#slight arguments

[ollieofthebeholder]

And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 50: Too short a century of dreams, One day of work sufficient length

“I’m not hungry.”

“Tough. You’re eating something. I don’t care if you spend the whole time peeling a single grape as long as you eat it before we leave.”

“What if I made you peel it for me?”

Gerry’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “If it gets you to actually eat, I’ll do it.”

Tim gave him a quizzical look, but he didn’t say anything else. Gerry decided to take that as a victory.

It was still that between time that couldn’t quite decide if it constituted early morning or late night. The stragglers from the bars had either made it home safely, been arrested and taken to holding cells, or been scraped off the streets and transported to hospitals or morgues as needed; the night shift was still on the clock; the day shift had not yet awakened. It was the time of day that Tim’s friend Rook in Los Angeles had referred to as the liminal hours—a time when the world seemed just slightly to the left of reality. London never truly slept, but this was probably the quietest it ever really got. Nobody would really call it peaceful, but it was certainly less hectic than the daytime.

Gerry pulled into a parking spot in front of an all-night diner. Its name and decor, visible through the windows, indicated that this one was run by an expatriate American, and for some reason he felt like that fit the current mood. It was fairly empty, save a pair of uniformed beat cops evidently on their lunch break, a balding man in a tattered dressing gown absently nibbling at a bit of toast as he scribbled away in a notebook, and a young person of indeterminate gender with green hair, a frazzled look, and papers spread over every part of the table in front of them that was not occupied by a coffee cup. It would be a perfect place for them, whether they actually talked about what they’d just learned or not.

They slid into a booth near the back of the diner. The waitress came over, handed them two menus, and poured them each a cup of coffee without asking, then drifted off with the pot to give them time to look over. Tim raised an eyebrow. “Guess they don’t get many people this time of day not ordering coffee.”

“Guess not. Hope you weren’t planning on going back to bed.”

Tim shook his head. “Gertrude Robinson, much like Macbeth, has murdered sleep.”

Gerry hesitated. He didn’t know why he was so reluctant to admit this, but…he was. On the other hand, there was every chance Tim would just know it already, so he might as well say it. “I’ve—I’ve actually never read Macbeth. Or any Shakespeare, really. I’ve read that one Discworld book that borrows from Shakespeare, but I don’t think that counts.”

“I do. At least in getting the gist of the plots. And hey, at least I know what to get you for your birthday.” Tim gave Gerry a crooked smile. “It’s part of a conversation Macbeth and his wife have after he starts going fully round the twist. ‘Methinks I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep.”’” He sighed. “I was done sleeping for the night anyway, I think, but I really don’t want to go back to bed now.”

“How much are you…sleeping these days?” Gerry asked, carefully. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the answer.

Tim, however, shrugged. “About the same as I always have. Honestly, maybe better? I’m certainly a lot less likely to wake up screaming than I used to.”

“That’s not nearly as comforting as I think you wish it was.”

“How are you sleeping?” Tim asked. “I don’t…it’s harder to wake me up than I think it used to be, so if you’re tossing and turning, I’m missing it.”

“Mostly I’m sleeping okay,” Gerry said slowly. “Not so much last night, but…usually it’s okay. Just…that tape was going around in my head, you know?”

“Yeah, I get what you mean. It was a lot for me, and it wasn’t anyone I knew. I can’t imagine how I’d have felt if that had been Nonno, or Danny. It’s bad enough hearing Gertrude’s voice some days, but at least she didn’t suffer like that.” Tim was quiet for a moment. “Or at least she never made a statement about it.”

The waitress came back, pen poised over pad, and gave them both a look that clearly indicated that if they didn’t order something, she was going to have them thrown out for wasting her time. Gerry pointed to a couple things at random on the menu; Tim requested something that sounded similar enough to what he’d usually got in the sorts of diners they’d gone to on their American jaunt—God, had it really only been two years since Gertrude died? Felt like an eternity, and at the same time no time at all—and the waitress took their menus and whisked off, bawling to the kitchen for “two dots and a dash with a B&B and Jayne Mansfield with a mystery in the alley”.

“Is that an actual thing people do?” Gerry asked, more to himself than anything. “I don’t remember anyone doing it when we were actually in the States.”

“Some places do, but most don’t anymore.” Tim took a sip of his coffee and nodded in absent approval. “I think here it’s mostly a bit, you know?”

Gerry hummed. “I’d ask you what they meant, but I don’t want you to have to…you know. Know stuff.”

Tim looked amused. “Do you not know what you ordered?”

“Not really,” Gerry admitted. “I just picked something.”

“I thought it was weird that you got a tall stack of pancakes and a side of hash. Shame they don’t have scrapple on their menu.”

“Hey, you have to admit, that was pretty good.”

“It wasn’t something I’d have asked about at every diner we went to after we left Philadelphia, but yeah, it was pretty good,” Tim acknowledged.

Gerry added a dollop of creamer to his coffee and picked it up, but didn’t drink it. After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Are we safe?”

Tim nodded. “For now. I don’t think he sees me as a threat, honestly—at least not yet, or maybe not anymore. Might be because Jon’s not in the Archives, so I’m not constantly hovering around him, disrupting whatever Jonah’s plans might be.” He paused, then added, “Might also be because he was able to ‘break through my defenses’ the other day, so he thinks I’m not as powerful as he was maybe afraid I was…Jesus, was that just two days ago? It’s been a hell of a week.”

“Yeah, I know.” Gerry set the coffee down. He’d get to it eventually, but not right now. “In that case…what are we going to do? Not right this second, obviously, but…you know, in general. Do we have a plan?”

“An intention, maybe.” Tim’s eyes went vacant, but at least they didn’t start glowing, which Gerry supposed was a win. “We’ve got to figure out about the Unknowing. And…a lot of other things. Fuck.” He twisted the ring around his finger. “And I don’t know that I can properly think about them if I’m worried constantly that we’re going to be…observed. So I think our first order of business is going to be finding somewhere we can suss this out without risk of discovery or exposure.”

Gerry pursed his lips in thought. He was still thinking when the waitress returned—remarkably quickly—with two steaming plates. She plunked them down without ceremony and bustled off to check on the uniformed officers. Tim picked up the strip of bacon, which was done to a black crisp, and snapped it in half. “You want some, or are you happy with your hash?”

“I’m good.” Gerry picked up his fork and waited until Tim popped part of the bacon in his mouth before he took a bite himself. “You know…there’s always the tunnels.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. “The tunnels?”

“Under the Institute.”

“I know which tunnels you’re talking about. Just…do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Mostly for the same reason you think it is, babe. It’s cut off from the Eye.” Tim cut into his egg with the edge of his fork, letting the yolk bleed across the plate in a way that Gerry was remarkably familiar with. “Which, yes, will help us keep…Elias from seeing what we’re doing, but it’s also probably going to end up limiting how much I can do. Or how long I can be down there before I start getting…wibbly.”

