#will I regret posting this later?

[uefb]

A Love Letter to Newt Scamander’s Autism™ and a Plea to Those Continually Gloating About the ‘Failure’ of the FB Franchise

(this is stream-of-consciousness really, forgive me)

Look. I…dislike…JKR as much as the next politically active gender/queer who was raised on Harry Potter and subsequently spent their 20s raging against the binary and tearing down the system.

But look—

I’m also autistic.

So I can’t pretend to be able to celebrate the potential crash of the first fantasy franchise/series (well, any franchise, really!) to star an empathetic, autistic hero just because I hate her.

The lady has enough money to pave Europe, enough money to buy anyone’s votes—hell, enough money to probably repurchase the entire bloody (pun intended) British empire—

And she frankly has enough money to attempt to destroy trans folks and trans women’s lives whether or not FB continues.

FB is not the root of the problem.

JKR and the increasingly inflammatory political and economic and social moments we keep hurtling through are the problem.

So when I think back on that lonely, autodidactic, quiet, gender nonconforming, gentle, awkward, morally driven (and sometimes-accidentally-in-trouble) eleven-year-old version of me—

That little nerd who clung to the safety of Hermione (as close to a relatable fictional character as I would ever find for decades) like a life raft in the godforsaken sea of adolescence—

Well.

When I think how much Newt Scamander would have meant to that little dork then,

And how much he must mean to so many kids now (let alone adults)…?

I just can’t find it in my heart to purely wish ill on every single one of JKR’s endeavors. Or to celebrate JKR’s failure specifically regarding Fantastic Beasts.

(So maybe Cursed Child can die in a fire, and —yes — JKR’s isms and antisemitisms and absolute crock can—

Well.

You get the idea.)

And maybe it’s the Hufflepuff in me—masked so often by my more ADHD-forward Gryffindor traits—but I just can’t take joy in an atypical, kind, adult autistic character—an unusual hero, in fact!—being [potentially] cancelled when I know it not only hurts me, but so so many others. It’s not joyous to me that people are losing something dear to them, when it’s not the media itself that’s damning but the woman who dreamed it into existence. (Though so much of the good of FB was built by the producers and artists and actors—it was built out by them like a wood-elf in a well-tended garden. The core of it—the trellis, perhaps—was provided by she-who-must-not-be-named, but all that delicate work in between? the moments of worldbuilding, the nuance of character and culture and blah blah blah? they wove the intricacies of the fabric and fashioned the clothes to hang in her closet.)

But I’ve mixed my metaphors and I digress.

What I mean to say is this:

A franchise like FB being cancelled is nuanced and complicated—especially since WB is gonna milk the Wizarding World for all it’s worth even if they do drop FB. This is a multifaceted issue spanning individual, political, capitalistic, societal, etc etc overlapping and contradictory levels, and we should treat it that way, not the way I’ve seen it circulated in posts—just laughing about how JKR had it coming and skimming over all the rest.

Like yes, duh.

Of course she did.

Those of us who grew up on HP rejected her for the very same reasons we loved HP in the first place.

But use your critical thinking skills.

The world is bigger than JKR—art and media have implications and impacts outside of their origin. And, thus, implications for supporting or enjoying something exist on multiple levels that must sometimes be carefully measured and interrogated, even if individually or factionally we come to our own different—and perhaps opposite—conclusions.

So i’m just proposing: maybe we should reconsider taking joy in Fantastic Beasts failure when FB is about so much more than just JKRs considerable sins —

When so many people have seen in Eddie Redmayne’s Newt Scamander the first character who truly acts like them, moves like them, speaks like them—seems to see the world like them!—for the first time in their lives.

Because yes: JKR’s views and horrific anti-trans and—frankly—anti-anti-anti-everything campaigning are personal, but so is what Newt has come to represent.

Words can’t describe that for me. What he means, from an autistic perspective.

Anyway.

I only request that you place your thinking in the complex context it deserves.

.

.

Also, please don’t viciously @ me. I’m open to nuanced conversation, should I have the word-energy to engage—though I have been teetering on the edge of a shutdown for days—but I’m not open to being torn apart for loving quality autistic representation, and for simply wishing I could have more of that character and that content in the world. To not always have to be the one to push for it. To not always have to be the one to write my own representation, to seek it out, to demand I’m worth space and consideration as a reader and consumer with intersectional identities— 

It’s complicated. 

But I’m tired. 

And potentially losing Newt really isn’t funny to me.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji Goes To Lotus Pier AU: Part 3: Enveloping Feelings.

