#how convenient that I see this the night before queer prom

[littlesistersti]

How do you battle a terf period product brand?

If you look up the period product brand Garnuu, they campaign for period poverty, green earth, charity for women, and all that typical stuff. However, their main campaign is "girls only club"

Discuss: either we all boycott this terf company or gather up all the trans individuals who have periods to buy their products and advertise it to really drive it in.

Ps. I'm not trans so any trans people out there want to provide their input?

[iwantasecretgarden]

Dear Misty,

@mercedeslackeyblog​ - please print this for her in the hospital! I want her to know we all love her and are rooting for her.

You have been one of the icons in my life for as long as I’ve been reading. Seriously. I picked up “Arrows of the Queen” when I was twelve and fell dizzyingly in love. So in love, in fact, that my father bought me the set of them leatherbound. It was one of the last things he ever bought me. They sit on my shelf with me wherever I move to (and I have moved a lot). They are the epitome of my childhood.

How do I even begin to explain what you have meant to me? I wrote you a fan letter in my teens, but I don’t think it ever reached you. Websites were less...polished then. I tried to find a copy to see what I had said, but I don’t have it anymore, so I’ll write this from scratch.

First off, for someone growing up in the 90s, sexuality was a difficult topic. My father was Catholic about it. My mother was liberal about acceptance, but not very liberal about giving us the tools to recognize it. I didn’t really accept the fact I was bi until I was 26 (last year). It was an embarrassing realization, because I had always been conditioned to already think women were interesting and cool and beautiful. But I honestly and truly believe one of the reasons I grew up being so tolerant of sexuality wasn’t my mother’s liberal attitude, but because of the fantasy I read, which didn’t use sexuality as a dramatic plot device. Your books, especially, in depicting queer relationships, poly relationships, and interracial relationships in such an ordinary light, in such a non-complaining, non special, non interesting way (as it should be!) that to me it became ordinary. I didn’t understand the big fuss when people started coming out in eighth and ninth grade. Well of course Brett could like boys. Silverfox did, and he’s one of my favorite characters, a fictional hero who I use to help combat my own anxiety and work through impossible situations. I didn’t understand why liking girls was so shocking. Keren was the impossibly cooler most perfect big sister/coach figure. I was into horse back riding until 16 (when, unfortunately, my horse died). Keren has a lot of the surly riding instructor in her, and it was a far more interesting aspect of her personality than her relationship with Sheri. Keren had even assured Sheri she would have been welcome as their third. As a kid, it hadn’t even occurred to me to make an argument against it. I - Talia’s age - agreed with her. When life gives you child brides and weird cult compounds, it’s better to find love where you can. Genuine love. Regardless of anything else.

Secondly, it was a book I needed when I didn’t know I would need it. A lot of fiction - especially geared at children - skates lightly over topics of depression, anxiety, and loss. Don’t get me wrong, I love Harry Potter with my soul. But even at the age I read it I felt the shallowness of their reactions when Sirius died. I felt my own reaction even crying while reading the book to be stronger. It would infuriate me that the next book they sort of conveniently forgot it had only been a few weeks/months. That Harry was “sad but manageable.” For context, my dad contracted Lou Gehrig’s disease at 44. They told him he had likely already had the disease 10 years. He lost everything; his temper, his dignity, bits of his mind at a time. Any filter between his brain and his mouth. His fine motor control, like holding a spoon. His major motor control, like being able to stand up. He was in a powerchair within the year. As the oldest daughter, it was expected that I would help turn him, change his catheter, and answer his shrill screams in the night. I was fourteen years old. 

Dad and I were inseparable. Father-daughter relationship compounded by the fact he had, in essence with a flexible work schedule, been a stay at home dad. He had been my primary caregiver, my confidante, my chef, my advisor, my everything. And now I was his punching bag as he lost a bit of himself at a time. “My friend, who’s a psychiatrist,” Mom always said it this way, to make sure we knew she wasn’t so weak as to need therapy. A challenge to dare us to say we did. “He says that he’s hardest on you, because he’s most assured of your love. That he can abuse you and scream at you and curse at you because he knows you’ll go back the next day. A moth to a flame.” And me staring blankly at her: “Of course I will.” Because even if it was my worst fear - it was, always had been - even if it hurt worse than I could have ever imagined - his death would have broken me, but only in half. His suffering crushed the pieces of me into dust and left me a gaping black thing sucking in the world - “I love him too much to miss a moment of this.” Even if every minute - every possible second - was me reminding myself I had to breathe and feeling my lungs on fire, my head was on the edge of a migraine, it was impossible to interact, but I had to. I had to smile. To go to high school. To turn in assignments on time regardless of the cost between going to bed at 2 and hearing him scream at 3. 