Gerry shrugged. “There were parts you were okay in while we were…oh. Yeah, that would mean he can see you, wouldn’t it?”

Tim chewed thoughtfully on a piece of egg. Swallowing, he said, “Maybe. There’s one spot I think Elias can’t see that I’ll be okay, but…it’s risky.”

“Like everything else we do. Where?”

“As close to the Archives as we can get.” Tim met Gerry’s eyes. “I usually feel stronger when I’m…within shouting distance, I guess. Close enough that I can get up there if I’m needed. Which is stupid, because we’re not going to be doing this when anyone’s up there, but I feel like it’s the only way I can reasonably expect to be okay.”

“Okay, so where’s the risk?” Gerry asked. “Walk me through this, Tim. Pretend I’m an idiot.”

Tim set his fork down. “I’m not going to pretend you’re an idiot, because I feel like you’re actually implying that you are an idiot and I told you to knock that shit off. The risky part is the…Not. I’m pretty sure it’s down there somewhere.”

Gerry’s stomach lurched. “Maybe it’s dead. Maybe Jon killed it. Or maybe whoever…or whatever killed the old man killed it.”

“I don’t think it can be killed, honestly. You’d need a Hunter.” Tim ran a hand through his hair. “But it hasn’t come up into the Archives yet. I sort of surreptitiously checked a couple of the old tapes yesterday, so I know Melanie and Martin are still…them, and Jon’s voice sounds like I remember.”

“Also you haven’t torn London apart brick by brick to avenge his death.”

“Also that,” Tim agreed. “Still. If it’s still nearby, it’s in the tunnels but staying there. For now. I’m just worried that it’ll scent us out and…follow us, maybe? Like me being there might break some kind of seal…like whatever was on the room Gertrude’s body was in.” His voice cracked a little at that. “I can’t let it into the Archives again, Ger. I can’t put them in that kind of danger.”

Gerry was silent for several moments, partly because he was trying to cope with far too many pancakes—he really should have paid attention to what he was ordering—but partly because he was thinking. Maybe a little because he was watching Tim eat.

“What?” Tim said, a bit indistinctly, since his mouth was full of toast. He swallowed hard and studied Gerry in obvious concern. “Do you want some? I’ll trade plates with you if you’d rather have eggs and toast. I can choke down the pancakes.”

Okay, maybe a lot because he was watching Tim eat. Gerry felt his cheeks get hot, and he forced himself to look away. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Uh, I—I don’t think you have anything to worry about there. Not as long as we go at it from a different direction, you know? Like, as long as you’re not going in and out the steps to the Archives themselves, whatever seal might be there is still intact. And you never know, you might go down there and realize there’s not something like that there, and the Not is avoiding the Archives for a wholly different reason. Like because you’re there. You did almost catch it, after all.”

Tim’s face collapsed. “Not almost enough.”

“Hey.” Gerry reached across the table and covered Tim’s hand with his own. “The Stranger is called I Do Not Know You for a reason, okay? You knew something was up, enough to protect Jon. And Martin. You did what you could.”

“I wish I could fully believe that, but…thanks, Ger.” Tim took a deep breath. “Right. Let’s finish eating and go home.”

“Not to the tunnels?”

“We need supplies.” Tim speared another piece of egg. “And I think we should take the dog.”

Having Rowlf with them did make them stand out a bit less than they probably would have otherwise, not that it was that busy on a Saturday, even in Chelsea. He was definitely interested in the tunnels, too, sniffing enthusiastically as they walked, tail wagging madly, far too enthusiastic, in Gerry’s opinion, considering they were underground. Every once in a while, he paused and stared intently at a tunnel wall, ears perked and tail stiff.

Gerry told himself he was probably just hearing rats behind the walls, but he didn’t entirely believe himself.

Something clattered under his foot, and he froze, hand tightening around Tim’s. “What was that?” he half whispered, trying to swallow down the panic.

Tim glanced down at the ground. “Wine bottle. Look.”

Gerry remembered he was holding the torch and angled it in the correct direction. Sure enough, rolling to a stop against a bit of wall was a pale green glass bottle, slender and long-necked with a nearly flat bottom. He tilted his head to one side, studying it. “Looks like a hock, or maybe an Alsace. Someone’s been down here drinking?”

“Not anybody in the Archives. Martin’s not a drinker and Jon prefers reds.” Tim let go of Gerry’s hand and bent to retrieve the bottle, studying the label. “Tokay Pinot gris. You were right, it’s Alsatian, and it’s got to be ten to twenty years old. They stopped using the Tokay label in 2007 to keep from confusing it with the Hungarian wine, and before 1994 it would’ve been Tokay d’Alsace.” He set the bottle down carefully to one side. “Maybe the old man who got murdered was…shit. I’ll bet he was living down here. Remember that time we were down here and I swore I heard something moving around? Bet it was him.”

Gerry looped his arm through Tim’s and started leading him on again. They had to get to a good place to set up before he started getting woozy. “They still don’t have any ideas on who it was, do they?”

“Don’t think so,” Tim said. “At least Martin didn’t say they did. I know it was someone who used to help Gertrude from time to time, and I know it was someone I wasn’t supposed to know about, but that’s about it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she never mentioned him, babe. I only saw him a couple of times, and Gertrude acted like she’d been alone every time I came in, so I clearly wasn’t supposed to know he was there. He was just some pathetic old man.”

Gerry snorted. “Almost sounds like the guy I thought was Leitner, until I really got a look at him.”

Tim hummed. “Have you ever considered that maybe you hyped Jurgen Leitner up to be a bigger, badder, more impressive villain than he actually is?”

“Most things I’ve encountered have been pretty big and badass.”

“Yeah, but how often do you deal with things that are still people? Most of the people who get involved in this shit are just weak, pathetic morons.” Tim tugged at the lead. “Rowlf, leave it.”

Rowlf complied, though he didn’t seem happy about it. Gerry sighed. “Maybe I want him to be a badass because I don’t want to admit that a weak, pathetic moron ruined my life.”

“Maybe you’re blaming him for things you should actually be blaming your mother for.”

“Maybe we should stop talking for a bit.”

They fell silent for probably another ten minutes, until Tim suddenly drew in a deep breath and straightened up. “We’re close. Start looking for a good room. Preferably one with a door.”

“Here’s a door.” Gerry seized the handle and opened it, revealing…flat grey stone. “Okay, it is a door. But that’s it. I assume you want a door with a room as well as a room with a door.”