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 4 (soon))

[veliseraptor]

sometimes fandom seems to struggle with the concept that...people can be kind/"good people" in some situations and very very not kind/not "good people" in others.

I feel like there's this urge to either write off the positive behavior as "fake" or to find a way to ignore/explain away/write out the negative behavior. and I personally find this really really irritating in both directions, actually

[cherrytraveller]

survival chance: 42%

Twitter || Ko-fi || Instagram

[redactedcrowart]

regret (maybe you shouldn't have fucking panini pressed your mancrush, dipshit)

[dailykeiji]

today's keiji is: possibly my most self indulgent keiji yet

[theminecraftbee]

you know sometimes one of the things the fandom does that i like the least is joke about how certain ccs are "lorephobic" because it basically always ignores the lore they actually are really and visibly doing. like, sure, they may not be doing the lore YOU'RE looking at, but, one, lore doesn't just mean "big overarching server storyline" it can also mean solo stuff. it can also mean 'builds that have story built into them'. it can also mean 'fun little storyline between like two guys'. it can also mean character continuity. it can mean many things. two, "this guy doesn't do lore" is NOT the same thing as "this guy doesn't do the specific lore i personally like and want to see them doing" and i don't always think you guys know the difference. all of this, of course, is to say: hey guys did you know zedaph can canonically time travel,

[caliartcat]

i made him a catboy

[unfortunatelyevent]

people that for me would be the most poetic/hot to kill the c3 big bads:

ludinus: caleb (has been hunting that mf down for years for being part of the system that allowed trent to do what he did to empire kids, he deserves to fuck that wizard up)

liliana: keyleth (she watched the love of her life that she lost several years back be captured by liliana in a plot using her as bait to be used as a lens and put through constant excruciating pain, I want her to obliterate that bitch)

otohan: Imogen/orym (both of them had their significant other killed by her hands, just set them loose on her please)

what I want to say with this is, sometimes vengeance is the answer

[ephemeraljellyfish]

I know I've been going on and on about rhetoric, but I think too many people take what they read at face value. And that's how you wind up uncritically absorbing information that you don't understand, just because it makes you feel some type of way. Usually, an innocuous tumblr post is not always worth interrogating, but when there are accusations of sexual harassment thrown at a specific marginalized group of people, is it not worth interrogating why? Or I dunno, maybe people should actually see what the accused group are actually saying before sweeping judgements are made?

I've seen posts explicitly blaming "transandrophobia truthers" circling. And with the disgusting mass harassment anon, I don't blame people for being outraged at the contents of the ask at all. It was viscerally repulsive. And I think it's more than appropriate to share those feelings of disgust or violation with those who received harassment, but when the message suddenly shifts to "this is all those transandrophobia truthers' faults," you have to ask yourself how did we get here? If you encounter a post discussing REAL transmisogynistic harassment anons and then it takes some leap of unsubstantiated logic where suddenly "transandrophobia truthers" are the main culprits of said transmisogyny from an ANONYMOUS ask, you need to go back and read that post again to see if it makes sense. You need to know the context if you're going to be coming to the same conclusions (in this case: "fuck those transmisogynistic transandrophobia truthers"). Are there really transandrophobia-centered blogs defending or agreeing with the horrid anon? On my end, I don't fucking see any.

People have to ask themselves what others want when they refer to a group of (not even all trans men/masc) queer people as "transandrophobia truthers" or "transandrodorks." Are they purposefully trying to rile you up? Are they trying to make it so so obvious that they're right? Are you nodding along with the confidence with which words are being said or the actual contents? Are there all the correct buzzwords? Do you feel guilty, angry, sad? Is there evidence of said accusations? Is one person's belief acting as a stand-in for a whole group's? Are people really saying that? In those words? What's the context?

I can go on, but you get the idea.

[onehundredfallenpetals]

Honestly this is how rank 8 should have gone, tho we can still keep the murder later too

[anglerflsh]

my favourite passtime is making up incredibly unaccurate armour designs. That's a lie my passtime is researching but this comes at a close second

[raileurta]

Terrible bad boy t-shirts I would make if I had the time and energy to do so.

Here's a extra Grian and Mumbo shirt I made for fun.

[mossghosst]

we need to stop characterizing misako as a terrible mom and instead hate dr julien for deadbeat and leaving echo in that damn lighthouse

[grahamer]

[strawurberries]

i loved your post about vash and reader’s stretch marks. i was wondering if you could write something where the reader is afraid of getting fat, so she skips meals or replaces them with water?