Your books, though, weren’t fake. I held onto them with the assurance of that one quote: life is the scream into the void; art is the answer you are not alone. I held onto the depression and grief and trauma of your characters and felt sane. If I hadn’t, I might have thought I was losing my mind. I was, of course. And I had been conditioned Catholically to think of mental health as a weakness, a secret shame. I had been told by my mother psychologists and medication were wonderful advancements for those people; sick people. Sick in their mind, she would say smugly. Her adamant assurance was: “We have to go on like usual. We can’t let people know we’re struggling.” And so we did. Social events. Big smiles. Sleepovers (somewhere else, my friends explained, your dad bums us out). People didn’t find out he was dying until prom of my senior year. I was on the receiving end of a lot of horror from teachers (why didn’t you tell us? Ask for an extension?) I had to be normal I wanted to tell them, but I didn’t even know how to begin to explain.

Once a pediatrician told my mom I was deeply angry and tired; I was losing my father. I was fifteen. I needed to see a counselor. My mom went ballistic in a public waiting room. She aggressively turned to me and asked if this was true? There was no chance, of course, for me to disagree. I didn’t even want to. My loyalty to my family was (is) so strong that seeing anyone upset her so badly had put my back against the wall and made me bare my teeth. I reflect a lot on it now; how poorly that doctor handled it, the way she would have bungled it much worse if it had been physical abuse. You never confront the person in front of the child. Never don’t have a safety plan in place. 

“She said you were so young,” my mother snarled on the way home. “When we both know you haven’t been young in years. I watched you. Watched you go from fifteen to twenty in months instead of years. Don’t you think?”

I could only nod, and when I covered my mouth, fingertips touched wet skin. I hadn’t been young in years. 

Darkwind was someone I identified heavily with. Someone who changed his name, cut his hair, let his grief consume him. Someone who shied away from Silverfox’s help. Someone who was glad when his father still got some. The day of my dad’s funeral, I cut off my hair. I was 19. The nightmare had lasted five years. I had stayed home to go to a local college so I could keep living at home, keep shielding my younger sisters, keep driving them to school and viola practice and karate. I had to give up my extracurriculars early on (and lie, of course, on my applications). It was actually a disaster at the hair cutting place (not important, but the lady called the police thinking I had stolen her cell phone which had fallen behind some tools). I went home. My mother took one look at my hair and told me it made my face look fat. “It’s for Dad,” I said steadily. In my mind, I was howling like Darkwind. I wondered if I could break my name into grief and sorrow, but it was too hard to think of the name I might have been, since the person I had been was as dead as dad was. 

On days where my two younger sisters were scared and confused (the youngest was 13 when he died), I read them The Fairy Godmother and One Good Knight. They liked that one especially well. I went on to absorb almost all of your works (I think it’s impossible though, to be honest. There are just so many that either you’re a witch or I keep reading the same ones again and thinking I’ve never read them. For instance, I have a Bard Song on my nightstand right now from a bargain bin. Never read it before. Recently read Four and Twenty Blackbirds). Of course, my favorite series was Valdemar. I know all those characters the best, having reread most of them over again several times. I liked Elemental Masters, 700 Kingdoms (some). I was sad that the Beauty & the Beast stories in both weren’t my favorites (The Fire Rose, Beauty and the Werewolf, since it’s my favorite Disney film (but as your stories follow the traditional fairytale a little closer, and that tale is a bit gross, I understand). I think my favorites were The Firebird, Phoenix and Ashes, Reserved from the Cat, The Wizard of London).

Honestly, I may be a tiny minority, but I ADORE Joust. I was sad there weren’t more of them. I spent much of the time I read them inventing my own dragon egg, my own falling through time and space. My own female girl rider takes on the Team without being just a sidekick who talked to animals. It is hard to recommend or talk about it without people laughing, and I appreciate it IS an incredibly hard-core nerd fantasy genre (ancient Egypt, jousting, dragons). It feels a lot like Anne McCaffery crossed with a Naomi Novik story (since Temeraire and Napoleonic Wars are equally hard-core nerd stories. I was lucky to stumble on that line recently - I feel like there’s not enough of the true blue 80s/90s fantasy voice anymore. Sometimes it feels all too dark and plot driven, lacking the characters and slice of life that your works have nestled in my heart, places like the Palace Compound that I know as well as I knew my middle and high schools. A place as real to me as they are, including my own room. My own Companion. My own Heraldic Whites when I turned 18 and took the leatherbound books from my father in an eyestinging rush of love. 

