've been to loads of weddings, and never had a suit on."

Leo raised an eyebrow.

"Where the hell did you go to weddings?" he asked, but Usagi just shrugged.

"I had a large family."

Leo immediately decided he'd rather not pursue the subject further.

"That explains it, sure. And you need that thing because...?" He pointed to the pumpkin lying between them.

Given his boyfriend's past, he half expected to be slapped in the face with another very funny, not at all traumatic story, but, thankfully, in a small miracle, Usagi just smiled broadly, clearly proud of himself.

"It's a gift. For the happpy couple." He leaned down to pat the vegetable with the utmost tenderness. "Very practical - you can eat it. Best kind of gift."

Leo concluded that it could have been worse. And that he should probably have thought about a gift himself, but it had completely slipped his mind.

"Okay. You know what? Whatever. I look great for both of us, you'll blend in somehow." He flipped the ends of his mask like hair. "Can you go find Mikey? I'll take care of Donnie."

It took a good ten minutes to gather everyone in the living room. They wasted another fifteen minutes on Splinter, who had completely forgotten they were going anywhere, despite being reminded of it every chance he got for the past week, had fallen asleep in his armchair, and when he woke up from his nap he was extremely grumpy and dawdling. Leo suspected he would have less trouble getting a five-year-old ready, and he seriously considered leaving his father at home, but something told him he was in the minority on that score.

On the positive side, he noted with relief that at least his family knew how to dress. Mikey, in his long, colorful tunic, looked far too related to Draxum than anyone should be, but it was clear that he felt as comfortable in it as possible. Donnie, in his white shirt and unbuttoned jacket, looked more elegant and traditional, and even Splinter, when he finally managed to pull himself together, didn't stand out too much. Leo didn't get a chance to see Raph, because his older brother had sneaked out of the house first thing in the morning, but considering that he was going to pick up Mona, it was safe to assume that he had squeezed into his best suit and spilled a bottle of perfume on himself. And eaten the other one. The fact that only his invitation included a companion was very rude in Leo's opinion. The fact that Mona was mentioned by name in it, when absolutely no one had bothered to mention her to Big Mama yet - damn worrying.

"Okay, does everyone but me have a present?" Leo looked from the box Donnie held under his arm to the ribbon-tied painting, behind which he could just see the top of his little brother’s head. "Really?"

Mikey leaned out from behind the canvas to make a face at him.

"Everyone but you knows not to go to a party empty-handed," he huffed, not without a grain of truth. Leo wasn't going to admit it, but he wasn't going to argue either, which he saw as a compromise.

"Can I sign in under one of yours?"

"Absolutely not." Mikey circled his painting, shielding it with his own body. "Don't even try."

Donnie just looked at him sideways.

"Nardo, touch that package and I'll break your fingers."

Usagi, meanwhile, eagerly picked up his pumpkin, moving it a little closer.

"You can add your name to mine," he offered, not having his hands free and pointing with his knee to the place where his own, slightly crooked signature appeared.

Leo considered for a moment how much he valued his dignity, but in the end decided it had never been worth much.

"Ugh, fine," he decided, reaching for a marker. "If anyone ask, I just really respect your village culture."

"Hey!" Usagi spun around, moving the pumpkin out of his reach. "What the hell is wrong with my 'village culture'?"

Leo gave himself a few seconds to digest a completely honest answer, to make sure none of the words actually passed his throat.

"Absolutely nothing, cotton tail." He assured, putting all of his heart and acting skills into it. "Your culture is just so... interesting." Usagi glared at him once more. "And it suits you very well."

Usagi narrowed his eyes, but then seemed to decide to trust him after all and brightened up visibly.

"Fine, I believe you.”

Leo took the opportunity, before he changed his mind, to quickly sign the pumpkin, and then put his arm around Usagi's waist, kissing him on the cheek. And again, on the temple. He would have kissed him a third time, but Mikey had booed them and there was a very real threat that he would throw something, too. He couldn't seem to break this new habit.

(...)

[criesinmultifandommess]

A Dragon's Greatest Treasure

sorry for disappearing! i got caught up in schoolwork and yeah :D i started writing this quite a while ago, maybe a couple months back? idk but the second paragraph was going to be followed by an in-depth description of all the parents seeing their kids start acting up, but im too sad about the current arc CUCURUCHO GIVE THE KIDS BACK YOU MONSTER!!!! anyway enjoy :)

There was no warning for what would happen. There was no announcement from the Federation, no appearance from the Binary Code or Cucurucho. It was just a normal day for the residents of Quesadilla Island. Until everyone’s kids started acting…strangely.

