Well if we got Thenamesh actor AU hurt we also should get a fluff and comfort fic after the stunt desaster, don’t you think? Thena looking after Gil and helping him <3
Thena knocked on the door, waiting patiently, worrying all the while. Even though Gil had been released from the hospital, he had still broken his arm clean through after their stunt had gone terribly wrong. Filming was even on break for a short while as he healed and as they rearranged everyone's schedules. They were filming what they could without him, and that included some of her solo scenes.
But it still left her with more free time to check on Gil, visit him, maybe do her best to lend a helping hand.
Even though it was just the bad luck of things (and the lack of checking on the status of their safety equipment), she still felt bad that it was him that had gotten hurt. The least she could do was bring him some groceries.
"Thena, hey!"
"Hey, Gil, I-"
"Sorry," he apologised, chuckling nervously as he shut the door behind her with his good arm. His injured arm was tucked against his chest--his bare chest. "I'm sorry to, uh, greet you in this state."
Thena just stared, trying to pick her jaw up and say something (anything!).
"They showed me how to get a shirt on at the hospital," Gil continued in a rush. For however embarrassed Thena was, Gil was obviously mortified. "I was trying to get it on when you knocked."
Thena nodded, choosing to look down at the bags in her hands as opposed to the very half-naked Gilgamesh in front of her. She was being silly, she knew. They weren't children, and not only was he in his own home, but he was also injured. It was just a torso--a very bare, very muscular torso.
"Sorry," he apologised again, eagerly scooping the bags up from her hands. "I'll go give it another shot. I'll be-"
"I can help," she volunteered before she could really remind herself just how stupid that was of her to offer. The blush in her cheeks only deepened at the look of gratitude written all over his face. "It must be painful to try and do yourself."
Gil sighed, still cradling his arm against himself. "I guess I wouldn't describe it as fun. They said it would get better as it heals. I can't walk around shirtless all the time."
He could--if he wanted. Thena bit down on the inside of her lip, "I suppose not."
"How's Sprite?" he asked in light conversation, walking up the stairs first to lead Thena to the bedroom.
"She actually made you a card," Thena smiled, handing it over as he paused on the staircase.
He smiled down at the small, simplistic piece of cardstock with a frowny face on it. "Dear Gil, I'm sorry your shattered your arm into a million pieces. That must suck the big one. Sprite."
"A true poet," Thena rolled her eyes at her sister's way with words. But when she looked at Gil again he seemed genuinely moved by the facetious little card.
He shrugged at Thena's skeptical look, holding the card gently, "it's sweet, in her own way."
Thena let out a faint laugh as they continued to Gil's bedroom. He had met her maybe once or twice at this point, but his understanding of her standoffish sister continued to warm her heart. "I suppose so."
Gil opened the door and immediately moved to the bed, where both his sling and his shirt had been abandoned in favour of letting Thena in. "I didn't make it very far."
"I can't imagine it's easy," Thena tilted her brows at him. She could clearly remember how heavy a dose of painkillers they'd given him immediately after the break.
Gil didn't remember it at all--that's how strong they were.
Gil offered her his own shy smile as he leaned his head down, moving his arm away from himself as far as he could.
Thena bunched up the t-shirt in her hands, scrunching it up and condensing the fabric as much as possible. She slipped his fist through the sleeve first, pushing it up to his shoulder.
Gil leaned down closer to her to let her get the neck over his head. Thena turned her head slightly, unable to take the feeling of his face being so close to hers. It was one thing when they were playing husband and wife in a scene--it was one thing to kiss her co-star when they were in character. It was another thing entirely to have Gilgamesh so close to her.
Gil blinked as she pulled the neck of the shirt over his head. He never noticed how much taller than her he was when she wasn't in heels, but he stood back up to his full height, letting her pull the shirt down once his other arm was in. Her fingers brushed against the muscles below his ribs and they both skittered a little further apart. "Th-Thanks for the help."
"Anytime," Thena murmured, twisting her hair around and around and around and then moving it to her other shoulder. She swayed a little on her feet before gesturing vaguely behind her, "the, um, groceries?"
"R-Right!" Gil put on a smile, determined to put his sweet co-star at ease. He certainly didn't feel at ease after parading around in front of her in just some grey sweatpants, but he could wallow in his embarrassment later. "Let me make us some lunch--since you're here!"
"Gil," Thena murmured as she followed him out again, "I can help. You shouldn't be pushing yourself."
"Hey, it's no trouble," he smiled, already halfway down the stairs again. "You were nice enough to bring them anyway."