Even now when I was looking up a list of your work, I’m amazed and appalled to see I haven’t caught any of your works since 2009 or so. HOW MANY ARE THERE 100? 200? I thought there were 70 something, but no, you’ve far outstripped yourself. I usually pick up the books in secondhand shops. I’ll go straight for “L” and then just tip all of them into my arms if I haven’t read them. It’s one of my favorite rainyday activities. I noticed you even have a book out this year! CRAP! It should not be POSSIBLE you can write faster than I can read! I’m 27 and I still read a lot of the books that came out when I was born or in diapers. Sometimes I wonder which books you’ve written are your favorites. If there are books you’ve written you skim through like “hmmm I don’t even remember this” and read it with the same laughing intensity as the rest of us, resting your thumb on “oh yes, this was when I was...”

Anyway. I know this letter is long. You’ve been a saint for even getting this far. So let me say this. When I think of the BEST writers of fantasy in the 20th and 21st centuries, your name is among the greats. I’ll say something like: Anne McCaffery’s Dragonriders of Pern; Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game; Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time; Mercedes Lackey’s Valdemar...and EVERYTHING ELSE. A lot more people know the names of George R.R. Martin, of J.K. Rowling, of Neil Gaiman. But none of them have put out the solid, unending stream of work that literally POPULATES what most people consider “fantasy.” Your ideas, your work, your world-building influence television, influence Dungeons & Dragons, other works. You are a Giant in your field, and even if you don’t feel it, you have laid the groundwork for an entire generation to lay themselves reverently on the altar of your sacrifice, your reflection of relationships, and taught young girls like me what it was to embrace themselves, in all shapes - black tar and bi pride. 

I know you probably tire of hearing this, but I want to be an author. And I’m a good writer. I don’t say it boastfully. I say it as something I’ve always heard, from teachers and friends and magazines. But mom said being an author was like being an actor - a pipe dream, a thing to do “on the side” and “as a hobby.” And it is a hobby of mine, for now. I did the Responsible Thing and became a lawyer. It was quite horrible. But I did it. For Dad, you know. Legacy and all that. 

But don’t you DARE die before I’m published. I’m not talking about the hospital right now. I’m talking about choking on a banana; slipping on the sidewalk; getting mobbed by adoring fans. It is literally my bucketlist to publish a book, to meet you, to dedicate the book to a woman who I’ve never met, who I’ve never known, but who had influenced and impacted my life SO profoundly I consider her characters as pieces of myself. Her worlds as places of safety when I’m sad. The helping hand she held out to a twelve year old girl, and fifteen years later the one I’m still gripping tightly. 

YOU are one of the best women in my life, and one of the best role models I’ve ever known. Even if we’ve never met, knowing that you could be a deeply nerdy human who loves horses and magic and reading every day and still be “successful” when the world outside told me I dressed wrong and looked wrong and felt wrong. That I needed to pick up a magazine, or watch sitcoms, or generally stop making them feel pitying and uncomfortable because of the things I liked. You made me proud to be a feminist, an ally, a writer, a dreamer, a reader, and maybe only lately of my sexuality, but still growing and going forward. 

So, here’s lots of love and adoration and gratitude flooding your way from:

One herald (whose companion was someone she knew in real life reincarnated too early, obviously grove born, with mindspeech, with magic, of course and lifebonded with a Kestra'chern. Predictably, I fought the lifebonding every step of the way, and consider him a great nuisance).

One dragon rider in the jousting wars (with a dragon named Altaira (high flying) who is such a deep dark color she seems black but ripples cobalt and violet).

One grateful apprentice to the Fairy Godmother, who herself was saved from one of a great many plots by the impetus of her father’s illness/death.