“Pretty much, Daffy.” Tim evidently caught the look Gerry gave him and clarified, “Daffy Duck. Old cartoon from the forties…it’d take too long to explain the plot, but just know that the punchline at the end is ‘Hey, bub! You need a house to go with this doorknob!’” He sighed with what sounded like mingled nostalgia and regret. “It was one of Danny’s favorites.”

“We’ll have to dig it up sometime, but meanwhile, let’s keep looking around.” Gerry shut the door—why, he couldn’t say—and moved on.

It was maybe another five or six minutes before Rowlf scratched eagerly at a door, and Gerry opened it to find that, indeed, there was a room behind it. “Good boy,” he told the spaniel, who barked happily and wagged his tail. He scratched him behind the ears before stepping into the room and sweeping it with the torch. “This look good to you, Stoker?”

Tim stepped into the room and studied it, then nodded. “Yes, I think this will do nicely.” He shut the door behind them, unclipped Rowlf’s lead, and fished around in their supplies until he found the collapsible dog dish and a bottle of water.

Once Rowlf was occupied, they busied themselves with setting up. A table and chairs would have been nice, but there’d been no way to subtly carry one in; fortunately, there were a few empty crates scattered about, for some reason, which would make decent enough seats if they didn’t opt to just sit on the floor. Instead, Tim pulled out several squares of cork board and a roll of double sided mounting tape and proceeded to stick up a makeshift bulletin board, while Gerry hung a small battery powered lantern from a convenient protruding nail—it spat out a surprising amount of light for its size—and pulled out a stack of index cards from the bag. He looked at Tim curiously. “Are you going to leave the folio from Gertrude here?”

“No. I don’t think anyone’s going to come down here and find this, but if they do, I want them to think it’s Jon that set it up. And I don’t want to lose anything. The folio stays with me.” Tim pointed at the cards. “But I made typewritten copies of the highlights.”

“Why do I feel like we should have bought some red string while we were at it?”

“Red string is for conspiracy theorists.” Tim reached into the bag and came up, smirking, with a plain white ball in his hand. “Real theorists use the pure stuff.”

Gerry shook his head fondly. “You’re a nut. Right, how do we want to organize this?”

Tim shook his head in reply. “We don’t. Not yet. Let’s just get the cards up there, then we can start organizing. That’s why they’re pinned to a cork board, right? So we can move them around.”

“Good point,” Gerry allowed. “Okay, then, let’s get them up there.”

It took them a while, and most of a box of thumbtacks, but they finally got all the cards Tim had brought up on the board. Gerry grimaced at it. “Well. This is…even more confusing. And I think we’re going to need a bit more space.”

Tim shrugged. “Well, we’re set up now, at least for starters. We can get more panels and set them up before we really start digging into this.” He studied the cards. “We just…we need to figure out where the start of it is.”

Gerry slid his arm around Tim’s waist and hugged him, also studying the board. Words jumped out at him—circus and masks and skin and dancer—and none of them built up to a coherent picture. “Maybe we should start where we ended. With Gregor Orsinov. Or maybe we need to listen to a couple more tapes.”

“Mm. I don’t want to bring the whole box down here. They’re safer in the flat…maybe we can grab a couple and come back here to listen to them. But we’re going to have to start putting this puzzle together sooner or later.” Tim sighed. “At least there are a few edges in here, but someone needs to hand us a corner.”

“The answers are out there. We just need to find them.”

“Speaking of answers…” Tim glanced sideways at Gerry. “Mind telling me why you were staring so hard at me at the diner? And why you got so nervous when I offered to trade meals with you? You know, since we’re down here where we can’t be overheard or spied on and no one will know if we get in a fight.”

“Rowlf will. And I don’t want to fight with you.” Gerry did step away from Tim, though, and turn to face him, because Tim definitely wasn’t going to want to touch him when he said this. “I, uh…I was worried, a little bit. When you said you weren’t hungry. I…look, I know it’s dumb, and I know it was probably stress, but I, I got worried that maybe you didn’t…need to eat?”

A sad look came into Tim’s eyes. “Oh, Gerry.”

Now that he’d said it out loud, Gerry found he couldn’t stop. The words spilled out of him. “I know you’re not a monster, or an Archivist, or anything like that, but, but we both know you’ve been getting these powers and things have been getting bad for a while. You’ve compelled and threatened and Known and there’s been a lot of Ceaseless Watching going on, and then you said what you said when we were at Lake Baikal about getting energy from the statements and, you know, I actually can’t remember the last time I saw Gertrude put anything in her mouth other than tea and maybe she just didn’t eat around us but even when we were on the road I never saw her eating and it was like sometimes she forgot I needed to and I—”

“Gerry, Gerry.” Tim stepped into Gerry’s space, cupped his face in his hands, and pressed their foreheads together. He didn’t kiss him, but the skin contact did effectively shut him up. “It’s okay. I understand. I’m…I’m glad you were worried about me.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. It shows you care. And it shows you’re not willing to write me off if I do start going down that route,” Tim said quietly. Gerry swallowed and wrapped his arms around Tim’s neck without conscious thought. “But I promise, I’m okay. I just wasn’t hungry yet, but like I said, as soon as I smelled the bacon and eggs I was practically drooling. If I’m honest, I worried about you a bit, even though you’re not…you know. I was afraid you’d be too upset and stressed about everything—between Gertrude and your dad—to want to eat and I’d have to force-feed you. Especially after you implied you’d be willing to skip eating if it meant feeding me.”

“I…might have been,” Gerry admitted. “Between Gertrude, and dad, and you, I was kind of too keyed up to want to eat until I saw you were.”

Tim hugged Gerry tightly. “Thank you. For watching out for me. Because to tell the truth, babe, if I do start getting that bad I’m pretty sure I’m not going to notice until it’s too late. So if you can stop me…”

“I don’t know if I can,” Gerry said honestly, settling his chin on Tim’s shoulder and—for the first time in what felt like days—relaxing against him. “But I promise I’ll try. And if you do go fully monster, I’ll still be there for you, as long as I live.”

“I should have known you were a monsterfucker.” Tim laughed and let go as Gerry shoved him away with a playful thump to the chest. “Come on. Let’s get Rowlf home and come back tomorrow. We’ve got the place set up. We can start really working on it later, but for now we both need a good long rest.”

[tackykachowch]

How it feels to not like timebomb after s2

[aventurineswife]

Reader speaks sometimes in their native language when they are frustrated/excited/in the middle of a rant switch languages. And it intrigues Aventurine, who secretly starts to learn the language too, just to listen in secret.

One day, maybe during a light argument between them, reader drops a cuss word that does translate to "f*** you" and aventurine takes this moment to reply, while grinning from ear to ear "oh? Youre offering for once?"

Stunned silence.

Reader starts freaking out in their native language while aven just stands there with that shit eating grin.