Missed Meals

Summary: Vash notices a change in his companion's behavior. Worried, he decides to confront her.

Authors Note: I'm glad you liked my other post! I hope you like this one as well (though I'm a little nervous because I got stuck writing this and I'm afraid it came out bad). Also, just want to add, I've struggled with eating disorders before (not from self-image but more like Vash's "I don't deserve to eat") so I understand. Everyone is beautiful in their own right and deserves to eat!!! Love all of you guys!!

Warnings: Self-hate, eating disorder.

It started off small; giving her bread to Milly instead of finishing it off, ordering a lighter meal instead of the usual hardy one she adored, and sometimes she simply said, “I’m not that hungry”. But actions like hers always lead to a slippery slope, one that tends to wrap its dirt-crusted nails around its victim and drag them into an early grave. She had never been someone who ate enough to feed an entire village, but not even she could survive on sips of water and the guilty crumbs she rarely allowed herself to consume. After a while though, it became natural, second nature to head off to bed while the sun still hung in the sky, claiming that exhaustion outweighed her hunger—which, she supposed, wasn’t all a lie.

The best lie, she had been told once, is the one that includes the truth. 

Now, she recalled that advice as she sat at a table in the back of this dingy town bar. What should she say? What could she say? Recently she had been using up all her excuses left and right, the hunger in her belly growing and the pain in her heart becoming ever more sharp. The group had decided to stop by a local bar before heading to the hotel for the night, nearly everyone complaining about the rough day that had been forced to suffer through. And, to them, a drink was something they were eager to welcome. She, if she hadn’t been too preoccupied with her stomach pains, probably would’ve ordered a whiskey to clear her head of every annoying little thought. 

She opted for water though. The least she could do was drink water; she owed it to herself, and so she honored that obligation. Throat parched, mouth achy; the water tasted amazing.

The bar erupted in a shout as someone tripped, roaring laughter drowning out the domestic conversation of her table. Too loud. Vaguely she heard someone mention dinner—she cringed. She did promise herself that she’d finally eat a crumb or a bite tonight (after nearly passing out yesterday she became all too aware of her weakness). She wasn’t dumb, she knew she’d have to eat eventually, that she’d wither away—but one more night, one more meal skipped, it couldn’t do any more harm, right? Besides, from what she had seen on the menu, the foods were all greasy, full of fat and carbs, and wouldn’t help her figure at all.

I just want to look pretty, she reasoned, skipping a meal tonight will help that. God forbid she ate too much and all her progress disappeared: letting that baby fat back under her chin, the muffin-top around her waist, or even the extra flesh on her belly? She’d rather die than let her body look like that again, much less look worse. It terrified her to her core. She needed to look good, and that meant, to her at least, that she must be skinny, thin, and agreeable. Starvation is a small price to pay for beauty.

A waiter slowly started to make their way across the room, eyes set on her table. 

I need to go.

She stood up, giving a small smile, “I’m gonna head back to the hotel.”

“You’re leaving already Miss?” Milly asked, “it’s still early enough for one drink! C’mon!” She raised her glass and grinned, “look! Mr. Wolfwood and Mr. Vash are already enjoying themselves!”

Drunken giggles erupted across the table. 

“Oh Milly,” Meryl sighed, “let the girl get her rest. God knows we all need it.” She waved her hand with the flick of her wrist, “if it wasn’t for the trouble you’re all bound to cause, I would’ve already left myself.”

“Hey!” Wolfwood barked out, “we’ve never caused trouble a day in our lives. . . well, can’t say much for Needle-noggin’ here.”

“It’s not my fault!” Vash cried, “trouble finds me! I always run away from it!” He sobbed into the table, “can’t a man catch a break?!”

Wolfwood laughed and patted him on the back, “it’s all God’s plan, my friend.”

“Well he sure does have a stupid plan!”

With a smile and silent wave, she slipped out from the table and weaved through the bar, the happy expression quickly falling off her face. I’m tired, she thought to herself, ignoring the biting air of the night. A dull ache in the pit of her belly made her stop for a moment, really tired. . . 

She barely remembers getting back to the hotel, much less how she managed to get dressed and settled in bed before that wretched knocking woke her up. With a skip of her heart and a rapid smack of her arms to get the blankets off her cold body, she jumped out of bed and reached for the gun she had tossed on the floor. One smooth movement and she delicately wrapped her fingers around the metal. She didn’t even think about the possibility of her friends needing help, or perhaps just room service making their rounds; the only thing on her mind was the fact that she wasn’t prepared to die that night. 