It was true--she had even braved the grocery store for them. She could already imagine the rumours that were going to pop up if anyone found out that she had brought them here, but she would just have to deal with that later.
"At least let me help," she laughed and scolded him at the same time, joining him in the kitchen as he pulled items onto the counter individually. She held up a bunch of carrots (not having known what to get him but just grabbing whatever she thought he might like). "Sprite will tell you herself that I'm not much of a cook. But at least I can chop some things for you."
"If you insist," he allowed, reaching into the fridge both to put away new things and pull out some milk. "How about some bolognese?"
Thena smiled as he reached around her to set out more ingredients, the warmth from him clinging to her pleasantly. "Sounds perfect."
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because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.
you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.
you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.
don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.
if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.
you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:
how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!
aren't you happy yet?
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The fanfictions are infecting me with brainrot oh my god have some au doodles before I explode
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I have SO many thoughts about everything and they are in no kind of order yet, so here's just some quick little bits in the meantime!
I am not normal about any of these characters!
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When you say “opposites attract” what does that mean?
I mean that their personalities are (mostly) opposite. Which is why the initial attraction was so strong, but also why they were unable to work things out when those differences started getting in the way of their relationship.
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society is spiraling and culture is a wasteland. i know this because i looked and most people prefer things that are fun and easy, making fun and easy things extremely popular. this is the first time that's ever happened, historically.
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holy quintet looks kind of different
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One of the most generally useful things to come out of Hbomberguy's plagiarism video and Todd in the Shadows' similar video on misinformation is how they bring transparency to the internet phenomenon of "I made up a guy to get mad at".
Seriously, I've seen people make up a lot of stupid shit on the internet over the years and it's often just a manipulative attempt to paint a group of marginalized people in a bad light.
That's the TL;DR version of this post.
ANYWAY here is the long version
Those videos are mostly about James Somerton's plagiarism of other queer people's work. However I'd like to talk about that 20-30% of Somerton's original writing- and oh boy. It's mostly about complaining about White Straight Women and misgendering well-known trans creators such as Rebecca Sugar and calling Becky Albertalli a straight woman while it's pretty common knowledge that she was forced to out herself as bi because she received so much harassment over "being a cishet woman who appropriates LGBT+ stories".
One thing that irks me especially is how in his Killing Stalking and Gay Shipping videos Somerton brings up how straight women/ teen girl shippers exploit gay men for their personal sexual fantasies. This gets brought up several times in his videos.
Being all up and arms about Somerton being a "White Cis Gay Who Hates Women and Queer People tm" is not that useful because the kind of rhetoric he's using is extremely common in fandom and LGBT+ spaces on Tumblr, TikTok and Twitter. We really don't need to bring Somerton's identity to this since he is in no way an unique example.
It's hypocritical to make this about an individual person when I've seen A TON of posts, tweets and videos where queer people talk about these Sinister Straight Women who are supposedly out there fetishizing and exploiting queer men. It's pretty clear to me that this is just an excuse to shit on women and queer people for having any sexual interests. At worst these comments are spreading misinformation about BL, a form of media that has been excessively studied by both Asian feminists and Asian queer women.
This all sounds really familiar and I think it's good that people are calling it out as what it is: misogyny and transphobia. I'd also point out the potentially racist motives behind being this hypervigilant about Asian media.
People can absolutely be misogynist regardless of gender or orientation. I really don't know why we need to create some kind of made up enemy to get mad at. I actually think it's almost sinister how "anti-fujoshi" people call Slash shippers and fujoshi misogynists or claim that they have internalised misogyny while being dismissive about women's interests and creative pursuits under Japanese obscenity laws, China's censorship, book bans in American schools and various other disadvances that are part of being a queer and/or female creator.
I think we shouldn't be naive about the bad faith actors who want to turn queer people against each other. For example Fujoshi.info mentions anti-gender (TERF, GC etc) movement using this kind of rhetoric as well.
Anyway if you want to read more:
- about the false info around BL fandom fujoshi.info
-There is the scholar Thomas Baudinette who studies gay media in Japan. Here is a podcast with him and the scholar Khursten Santos
-James Welker is a BL scholar as well. Here is a podcast interview about the new international BL article collection he edited.
-I've already talked about this Youtube channel by KrisPNatz and his great Killing Stalking video that actually engages with the themes of the manhwa
- There is also HR Coleman's thesis DO NOT FEED THE FETISHIZERS: BOYS LOVE FANS RESISTANCE AND CHALLENGE OF PERCEIVED REPUTATION where she interviews 36 BL fans and actually breaks down why fetishization has become such a huge talking point in the fandom discourse. Spoilers, it's mostly about young queer people and women being worried that they will get judged and pathologized for their interest in anything sexual.