Established relationship. No, they never done the deed, but he wanted to catch reader by surprise, and he did. He so proud of himself.

“You think you’re clever, but just remember: I’m one step ahead”

Summary: You and Aventurine are sharing a relaxed afternoon, and a playful argument about his so-called "inspirational mess" turns into teasing banter. When your frustration leads you to mutter in your native language, Aventurine—who’s secretly been learning it—seizes the chance to tease you in return. Caught between embarrassment and laughter, you realize he’s been one step ahead, and Aventurine is all too proud of himself for the surprise.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Established Relationship, Fluff, Playful Banter, Lighthearted Argument, Language Barrier, Teasing, Humor.

Waring: Slight Swearing.

A/N: THIS IS SUCH A FUNNY REQ!! I LOVE IT HONESTLY!! 🤭 (As someone's who's native language is not English, this is very funny and cute at the same time🥹🤧like imagine your s/o learning your language just so you can communicate freely or learn what you have been saying 🤭🫶💖🥹)

You’re both lounging around his suite on a lazy afternoon, a stack of paperwork untouched as the conversation somehow spirals into an easy back-and-forth about each other’s quirks. It’s all lighthearted and playful, but it doesn’t take long before you’re teasing him for his incredibly deliberate way of never quite cleaning up his cards and dice, always keeping them just a bit scattered, “for inspiration,” he claims.

“Inspiration, huh?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Well, maybe my inspiration would be higher if I didn’t trip over your cards every time I’m here.”

Aventurine raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’m telling you, darling, you can’t rush art! It’s all about atmosphere.”

“Atmosphere?” you scoff, switching to your native tongue as you get more animated. “More like a mess that you just want me to overlook!”

He smirks, feigning offense. “My ‘mess’ is a masterpiece—unlike someone’s habit of muttering incomprehensibly every time they don’t get their way.” he teases, with that knowing look in his eyes. He’s clearly waiting for you to switch languages again.

You roll your eyes, slipping into your native tongue almost instinctively. “Maybe if you weren’t so infuriatingly full of yourself, I wouldn’t have to mutter at all.”

Aventurine chuckles, his grin only widening. “Full of myself?” he repeats, pushing back just enough to keep the mood light. “Look who’s talking—every time you walk into this room, you practically take over.”

“Take over? Oh, please,” you huff, slipping deeper into your language as you mutter, “if anything, I’m saving this place from turning into a pigsty.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for the right moment, and finally, you let slip a particularly choice phrase—a cuss word that, in your language, translates a little too directly to “fuck you.”

He seizes the opportunity, his face lighting up with a triumphant grin. “Oh? You’re offering for once?”

The world goes still. You blink at him in shock, the realization dawning as your mind scrambles. He understood you—completely. Your cheeks flush, and before you can help it, you’re sputtering in your native language, tripping over words and trying to make sense of how he even learned it.

Aventurine just stands there, that infuriatingly smug grin plastered across his face, arms crossed in satisfaction. “Surprised?” he drawls, clearly reveling in your stunned reaction. “Turns out you’re not the only one with hidden talents.”

You start freaking out, half-laughing, half-ranting in your language, swearing at him all over again. He just chuckles, standing back and drinking it all in, proud as ever for catching you off guard.

“Oh, please,” he says with a chuckle, “keep going—I’m starting to enjoy these rants.”

You cover your face, torn between embarrassment and laughter, and finally shake your head. “One day, I’m going to get you back for this.”

He leans closer, his voice low and challenging. “I’ll be waiting, darling.”

[gojoest]

tucked away and fucked raw bc you told satoru “do what you want” and what he wanted to do was you apparently

[underthetree845]

His Lady

Chuuya/fem pm! Reader Cws: pm fem! reader, mutual pining, getting together, alcohol tw, jealous chuuya, fluff, pent up emotions, light angst (little argument), reader is high up in the port mafia, reader flirts to get information (briefly), new years party, let me know if I missed anything! About 3.5k words Summary: What was being built up finally spills over at the new years eve party all the higher ups in the port mafia have to attend. A/n: So happy late new years I guess! I don't know I wanted to try a little something. Chuuya is so hard to figure out how to write- I did my best though! Black hearts divider credit // Red hearts divider credit.

You strode up to the grand staircase clad in your pretty crimson dress, the one gifted to you exactly one week prior. He told you that the shade would match his suit lining and tie. You didn’t question why he thought the two of you should match, but it proved impossible to stop thinking about leading up to the event. The boss’s sudden calling for an end of the year bash at the most luxurious banquet hall in town was suspicious to say the least, but with how often every executive and subordinate in the port mafia felt overworked, no one could find it in themselves to care. 

As a high-ranking member yourself, Mori had you preview the profiles of some of the guests that would be attending. You were sure your superiors were swamped with even more. The presence of an executive alone provided a statement. Who they chose to mingle with, who they pointedly ignored. 

Just as you were about to head inside, a familiar voice sounded from behind you. The word fell from his lips before he could stop it. “Damn,” he murmured. You spun around on instinct, and were met with the stormy blue pair of eyes you had grown so fond of; somehow all the more dazzling under the light of the moon.

“Chuuya,” you breathed, taking the time to soak in his appearance. Just as promised, his tie, suit lining, and even the handkerchief peeking out of his pocket were a deep scarlet. The way his gray vest hugged his body complemented his frame in a way that made your stomach do backflips. For once, Chuuya decided to step out into the world without the familiar pork pie that usually sat atop his head. It was a true blessing whenever you got to admire the way his hair fell to frame his face so artfully; what you wouldn’t give to run your fingers through it. 

Your breath hitched when you noticed the way his eyes raked over your form, and you had to clear your throat once for the man to blink back to reality. You could have sworn that the faintest tint of red adorned his cheeks. “...Could you be any more gorgeous?” Chuuya let out a low chuckle and suddenly you felt your face go hot. “I- uh-” you stammered for a moment before clearing your throat a second time, “Come on, let’s head inside, people are expecting us.” you turned and approached the entryway. Chuuya followed closely behind you, sharing a nod with the servant who held the door open. The hall was littered with specs of gold; spotlights, balloons, and crystalline chandeliers distorting light and scattering it around the room. Round, black-clothed tables formed the perimeter, each with a warm oil lamp sitting comfortably at its center. Expensive-looking tapestries hung between tall marble pillars against every wall, only further complementing the gold-traced designs etched into the molding. Servers wearing black bow ties and suits fluttered from table to table like honey bees in a garden, eager to serve their purpose with a near endless list of tasks. Your heels tapped lightly against the polished floor as you made your way inside, trying not to gape at the extravagant orchestra that played in the far corner. 