No one was prepared for dragon puberty.

In the group chat between all the parents, Cellbit messages them all to come to the adoption center, mentioning that he has information about the sudden changes to their children. A few moments later, the center is flooded with people. Everyone immediately begins crowding around Cellbit, concerned and anxious. 

“Quiet, please, everyone! Silêncio, por favor.” The Brazilian begins shouting over the commotion. As the residents begin to settle, Cellbit finally begins speaking. “Okay, thank you. I know that all of our kids have started doing some weird stuff lately. Mostre a eles, Richas.”

On cue, Richarlyson jumps and hovers in mid-air for several seconds. 

“Yeah! He accidentally jumped into a hole near the Copacabana, but he did not fall down right away.” Forever comments, Richarlyson nodding along.

“Really? Pomme hasn’t done that, but she has—”

Baghera is cut off when purple sparks begin appearing around Pomme, before she vanishes into thin air. Everyone but the French residents begin panicking, beginning to look around for the missing girl. She pops back into view a few feet away from where she disappeared, violet sparkles eventually fading away.

“She disappears like that.” Baghera lets out a tired sigh. “The first time it happened, we looked around for a few minutes, but she appeared right back where she disappeared.”

“When Baghera messaged us saying that she disappeared, I thought it was the Federation or the Code attacking.” Etoiles shakes his head, frowning. “I would have showed them my Code Breaker sword.”

“Oh, well, nothing that exciting has happened to Ramón. He’s just been really hyper, which isn’t like him at all. There he goes.”

Right as Fit finishes speaking, his son begins twitching and starts racing around the room with incredible speed. Eventually, everyone stops watching him once it becomes apparent he’s not going to stop for a while.

“Chayanne can apparently breathe fire now,” Phil laughs and gestures at his kid. In response, Chayanne lets out a little burst of flame, not enough to harm anyone, but it does cause those around him to jump away in surprise.

“Wait, that’s so cool! Leo, can you do that?” They shake their head, and Foolish’s shoulders drop slightly. “Oh, that’s fine. Well, Leo does this.”

Foolish pulls out a piece of gold from his backpack, but instead of just Leo, all of the kids lunge for the nugget immediately. The parents pull their respective child back, but not before the young dragons begin hissing and clawing at each other. 

“Oh my gosh, Dapper, stop it! He started hissing at me too!” Bad says while wrangling with his son. Once they’re all under control, he turns to Cellbit. “So, they all do some things, but some of the kids have special quirks? What’s going on?”

“Pare, Richas! Okay. I was looking around for some kind of explanation, and when I came here, I found this book called ‘The Early Stages of a Dragon’. I will read it.” Cellbit clears his throat. 

“During the early stages of a newly hatched dragon, they do not exhibit any traits of an adult dragon. However, when they reach the age of one, they begin to showcase these traits during a period called the first growth period. These traits include fire breathing, beginning to fly, small instances of dragon magic, bursts of random energy, a tendency to hoard valuables, and becoming physical through biting, scratching, and hissing. Young dragons will experience a week of showcasing these traits, before eventually regaining control and calming down.”

With that, Cellbit closes the book. “That’s it. There’s two other growth periods, but it says it won’t happen for a while, so we should be fine.”

“Does this mean all the eggs are going to start disappearing?”

“And breathing fire?” 

The adults start muttering worriedly, and Cellbit raises a hand to quiet everyone again. “They may, or they may not. But we should all be safe and start carrying around water buckets.”

“And maybe don’t take out shiny things.” Bad turns to Foolish and sighs. “You’re going to have to start covering yourself up, Foolish, I’m sorry.”

“What? That’s crazy.”

Slowly, the tension in the room fades away as they all start cracking jokes. Some break off into groups, but never stray too far to keep an eye on the kids. The children play with each other, parents making sure to keep their kids’ aggression levels low and stepping in if one starts growling. It’s a peaceful kind of chaos. Life on the island may never be the same again, but at least they have each other.

Right?

[dizzybizz]

some doodles

[adhderall]

well as you can see besides being ugly as all fuck I'm also extremely bitter so that doesn't help at all in making me appealing. but it also comes with the territory you see, being treated as a hideous freak of nature for your whole life kind of does things to your psyche.

also going into shit in the tags as an extreeeemely jaded individual who's been on every side of the discourse and KNOWS it all VERY PERSONALLY so I know many people will find all sorts of different reasons to hate me (if they want ig) because I'm ~politically homeless~ at this point because I'm sick and tired of everything but whatever

(also fuck I ran out of space in the tags so another post maybe idk. )

[calliopeebles]

inspired by the fact that i was talking about berdly on discord the other day and i later realized i was using my headcanons for him to talk about growing up autistic

[anaalnathrakhs]

btw my mom said it. she said it to me looking me in the eyes. i told her about how difficult it was for me to get through those family reunions, and she admitted it was very important to her, important enough that she was just going to do it anyway.