“Who’s there?” she grumbled out, ducking to hide beside the door, back to the wall. She rubbed lazy circles into the metal, finger twitching every so slightly over the trigger. She had never been the greatest shot, nor the most eager to kill, but she would do what had to be done if it came down to it.

“Vash.”

She blinked, sleep-clogged mind getting dunked into a vat of mean, old reality. Her situation hit her upside the head and she resisted the urge to put her face between her knees and groan about how dumb she is. Instead of wallowing in her stupidity (which, if you really think about it, wasn’t the worst reaction she could’ve had), she sighed, “oh.” A spike of relief shot through her like a summer’s breeze on a warm day. Shoulders relaxing and muscles begging to be sent back to bed. . . only, she wasn’t tired anymore. I’m not sleeping tonight, am I? Her heart still beat like a drum, thumping in her chest like no tomorrow, and her body—taunt and tense, ready for a moment's attack; that’s how she’s survived this long, by being prepared for every situation no matter the outcome. 

“Can uh. . . can I come in?” Squeaked out Vash.

She cursed and opened the door, wooden creaking echoing throughout the hotel hallway, letting her occupied hand hang by her side, “yeah, sorry. What’s the matter?” 

Vash stood in his usual clothes—red coat, ridiculous pants, and bulky boots; his gloves though, she noticed, he wasn’t wearing gloves. He gave her a small smile, “sorry did I scare ya?”

The smile made her less mad about the ordeal, kind and small. He never smiled too widely or genuinely, just enough to show that he cared, that he knew what happiness looked like—though she knew that he thought he’d never be able to obtain happiness, a faraway dream is how he described it to be. Oh, how if given the chance, she would give him all the joy he would ever want. 

She shoved that thought aside.

“A little,” she raised the gun and gestured with it for Vash to come inside. “Why are you up so late?” 

He slid into the room silently, walking over to sit on the edge of her bed, “couldn’t sleep.” he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.

That was a lie. She could tell. “Want to talk?” She locked the door and once again tossed her gun next to her bed, hoping it wouldn’t go off from the rough handling. “Or jus’ need someone here?” 

“Just talking, if you don’t mind.”

She nodded, “a’right. How was your day?”

He smiled, “good. You?”

“Peachy.”

The conversation died off.

Neither of them really knew what to say—unspoken words disease the heart and kill the soul, making the tongue bloated and thick. She, not knowing how to comfort her friend as her mind wandered from her own problems to the world’s in general, and he wasn’t sure how to get his point across.

Silence.

Vash cleared his throat, finally collecting his words, “are you. . . okay?” The question hung in the air sourly, sucking any sense of comfort out and churning it into an uninhabitable room of misery. He flinched, as if the mood of the room was hurting him physically. “You’ve been acting a little different lately.”

She leaned against the door, hoping the action would give her the confidence to either run away or admit her inner-thoughts.“Hmm? Fine, you?” She turned her gaze away. Could she run? No, he’d catch her in less than three seconds and her trying to slip out of the room would be an admission of her guilt. But she really didn’t want to talk about herself. She’s doing okay, isn’t she? Just a little tired, anxious, and sad. . . but she’ll get over it. Besides, it’s not like she’s dead yet.

“I’m good.”

“Good.”

Oh how painfully awkward this all was. 

The bed squeaked as he moved to get into a more comfortable position, “I have some leftovers in my room, from dinner, if you want any.” He tapped his leg with his fingers, head angled slightly to watch her expression.

He knows. 

Those eyes, no matter how much of a kind smile or goofy aura he carefully crafted to show everyone, his eyes gave away every part of his secret-self. The part of him that was scarily intelligent, observant, and abnormally calculating—a man smart enough to play dumb and a man strong enough to be kind. That part of him is what interested her so, the gravity that pulled her attention to him everytime he entered a room. 

He knows.

With a defeated sigh she rubbed her shoulder and walked over to the bed, shoving herself behind him to lay back down. If she had to bare her soul to him, the least he could allow her to do was to be vulnerable while being comfortable. He moved slightly to allow her more room, facing away from her as if her very gaze would burn him. “I’m not hungry,” she gave one last effort to cover her lie, to toss her truth out the window in the hopes that it would be buried in the sand. 

“You said that yesterday too.” He stared across the room, back rigid. 

The sands never work in your favor. 

“Huh,” she faced the wall, “guess I did.” The blankets were scratchy, old, and ratty, but she pulled them up to her chin nonetheless. She was tired now. All her adrenaline had poured out of her mouth, dripping onto the creaky wooden floor, seeping into the ground beneath. 