A long balcony wrapped around the perimeter of the room above your head with doors along the outer wall. It hung over a portion of the tables, shrouding them in shadow and contrasting greatly with the way the center of the hall was illuminated to create a slightly elevated dance floor. Clear glass made up almost the entirety of the walls above the balcony, creating a translucent dome that surely made for a very pretty picture on such a night. You and Chuuya found your way to a vacant table and it wasn’t long before you were approached by a waiter who requested that you provide your drink and food orders for the evening. “This place is breathtaking,” you commented, eyes still scanning over the venue. “I wanna know how much of our goddamn budget the boss spent on this,” Chuuya clicked his tongue and crossed his arms. He leaned back in his seat and you gave him a sympathetic smile. He sighed as he felt his resolve crumble away. It didn’t take long for your drinks to arrive. “S’ there anything you were looking forward to tonight?” Chuuya asked lightly, swirling around the wine in his newly-acquired glass before taking a sip. You paused for a moment. “...You mean, other than the huge New Years Eve bash being thrown by the mafia in, like, literally the most high class place I’ve ever stepped foot in?” “I mean, what were you hoping to get out of the evening?” Chuuya mused, “How’re you hoping to end this year?” Well. 

“Oh… I’m not really sure. Honestly it’s pretty nice already to get to enjoy this place,” you smiled bashfully, bringing the rim of the wine glass to come into contact with your lips. Slowly, your head tilted back, allowing the chilled liquid to slide down your throat. The Dolcetto was rich and sweet, refreshing and left an herbal tang on your tongue. Appreciating the complexities of wine had gotten easier since meeting Chuuya. “I know of a few more places like this, if you’re interested,” Chuuya offered nonchalantly, “I could always use some company.” Your head snapped in his direction. “...Seriously? You would?” he couldn’t help but admire the small glimmer in your eyes. “Yeah, if it’d make you smile like that, I’d do it every week,” he replied with a grin. You leaned back in your seat with a new thrum of excitement in your chest. “What about you, Chu?” you inquired curiously, “Were you hoping for anything special tonight?” Now it was Chuuya’s turn to pause. The longer he looked at you, the harder it was to deny the growing ache in his chest. Being around you was one the thing he had always been waiting for yet he never knew he needed. He wanted to be able to come home to you after a long day. To show you how much you meant to him. To open his eyes and have you be the first thing coming into his focus on a Saturday morning, knowing that neither of you have to get out of bed. He would take you anywhere your heart desired, hand you the world on a silver platter if he could. “To be honest Y/n,” he started, “the best part of tonight is-” “Ah, to meet you at last, Mr. Nakahara!” a lively voice sounded from your left. It belonged to a stout man, maybe a few centimeters taller than Chuuya, who gripped onto the lapel of his suit with both thumbs and stood with one leg out. The executive looked over to study him for a moment. “Oh,” you saw Chuuya’s eyes flicker with recognition, “Mr. Penrod, I’ve heard a lot about you.” He put on one of his business smiles and stood from the table as you watched with intrigue. Atop Penrod’s head sat a suspiciously lopsided fluff of black hair, mostly brushed back in an effort to emulate elegance. Penrod’s eyes flickered from yours back to Chuuya’s and his expression changed. “Ah, forgive me madam,” he turned to you with a slight bow, “Would you allow me the pleasure of knowing your name?” “Ah, it’s L/n Y/n, and the pleasure is all mine,” you stood with a polite curve of your lips and shared a handshake with the man, which he prolonged for a moment longer than what would have been entirely comfortable. “Mr. Mori just sent me your way, Mr. Nakahara sir,” Penrod brought his hands together with an amiable grin, “I believe there are certain matters of due time for us to discuss.” It was clear who he intended to share the discussion with and who he did not. Not that it really bothered you; he wasn’t on the profile list Mori gave you anyway. “Would you mind if I stole you away from your lady for a brief time?” “‘Course not,” Chuuya replied, turning to you for a moment, “You don’t mind, do you, Y/n?” “I- no, not at all,” your voice wavered slightly. Chuuya nodded. Your eyes trailed the pair until they disappeared into the crowd, and you slumped back in your seat. The flutter in your chest was impossible to suppress. There was a single thought running through your mind: Why didn’t Chuuya correct him? 

-

One hour left. Lipstick stained the rim of your wine glass, and your second and your third. A plate of appetizers sat mockingly on the table, long since left to go cold. Taking one more glance at the empty seat to your right, you decided that waiting any longer would prove to be a waste of your time. You caught several stares as you made your way through the sea of people, eyes filtering the crowd for any face you could recognize. At last, you spotted a man standing at the bar with sharp blue eyes and blonde hair straight as a pin. It has been slicked back, and he appeared to have a habit of running his right hand through it every so often. You let out a sigh, put on your best sugary grin, and strode over to tap the shoulder of the man’s navy suit. He turned his head, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes studied the contours of your body and face before a suave smile settled on his lips. The feeling that formed in the pit of your stomach was so different from the one you got when Chuuya looked at you that way. The man’s name, as you pretended not to know as he introduced himself, was Yamamoto Taishi. He was twenty six years old, a recent graduate of the finest college of finance and business relations in the country, the youngest son of the chairman of banking relations in Japan, and, as you quickly discovered, stupidly easy to win over. All it took was a few feathery touches up his arm, batting your eyelashes, taking one step closer, and you had him on the barstool next to you, babbling away in intricate detail about all the deals he was to handle alongside his father with flushed cheeks and breath that reeked of whisky. Little did you know, a certain redhead across the room was having trouble not shattering his own whiskey glass to pieces at the sight. The way Yamamoto looked at you made his stomach turn unpleasantly. Calm down dammit, Chuuya told himself, It means nothing. You know that. “Isn’t that something, Mr. Nakahara?” a gentleman’s voice sounded from his left, and Chuuya snapped back to the conversation he no longer cared to be engaged in. “Without a doubt,” he voiced smoothly, “Actually, I wouldn’t mind hearing more. Do you think you could elaborate on the last part of what you said?” “Of course, back to-” Miyazaki started again. Or Minamoto, or Mitsuba, or whoever the hell the guy introduced himself as. 

