Idk Why This James Pictures Even Exist, But I Love Them.

I mean it is pretty funny when the director or w/e of la la land is like “we had to fight SO HARD! to get this movie made”

you pitched a musical about LA to an industry based largely in LA starring two of the most famous people in LA what part was hard exactly?

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wtf

okay so I saw a post on Instagram saying that James Ransone and Jay Ryan are problematic and I'm genuinely confused. Can anyone tell me if this is true? And if it is, what did they do??

All I need is just one conversation like this

it’s getting chilly!!!

I love this

Texting Tom, a series based on my everyday moods; part 1

If it ain’t Tomdaya, then Whatdaya?

If these two are not dating, then who is Tom’s girlfriend then? The one he said pretty much existed when asked if he found his own Liz? And the one he mentioned to the fan in NY? And how come this girl never appeared in one picture with him thruout the year and he did not send one tweet her way, and how tolerant is this mysterious girlfriend that in his very limited time he went to NY to visit her, somehow he spent most of that time with Z and even visited Z’s Cover Girl shoot? How patient this ghost, mystery girlfriend is. Show her to me and I will give her a pushover medal.

And let’s look at the other corner: Z’s bf. You know the one that is NOT Tom apparently. Well, it ain’t Val, because he has his own thing going with another woman. So, who is this mystery boyfriend that she is so comfortable with that she sent the most unflattering pic of her face from extreme closeup when she is sick and her face is swollen? Who has she gotten that close with? Where is this bf when Tom is visiting her family during Thanksgiving? Where is he in any pic or in any tweet she posts or likes???

COME ON, people!!! Show me ONE sign of those mystery girlfriend and mystery boyfriend and I will shut up.

cinematic parallels

i’m still baffled by the producers’ decision to hire an actress who is white, pro-trump, anti gun control, AND CAN’T EVEN SPEAK SPANISH to play the character of Olivia: a Spanish-speaking Latina whose parents were deported and is the victim of gun violence. My mind really just cannot process this.

He didn’t intend to say it.

He’d been toying with it the last couple of weeks, rolling it around silently in his mouth, just trying it out.

(He’d whispered it out loud, just once, in the mirror.)

(Maybe twice.)

It was too soon to say it. Mary had only been dead for six months. He and Rosie were only sleeping at Baker Street once or twice a week. He was maybe two months into what would probably be a lifetime of therapy to cope with his anger issues and his betrayal issues and his trust issues and his sexuality issues and fuck, he had a long way to go.

It was too late to say it. He’d let so many chances go by. Even now, after everything–after Moriarty and the Fall; after Mary and Magnussen and the tarmac; after Smith and the morgue and Eurus and the hug–he still didn’t know what to do. Because despite “it’s always you, John Watson” and “the man you have saved” and “that’s why he stays”, John was afraid. He was afraid that he wasn’t the man Sherlock saw. He was afraid he never had been, and even more afraid that he never would be.

So he wasn’t going to say it. Not yet. Not till things were a little more…settled. He’d told Ella as much not thirty minutes before, and had felt certain about the decision the whole way home in the cab.

A low rumble of laughter drifted down the stairs as he closed the front door behind him, followed by his daughter’s shrill shriek of joy. He took the stairs slowly, wrapped up in the sound of their voices, so comfortable together. So…right. (Not yet. Not yet. Soon.) He opened the door to the flat and froze, his field of vision narrowing to the two people standing in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock was wearing slim black trousers (finally filling them out again after months of John and Mrs. Hudson trying to feed him up) and the deep sapphire shirt that had narrowly edged out John’s old purple favorite to currently hold the number one spot on the mental list of favorite Sherlock clothes he would never admit to having. He had Rosie propped on one hip before the mirror and his other hand held her favorite stuffed bee, which he was currently flying about both of their heads while making a buzzing sound low in his throat. Every once in awhile the bee would “land” on Rosie’s flower-printed pajamas. Rosie would fling her arms out in an ineffectual attempt to catch the bee, the bee would “fly away,” and the laughter would follow.

They were the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

John watched a few more rounds of this, his heart expanding every time, before Rosie spotted him in the mirror. “Da!” She burst out, flailing one arm in his direction. Sherlock looked up, surprised, and their eyes met in the mirror.

“Not often I catch you by surprise,” John managed as they turned to face him. Sherlock’s cheeks flushed, and he waggled the bee.

“Bees, John. Very…diverting.”

“Bee!” Rosie yelled, and Sherlock handed it to her. She held the bee in both arms and dropped her head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Very good enunciation, Watson,” Sherlock said, and his now empty hand automatically came up to slide gently over the back of her head. “You’re becoming an excellent apiculturist.”

“I love you.”

John felt his own mouth drop open as he saw Sherlock’s do the same. He watched Sherlock look to Rosie, and then back to John, as if tracking the path of his gaze. John felt an unexpected calm begin to settle over him now that the words were out, so he stepped a little closer and tried it again.

“I love you, Sherlock.” He took a deep breath. “I have loved you so long I hardly remember a time when I didn’t, and I have been waiting to tell you. For years!” His voice broke on the last word, and he cleared his throat. He would get this out. “And now I have been waiting, again, trying to figure out if I can be the person you want me to be. The person you seem to think I am. But…I am, already, aren’t I? You’ve always seen exactly who I was, and loved me anyway.” He felt a grin begin to spread across his face. “Sherlock. You love me.”

Sherlock, who had been silent and staring through his entire speech, nodded. His beautiful eyes were bright and his hands held John’s daughter with unwavering strength and care, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, and deep, and sure. “Yes, John. I love you.”

It wasn’t too soon.

It wasn’t too late.

It was what it was, and what it was was good.

And now.

And always.

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