[theophagie]

I'm not good at this staying away from social media on purpose thing. Anyway cringe diary time but whenever I'm with my friends and the partners topic comes up I'm left 🧍‍♂️ because oftentimes they lament things that honestly sound good to me... and then I reflect on what kind of relationship I would be comfortable in in general and go "mhhh yeah let's just be sympathetic and say nothing else right"

[jvzebel-x]

🦋

[daydreamerdrew]

Whiz Comics (1940) #66

[57sfinest]

I know this must be a weird ask, you don't have to respond if you want but how would a poly relationship work with Jean and Harry? Like in general, not really specifics about who is with them or anything just like how a dynamic would work when they are still in the very codependent relationship but then they both fall for the same person. Am I the only one who sees the similarities to Rene and Gaston(?), Like that's how their relationship will end up.

NOT A WEIRD ASK I LOVE WHAT-IFS

since you're specifying the codependency i'm assuming we're talking a pre-martinaise j/h so that's how i'll be answering. i can definitely see where you're coming from about rene and gaston with the whole "constantly bickering rivals who both repressed the fact that they loved the other" thing but i feel like describing j/h as "in love" (the way rene & gaston were described) is a little too generous for a relationship that is based first and foremost off necessity and convenience. however the end of the rene & gaston situation definitely feels like how j/h could have ended if they both lived to that age without killing themselves or each other.

anyway like... i can't see them being able to rope a 3rd person into their bullshit. not without heavy coercion or substance abuse or some complicating 3rd factor because they genuinely are so toxic and fucked up that idk who could possibly want to be in the middle of that. BUT if it did happen, you have to keep in mind that harry is in control in the j/h dynamic. jean can bitch and moan all he wants but at the end of the day, what harry says goes-- he's got tangible authority at work + he's a decade older than jean + that's just the way their personalities collide. so it doesn't actually matter if jean likes this hypothetical 3rd person: if harry wants them involved he's gonna get them involved. and i can't see jean as wanting anyone else involved, so it would almost definitely be harry forcing it with someone he likes and jean doesn't care for.

harry takes up all the oxygen in any given room so it's going to be jean + Hypothetical Third supplicating to harry, essentially, and jean is going to make it known that he is NOT happy about sharing, but he's gonna put up with it anyway because harry threatens to leave him if he doesn't (harry wouldn't actually leave jean, they're too deeply enmeshed, there's too much between them. but he has no problem threatening to.) and neither jean nor harry will ever say they're in a relationship because that would be GAY, but they sure act like it, because if one of them ever gets attention from anyone else, the other one will immediately get jealous and defensive and possibly try to drive that 3rd away. even if they managed to get a 3rd involved who they did both like, i still think they'd be like 80% about each other and maybe a generous 20% towards that 3rd, so the 3rd would have to tolerate that. i guess also calling back to rene & gaston yeah i could definitely see them trying to take the Hypothetical Third for their own, but they'd be doing that to make the other jealous, not because they actually wanted the Third. anything that happens with that Third will always have some element of "is he looking? what is he thinking? what is he feeling?" like in the end it will always come down to the two of them and no one else.

[plant-kin]

since queen of england kin drama isn’t immediately turning up in results, imagine this but real:

people were genuinely attacking each other to PROVE that they were the REAL queen of england. i think it took place on facebook but it was So Much that it got screenshot and put on tumblr.

tumblr kinnies may have found the desolate castle and turned it into a home, but there sure as fuck was a whole kingdom of this shit before us. fucking imagine.

[niuxita21]

Juan Carlos doesn’t believe me that we’re a couple. I know, Pablo doesn’t believe me, either. That’s why I think you should move in with me, that way they would have no choice but to believe us. [beat] I’m sorry, I know I was insensitive. I know you were really excited about Ferrán and you’re having a really hard time letting him go. But we have two very important reasons. We can’t split them up. We’re a family, regardless of who likes it. I know it’s been really hard for both of us having to lie to the people we love the most. Remember when our only choice was to be apart for a year. Yes, you’re right. I owe you an apology, too. I am willing to stick to the plan for our family. Thank you. I promise not to try to control everything and to trust you. 

[chemicalarospec]

.