Chuuya found himself unable to care as his gaze trailed back over to your form. He grit his teeth at the way the blonde man next to you seemed to be leaning closer and closer with every passing second. The moment the man decided to rest his hand on your thigh, what remained of Chuuya’s patience dissipated in a matter of seconds. Murmuring something about excusing himself to the restroom, Chuuya abandoned his glass on a nearby table and tried to calm the stinging feeling under his skin as he swiftly approached the scene. Thirty minutes left.  “Ah, there you are, Darlin’, I was looking for you,” you recognized his voice instantly; before you could even process what he said, you felt his gloved hand snake around your waist to rest low on your hip. Chuuya’s cologne invaded your senses when his form leaned into yours, your heart giving an involuntary stutter. He eyed down the man still sitting in front of you; you’d be embarrassed to admit that you forgot the blonde existed for a moment. Retracting his grip from your thigh, Yamamoto leaned one elbow on the bar and upturned his chin to give Chuuya a sneer. “And who are you supposed to be? You’re kind of intruding.” “Yeah, Chuuya, what exactly are you doing?” you questioned. He ignored the implication in your tone. “You shouldn’t be fooling around with guys like this,” Chuuya turned his head to look at you and you struggled to place the emotion in his eyes, “you’re out of their league.” Yamamoto’s frown deepened. “And just who are you to claim that? The way I see it everyone gets a fair shot,” he retorted. “I’d just rather have my lady not waste her time on…” Chuuya gave the man a once over, “a man so clearly lacking the ability to treat her the way she deserves.” “You didn’t answer my ques-” Yamamoto tried to object again but Chuuya cut him off. “Anyway, we’d better get going, don’t you think so, Gorgeous?” Chuuya grinned at you, and you found your protests weak as he slid his hand down to grasp yours and lead you somewhere the air was quieter.

The hidden staircase had been cut from a gray granite; it spiraled left as you ascended. You barely got to take in the view of the ball from above before Chuuya swung a door open that led you outside. Twenty minutes left. The cool air on your skin did little to quell the heat bubbling underneath. You swore to yourself that you would refuse to leave the balcony until the executive gave you some clear answers.

Chuuya released your hand from his grasp but kept walking until he reached the polished railing overlooking the city and port of Yokohama. He leaned against it with a sigh, looking out onto the horizon as a thick silence filled the air.

“So, will you explain, or do I have to ask?” you started slowly, stepping up to meet him. He turned to look at you, his eyes deep and filled with thought. “What’s there to explain?” he sighed, turning to face you and leaning his hip against the railing, “Last time I checked, you’re not an idiot.” “That’s-” you let out a breath, “that’s besides the point. It’s still something that should be said.” “What is?” Chuuya’s grip on the railing tightened. “Why you acted like that with Taishi back there,” you attempted to prod, “I was just trying to squeeze information out of him. You know that, you were doing the exact same thing.” “Oh, so you’re on a first name basis with the gentleman now?” Chuuya scoffed slightly and you rolled your eyes. “First of all he insisted that I call him that, and second of all, buttering him up was the easiest way to get him to start telling me what I needed to know. Which I would have found out a lot more of, by the way, if someone hadn’t interrupted.” “I’d hardly call what you and I were doing ‘the same thing,’” Chuuya murmured, and you furrowed your brow. “And why not? The boss gave you a list too, right?” you placed a hand on your hip, “Profiles, attendees, individuals in possession of valuable assets. Yamamoto is quite the blabbermouth when he’s eager to show off.” “Freakin’ hell, I wasn’t the one...” Chuuya gestured to nothing, “gettin’ handsy with some goddamn court brat! From what I could tell there was a lot more than just an informational exchange going on there.”  “Why does that bother you, Chuuya?” you took a step closer, “You still haven’t answered my question.” Lowering his eyebrows, Chuuya brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and let out a sigh before crossing his arms. “You want me to spell it out for you or somethin’?” he looked at you again, defensiveness subtle in his tone. “Yes, Chuuya! That’s what I’ve been asking,” you replied, your eyes steady. Ten minutes left. “You want me to explain why I hate seeing you flirt around with other guys like that?” he scoffed slightly, annoyance bleeding into his voice. You noted the way he said 'other.' “I wasn’t flirting, that wasn’t real, you know that!” you insisted, but the man just continued. “You want me to explain why I can’t bear to see you making eyes n’ shit like that? Why I wish I could just keep you close?” Chuuya’s voice raised in volume. “For someone so direct you sure are being elusive about this, Chuuya,” you implored the man. “You want me to explain why I wanted to make sure we would match tonight? Why I bought you that dress that you look so… goddamn perfect in…” Chuuya clenched his jaw. “It’s because I want you to myself. It kills me that I can't tell if you care, and it kills me that I can’t seem to control myself around you.” “Chu, you-” you were about to cut him off but his fuse reached a boiling point. “I can’t control the fact that I love you, okay, Y/n?” he shouted slightly, “I…” he trailed off, and a deafening silence hung in the air. The flush that creeped into Chuuya’s cheeks rivaled the red of his hair. Five minutes left. Muttering a few curses under his breath, Chuuya turned to face the city lights down below, sliding his hands into his pockets. 

Chuuya had been drawn to you like a moth to flame. It wasn't right, your relationship was supposed to be professional, with you technically being one of his subordinates and all. Murder and death were common in the field you both worked in. His affection for you scared him. After all, what good things are meant to last? He wanted to protect you, he'd never forgive himself if he let such a beautiful soul be ripped from the world. Chuuya found that you were strong, kind, and no matter how many times you insisted otherwise, so much braver than he could ever be. He adored the way you always fuss over his injuries after a mission, even if it was the tiniest bruise. You deserved all the good things the world had to offer, and a small selfish part of himself hoped you could find it in him.

The man glanced your way and let out a sigh to find that you hadn’t moved from your position. “Listen… Y/n,” his voice was steady and quiet, “I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to…” “So…” you started, and Chuuya held his breath, “you were jealous?” Chuuya let out a few sputters and turned to face you again. Only then did he notice the tinted color of your cheeks. The way you clutched a fist to your chest and looked at him like no one and nothing else existed in the whole world. The smallest hint of hope flickered in your expression, and his heart did a backflip. “I… guess you could call it that,” he admitted with uncharacteristic hesitancy. It took a moment for you to voice your response. “...I would be jealous too,” you muttered, and although Chuuya caught what you said he asked you to repeat yourself. “What was that?” he took a step forward, blinking a few times. You took a deep breath. “If I saw someone flirting with you- or if I saw you ‘making eyes’ at someone else… I would get jealous too…” you felt heat crawl up your neck at your declaration. Chuuya looked at you like your head was on backwards. “And why is that?” his voice carried softly, neither of you taking notice of the muffled sound of voices counting down from inside. “Because I love you too Chu…” you spoke quietly but he still caught it. You could hear your heart pumping in your ears. Just as Chuuya was about to spill out a reply, a startling boom sounded from your left. You turned your head and sucked in a breath at the display. Eruptions of colored fire danced around each other in the night sky. They echoed through the air, creating ethereal reflections in the water off in the distance.