-Great podcast about Danmei and censorship with Liang Ge
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I don't wanna further hijack that poor poll, but the thing about Harrow's schizophrenia is that it's canon. The author has confirmed it, and shared that it's based on her own experience.
It's a pretty obscure bit of canon, so of course there's no shame in not already knowing, but that's why I'm so obnoxiously persistent about letting people know.
Whatever else is up with Harrow, autism or cptsd or any number of likely headcanons, she is also schizophrenic. I feel like that's too important to be handwaved away as a difference of opinion.
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What would adult Machete look like without his signature eye marks?
Like this, more or less? Also intact ears. He'd still have vascular dark circles.
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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"
like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.
"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."
... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.
and i'd still keep writing.
i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.
i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley
"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"
and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.
it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.
you create because you're greedy.
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➸ The Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes (2023) vs. The Hunger Games: Catching Fire (2013)
Look at this. They're holding hands. I want them dead.
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like mother, like son, but less wholesome this time?
(I couldn't decide whether or not to put them together, so have them in all the different ways!)
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He hates Steve Harrington, everything about him. His stupid, upbeat pop music. His tall fucking hair. His annoyingly bright clothes. His bullshit German luxury car.
Eddie hates that Steve's a good guy. Hates that he carried Eddie's broken and dying body out of hell. Hates that the kids love him how they do. Hates that he and Robin Buckley are the kind of best friends who might as well be siblings. Hates the way that Jonathan is back and Nancy is happy, and Steve has no resentment about any of it. Hates that he'll never, for as long as he lives, forget about six kids and a Winnebago.
And he hates, more than anything of all, the way he's always finding himself in Steve's bed. The way he falls apart when Steve is deep inside, the way he begs for more, pleads for Steve to wreck him. The way Steve treats him so good that it makes him sob.
Eddie hates himself for not being able to stop. For wanting Steve so much that sometimes he feels it as a visceral ache in the back of his molars. He hates himself for how little fight his dumb traitor heart puts into not being astronomically down bad in love with the guy immediately.
And none of this is supposed to flow from his brain to his tongue to out of his mouth, but Steve fucks him so good and slow--gives him the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life--that it all just slips out of the safe confines of his mind.
"I fucking hate you," he says. Or pants, more like, he's all flushed and sweaty and covered in come, not yet settled back to himself.
"W-what?" Steve stutters. He's standing at the edge of the bed, damp towel clenched in his fist.
True, full consciousness strikes then and he doesn't know what else to say. Steve's big eyes are wide and sad, and Eddie's brain is screaming at him to fix it, and isn't that just another thing that he hates?
"Steve. Like. Fucking look at yourself, man." He waves his hand up Harrington's perfect body. "You're the most beautiful fucking thing in the universe. And you--you embody like every fucking thing I'm supposed to hate with your money and your athletic ability, and your whole goddamn clean-cut All-American boy next door bullshit. And I--I keep ending up here when everything in me says to run away, that this--you--are too good to be fucking true."
And Steve, he's pinching the bridge of his nose, looking more than anything like he's trying not to burst into tears and this--this cannot be borne.
"I love you so fucking much." His voice cracks and he reaches out to circle his fingers around Steve's wrist, the one holding the towel. "I love you so much and I don't deserve even a second of it. Not a minute. Because you're Steve Harrington, you're--"
Steve presses his hand (he hates the the wide palms and long fingers, how they're perfect, how they hold him and comfort him and wring out pleasure again and again like it's nothing, like Steve's hands were made for making Eddie come) over Eddie's mouth. "Shut-up, Munson," he says.
"I fucking hate you too." There's ease in the way he says it, a lightness in his eyes. "I hate that you don't use conditioner. I hate that your van makes that turkey gobble sound every time you turn a corner, and you refuse to let me look at it. I hate how loud you play your music, how it makes my fucking skin shake. I hate when you forget to take the damn chains off your jeans when you put them in the wash."
Steve climbs into bed, straddling him, towel long forgotten. "You know what else I fucking hate, Eddie?" He leans down, ghosting his lips against the tip of Eddie's nose, skimming his mouth. "I hate that I've never loved anyone like I love you. I hate that I almost fucking lost you. I hate that we can't spend every minute in this goddamn bed, so I can memorize every inch of your skin, every sound you make, every single way I tear you apart, and all of the things that put you back together. I love you, Ed. Every fucking terrible part."
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sunset in silence
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