“And the day before.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very.”

She closed her eyes, knowing she had finally been caught in her web of little half-truths. “Haven’t had the stomach to eat anything lately.” Perhaps she could escape this somehow—even though she knew it was futile, part of her accepting the fact that he wouldn’t let this go—, make him run away and stop caring, God that caring! It annoyed her to ends she had never seen before, yet she loved it so. If only he didn’t care, she clenched her fist into the blanket, then this wouldn’t have happened. And it’s not like she’s dying! Nor is she killing herself or drawing blood, she’s only skipping a meal every once in a while.

“I don’t. . .,” Vash trailed off locking his fingers together, “I don’t mean to pry, but you’re starving yourself.” He sat the words quickly, sharply, and promptly, as if he was afraid of them and needed to throw them out of his mouth as soon as possible.

All lies come to an end.

“I know.”

But wouldn’t it be nice if they could live forever?

He bit his lip. “Why?”

“You’re prying,” she snapped. 

“Sorry,” he whispered.

The conversation died off. 

She didn’t mean to sound so rough and uncaring—the opposite of that gentleman—but a fear had struck her heart and she couldn’t stop it. The only way to feel okay, to be okay, was if Vash stopped caring, stopped worrying, and walked out of the room without a second glance (no matter how much that would hurt). Only he had the power to alleviate this anxious pain but she knew she would never allow her to wallow in misery alone.

What did Wolfwood say? She thought to herself, misery enjoys company?

The air turned from sour to stiff, oppressing; like a hand had come to clasp her throat, fingers digging into flesh and muscles spasming as they tried to escape the hold, only it was fruitless.

“Sometimes,” Vash’s voice cut through the air, peeling the layers of devilish emotions back. Slowly he shuffled down to lay next to her, on his back, hands laced over his chest. “I feel like I don’t deserve to eat. . . how can I allow myself to eat when I know how the people I failed, the people I let die, will never be able to enjoy things like that again? And, really, I think part of me hopes I’ll die from starvation, so I can take an easy way out.” He paused and let out a shuddering sigh.

She didn’t move. 

“I don’t know why you’re doing this, and you don’t have to tell me, but I understand in part. And if you ever need anything, I’m here. Okay?”

Why did he have to be like this? Why did he have to care? And why did she want to accept it so damn bad? If he had never noticed, if he had never looked at her with those eyes, if he had never met her—then she’d be living in her little palace of warped perception like a Queen of nothing but barren hearts. A ruler of her own land, a lawmaker who bows to no one; only this man had come into her secluded little kingdom, raided the halls of the castle, and whisked her away to feel the sun. It hurt her. To know how delicious the outside tasted, yet know how her soul felt safer within her prison.

“Do you think,” the words died in her tongue, nervousness making her numb. To hell with it, he already figured it out. Might as well bite the bullet.“ That I look pretty?” she whispered. 

Silence. 

Oh, that was a mistake, wasn’t it? The silence hurt in her ways that she didn’t even know could hurt.

Vash choked on his own spit and coughed, “w-what?”

Suddenly she wished the silence was still there.

Of course he’d have a reaction like that! She’s ugly, big, and broken. Why did she think it’s run out any different? “Nevermind.” She buried her face into the blanket, biting back a rumble of sobs in her throat; eyes stinging gently. 

“No! No! You—you just caught me off guard! I think you’re beautiful, really.” He turned over frantically, hand awkwardly hovering over her shoulder as he talked into her neck.

“You wouldn’t think the same way if I was bigger,” she curled into herself, “if I was fatter.” She aggressively wiped her tears away, “and skipping a couple meals isn’t too bad if it’s for a good reason, you know?” She wasn’t sure if she was believing herself at this point.

He was silent. 

“No matter what,” he twiddled his thumbs, ears turning red, “I think you’d still be beautiful. If you were taller, shorter, thinner, bigger, only had one leg or, um, like lost both eyes or something—” he heard her lowly whisper an audible “what?”, “I’d still think you’d look amazing. And, if anyone says otherwise, they don’t deserve you.” He hesitantly set a hand on her shoulder, rubbing comforting circles, “no matter what, I still cherish you.”

Her voice cracked, “thank you Vash.” His words didn’t convince her entirely, but still, they were nice to hear. 

He hummed. “I know my words aren’t going to fix everything, but we can start here, if you want?”

She let out a bubbling sigh, trying desperately to keep her tears away in order not to embarrass herself further. “I'm scared.”

“That’s okay, I get scared all the time. I’ll be right here for you, the whole way.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”