“Happy New Years, Gorgeous,” Chuuya’s tender gaze never left your face. You turned back to look at him, and in that moment, with the way the moon and fireworks illuminated your form, he swore the sight before him was the most breathtaking view of his entire life. A light breeze blew by, the echoing explosions from the fireworks somehow fading into the distance. He glanced down at your lips and, even if ever so slightly began to lean in. A fuzzy feeling started in your chest as you closed the gap. His lips were warm, you’d never grow tired of the way he held you, kissed you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. You murmured softly after you pulled away, gentleness laced in your expression. “Happy New Years, Chu.” 

A/n: Thank you for reading! I hope you can find many things that make you smile this year ^^

Tagging: @a-random-weeb @ringsofsaturnnnn

[juanabaloo]

there's not a single Ben Affleck movie that wouldn't be made better by casting Eliza Dushku in the Ben role. we've been robbed.

[rainystressed247]

Alternatively known as ‘when you accidentally worship your enemy’

[taraxippos]

The one 'THE TALK' adjacent thing that I remember having as a kid was a time where I was like, 4-5 years old and was playing with my dad and headbutted him directly in the balls with a full force running start. My parents had to sit down and explain what testicles were and how receiving blunt force impact upon them is very painful. Literally one of my earliest memories.

[wardensantoineandevka]

you're really annoying but in, like, a refreshing way?

I'm sincerely flattered, anon. I worked very hard to become really annoying. 💞✌️

[dawnthefox24]

*Irep,Wanda, and Cosmo in their human disguise with Angela and Marcus looking at a broken coffee maker in front of Dev,Hazel,Jasmine* Irep: So. Who broke it? I'm not mad, I just wanna know. Everyone:... Hazel:...I did. I broke it. Irep: No. No you didn't. Winn? Winn: Don't look at me. Look at Jasmine. Jasmine: What?! I didn't break it. Winn: Huh, that's weird. How'd you even know it was broken? Jasmine: Because it's sitting right in front of us and it's broken. Winn: Suspicious. Jasmine: No, it's not! Marcus: If it matters, probably not, but Angela was the last one to use it. Angela:*gasps as she looks at her husband* Liar! I don't even drink that crap! Marcus: Oh really? Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier? Angela: I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles. Everyone knows that, Marcus! Hazel:*doesn't like seeing her parents fighting* Okay let's not fight. I broke it. Let me pay for it, Irep! Irep: No! Who broke it!? Everyone:... Winn: Irep... Cosmo, Dev and Wanda been awfully quiet. Cosmo, Dev & Wanda:*very offend* rEALLY?! *Everyone starts arguing, while Irep is with Peri away from the drama happy from the chaos he caused* Irep: *on top of Peri purring as the fairy pets him as he confessed who really broke the coffee maker*I broke it. I burned my hand so I punched it. Irep: I predict 10 minutes from now they'll be at each other's throats with warpaint on their faces and a pig head on a stick. Irep: *grins as he purrs louder when Peri scratches him underneath his chin* Good. It was getting a little chummy around here. Peri:*scratches underneath his chin, not even amused that even happened* I have no words Irep...Just...okay.

[codemonki]

release the shackles of cringe, meet Abythos my Seapony Alicorn of the sea who's friends with Luna :3

(all jokes aside i'm puting her into an au w/ the princesses where Alicorns are more godlike and I'm reworking Opaline <333. Dont know if anything physical will end up on here but its fun!)

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The whole discourse about the privacy/secrecy/support thing has been sitting with me for a few days (I mean other than it always does to a certain degree) thanks to all the excellent discussion happening and I know I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said a million times before, but I think what we're seeing and what we're going to learn (e.g. from TTPD) is that it wasn't just the support issue, but how it was shown/handled.

We've all gone out of our way to show that introversion =/= lack of support. Someone can be shy, reserved, etc. and still show up for their partner, whether in public or at home. To chalk any of the differences up to the clash between introversion and extroversion is unfair to folks who count themselves among either tbh.

@thisisctrying said something the other day that hit the nail on the head about how if that support had been offered in private, there very well may not have been a Joever to begin with, or at least not at this point in time. (Sorry for loosely paraphrasing, and for namedropping you! Long time listener, first time poster.)

If this were a case where the "shy" partner said, "I am really uncomfortable with the spotlight personally and do not want to court it, but I will support you in your ambitions and offer you whatever you need to make them happen and make the glare bearable," I suspect that would have gone a long way to making Taylor feel seen and comfortable in pursuing her goals in the way that she now has. Again, that might have been more akin to the balance that seemed to have been struck around 2019 from what we can see, but even speaking in a general sense, there are lots of couples out there, celebrity or not, that have similar approaches where there are highly driven people and busy careers involved.

(A famous example being Dolly Parton's marriage. Tbh I know next to nothing about her and Carl, but she's always heralded as an example in this regard, because her husband is famously uncomfortable with the spotlight and hasn't accompanied her to public events in decades, but she's said that she never minded that because that was always work to her, and what was important was that he supported her in pursuing all her career goals and basically ensured she had a place to call home to return to at the end of the day.)

We're kind of in a brave new world with her current relationship because it felt like, at least at the start, we were maybe watching her figure out her boundaries in real time as to what she was comfortable with or not and adjust accordingly. Like so many have said, I fully believe the extreme privacy thing was initially driven by herself and her experiences in 2016, and she needed that quiet time to recover from all of the things and figure out how to exist in the world again.

Stating the obvious, it seemed like eventually privacy was equated with secrecy, turning the relationship and the celebrity into the elephant in the room and something to never be spoken of to the outside world. People are free to choose whatever works best for themselves and their relationships, and for some the separate public lives might work, but the “kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath” theme is all over her work and it’s clear that it’s a sore spot for her, because she’s been made to feel shame just for the life she leads so many times in the past.

What I’m trying to say is that it’s pretty obvious something Not Great was happening behind the scenes, which didn’t just amount to “she wanted to be a public celebrity and he wanted to be a private hermit.” (Also, in case anyone forgot, this is a person who also chose a public-facing career who also has to engage in press for it, but I digress.) As her career reached new heights post-folklore, if she had the support at home to do all the things without judgment and with encouragement, and in turn offer the same support to her partner, she may have very well lived just fine with that, not unlike Dolly Parton’s case.

By reading between the lines in all the press since, as well as comments on tour and general ~vibes~ with TTPD teasers, it seems like one of the issues was that that was likely not the case. There was all the stuff that we saw — the reticence to acknowledge each other in the media (particularly on one side), the lack of public support even at events at which they were both in attendance for their respective jobs, the great lengths they went to not to be photographed together at events they attended yet no problem taking pictures with other friends and coworkers, the jobs that separated them, the withdrawing from the public even for work accomplishments, etc. Which could all be manageable if a couple chooses to do so together and are not inherently a sign of trouble in themselves.

But what we’re seeing now I think is a reflection of the things we weren’t seeing then, and it seems to indicate some very deep hurt. (I know, call me Captain Obvious.) And like so many have been saying, it feels likely that that part of that hurt is rooted in that very lack of private support where a person would expect it from their partner. Obviously as a Taylor fan blog I’m going to be more inclined to understand her side of a story, but tbh, it’s also because… this is sooooooo common, and something I’ve experienced in my friend group. (@taylortruther is right when she says most breakups are the same one way or another lol.)

One partner is resentful of the other’s success, or resentful that the other’s priorities begin to evolve as new experiences unlock new goals, or feels the other’s ambitions are not worthy of pursuit, and coupled with perhaps their own struggles in the same domain, it’s easy to see where that can chip away at the other partner’s morale and faith in the relationship. I know I’m just speculating here, but I also don’t think it’s totally unfounded. (Again, because a) I’m picking up what she’s putting down and b) it happens to sooooooo many women even among us dull normals.)

With all the pointed mentions about how much Taylor feels supported in her current relationship and how she in turn loves to offer the same show of support to not only her partner but other loved ones, how she’s stepped out more in the last year to a whole host of events, how she’s mentioned feeling like she locked herself away for years and she’s just proud of her partner and happy she can show up for him even if the chaos around it is unsettling, it paints a picture of what perhaps was happening before last year.

To feel like you’re all alone in carrying the weight of the relationship (or burden of it), of twisting yourself into knots to accommodate the other person’s boundaries (or insecurities) but not feeling reciprocity for your own has to be so painful. (The idea that it may have been even darker and to have a partner not only be unreceptive to your own needs but even perhaps resentful/dismissive/belittling of them is even more painful to think of. I guess we’ll find out when TTPD comes out if that was the case, too.)

At a certain point, that lack of acknowledgement will force your hand to be able to reclaim yourself. And it feels like the further removed Taylor in particular is from it, the more she moves from being sad about the life she felt she gave up by leaving, to angry at the life she felt she was giving up by staying. Especially being in a relationship now where it seems like everything comes much easier, where she can be open about the person she’s with and show up for them, all the stuff that seemed as challenging as climbing Mount Everest in her past is nothing more than a molehill at best in her current life.

TL;DR: I don’t think it’s privacy that inherently spells doom for a celebrity relationship like this; it’s the mutual support and respect that does. If Taylor had felt that in the later years of her previous relationship, I think we could be seeing a different, though not necessarily unfulfilled, person right now in 2024, who’d be happy on tour but whose personal life would look a little different. But it seems like by losing that support she lost parts of herself, and we’ve seen her reclaim that in spades in the last year, and perhaps to degrees she didn’t even realize she could from before all the Bad Stuff started happening in her young adulthood.

I know this was extremely long-winded and unnecessary, especially about total strangers we only know through scraps fed through the media, but I just always bristle at this idea that issues like these boil down to “personality differences,” as though one person wants to live in a city and the other on a remote island, or some shit like that. The whole support (and gender tbh) issue is one that’s just very close to my heart because again, I have seen it play out with so many of my friends in long term relationships and marriages and I just think people in relationships (and women in particular in some circles) deserve better than to feel like they’re being, well, tolerated.

[anghraine]

Today's unhinged "good God I hate how much extreme generosity I'm expected to extend to the Peter Jackson films by people who make wildly bad faith arguments about things I like" rant:

I am very deeply tired of people insisting with zero evidence that of course the LOTR films are imperfect, but the difficulties of adapting LOTR are such that it wasn't possible for them to be better than they were—in, apparently, any respect. They just couldn't be done better, at all, because it was so hard to make something watchable at all.

This is always just like ... really? Really?? Just what prevented them from making better decisions about anything? What exactly made casting every actor of color as barely differentiated villainous hordes in the twenty-first century so necessary and unavoidable? The glamorization and vast expansions of battle scenes and insertion of "heroic" war crimes was the highest film as a medium could aspire to in the early 2000s because of what insuperable force?

What made it impossible to give Arwen a coherent character arc? The films could not have been made without the underlying assumption that most of the cast are NPCs who will only do the right thing, when they will, if prodded or manipulated or influenced by main characters? In what way is this an inevitability of adaptation or film that simply couldn't have been conceptualized differently, much less better?

There is zero explanation or justification for why any of this stuff (or the myriad other flaws) had to be that way and couldn't have been done better in any way at any point. It's just stated that the films that exist must be the best films that could have existed because they're the ones that do exist and are popular. QED.

That doesn't make any sense, though, and it doesn't convince anyone who doesn't already agree. The idea that they could not have been better in any way (including their worst quality, which again, is the extremely racist casting), that some force was preventing not only the actual filmmakers but any filmmakers that could possibly exist from doing anything better just seems patently absurd.

You can like them and respect what they did achieve without demanding that everyone buy into a baseless and irrational argument that their pop culture success means nothing about them could possibly have been done any better. Look, I was in my mid to late teens at the time. I remember the early 2000s quite well. It wasn't now, but we are not talking about an age so divorced from our own that any of these things were somehow fundamental to the media landscape.

There are ways in which the LOTR films were very good that were essential to their popularity then and now. This does not require anyone to accept that it was literally impossible for them to be better than they are or that some defense is required against every criticism of them ever.

I am not, incidentally, talking about removing Bombadil, an entirely understandable and defensible decision that the film defenders in my notes somehow always feel the need to bring up. I know that changes had to be made, that adaptation is not a word for word transcription, that it would always be a difficult text to adapt, that structurally minor elements had to go, that they are cinematically beautiful films that a lot of work and love went into. I know this. EVERYONE knows this, because for the last 20 years it's been impossible to criticize anything about them without being reminded. Their accomplishments, and their existence, do not mean that any choice made by the filmmakers must definitionally have been the right call and could not possibly have been better in any way.

[bluespring864]

the thing that makes these tennis controversies so difficult is always that we should be looking at the given situation as neutrally as we can - but that is not how we usually interact with tennis at all.

for better and for worse, tennis is something that's very emotional to us fans and (no matter how conscious some of us try to be of it) we end up projecting things onto these people and situations. and i don't think we can ever avoid that completely because most of the time, being emotional about it is what makes it so much fun!

we can try though, to be at least a bit more reflective and level-headed. and we can also try to be lenient with the ones who forget this in the heat of the moment, as difficult as that may be too

[killlerfang1]

My favorite thing about Clone Wars and Rebels is that they ALWAYS play the imperial march every time Anakin or Ezra feels slightly upset

[lavnderkiwi]

can't even lie...the crossbow prosthetic your inquisitor can have in one of the end cards for DAI looks awesome as shit. i know the inquisitor will be coming back (like how hawke came back in DAI) but i hope they give us the choice to either add a prosthetic or keep them without one.