And of course, from one persnickety lawyer in DC, drowning in student loan debt and of course too many books, one cat too pretty to be a boy named Gandalf, and his Greyhounds (yes, two, who are very lowkey and I think you would like. They’re like large sleeping cats more than dogs, but very friendly with horses). Of course I named the cat Gandalf simply for the introduction of “Gandalf, the Greyhounds.” Originally I wanted to name a dog “Gandalf...the Greyhound” but because of who I am I went to the shelter and asked for the dog least likely to get adopted and sort of came out with a bonded pair and then it seemed they needed twin names so they’re named Fred & George after Harry Potter. 

But rambling aside, I adore you. I adore your books. I adore the world you’ve given freely for us to play in. Get well soon, and lots, lots, and lots of love. I’ll be playing in my worlds today especially a lot, thinking of you.

All the best,

Kaylee

[caslikescoffeeandfreckles]

Hi!! First of all, I really enjoy your blog, it's probably my favorite! Now, could you please recommend me some (more like tons) of Destiel High School AU's?? I want to read some good stuff today. Thank you and gave an incredible day!

Hello!! Well thank you very much for the compliment!!

I don’t read a ton of high school AUs but i found these in my ao3 bookmarks

Out of Hand by @whelvenwings

Summary: When Castiel starts getting beaten up at school, his neighbour Dean knows that he has to do something. Cas has it hard enough already - his blue hair, piercings, and unique attitude mean that he spends most of his time at school alone, anyway. Meanwhile, Dean’s popular enough to bring Castiel some respite from the bullying; or, that is, he would be, if only Cas was connected to Dean in some way. As a friend, perhaps. Or even as a boyfriend, maybe…

There Must Also Be a Lock by @whelvenwings

Summary: Cas sighed. Prom season. Never his favourite time of year.And perhaps the worst part of the whole thing was how the seniors were expected to ask out their dates.“Padlocks!” Balthazar had announced, rattling a box full of them under the noses of the front row of the class the morning before. “Anyone ever heard of the Pont des Arts? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? I thought not. I am surrounded by philistines.”“Balthazar, you had to google it two days ago,” Cassie had heckled from the back, and the rest of the class had laughed. Balthazar had sneered teasingly back at Cassie, and left the box of padlocks on the teacher’s desk at the front of the room.____________________________________________________________Castiel knows exactly who he wants to ask to be his date to prom. When he sees Dean handing his padlock away, he knows that he must have lost his chance forever. Ignoring his best friend is hard, but easier than trying to pretend he isn’t upset. But when the night of the prom comes around, whose name will be on Dean’s padlock?

There Goes Your Heart by you_idgits

Summary: Deanna is having the worst day.It probably has to do with the whole getting-punched-in-the-face thing.It gets a lot better when Cas, the cute new girl from her English class, shows up and breaks Alastair’s nose.

Silly Love Songs by @puppycastiel

Summary: Every year, for Valentine’s Day, the Lawrence High School Choir sells sing-o-grams for their incredibly popular, annual fundraiser. Sam is a freshman who sings alto in the choir; his brother is a senior with a crush on his best friend. So when February 14th comes around once again, Sam is more than willing to play the messenger.

Shakes-queer: A Comedy by @ozonecologne

Summary: "I’ve never talked to you before but the teacher just used us as an example for a scenario where we are married" AU.(Conveniently, a comedy usually ends in marriage.)

The Nuances in Flirting by @thebloggerbloggerfun

Summary: Based on the tumblr prompt: “HS AU with popular!Dean and popular!Cas, they’re those two annoying guys who make funny (but also obnoxious) comments in every single class, and make stupid, flirtatious remarks to each other like “Cas looks pretty hot today guys” or “I’m totally dating Dean, everyone” etc. Only thing is, they’re secretly in love, but neither will admit it.“

You May Say That I’m a Dreamer by @envydeanwrites

Summary: Dean’s been a fan of the men’s figure skating for as long as he can remember. He’s always been fascinated by how the contestants move on the ice, contort their elegant bodies into beautiful positions and land each jump with grace – not that anyone at school knows this, they only know Dean as the tough-man soccer player. When Dean’s favourite under twenty-one’s figure skater transfers to his school, sparks fly.

Don’t Shoot the Messenger by @destieldrabblesdaily

Summary: Castiel’s younger sister Anna wants to go to the school dance with Dean Winchester, but she doesn’t have the guts to ask him. Instead, she asks Cas if maybe he can do it for her and be the messenger. The tricky part? Castiel has feelings for Dean too.

Dear Diarist by @whelvenwings 

Summary: One day, Dean finds a diary hidden on top of the lockers at his high school, and he’s totally not planning on reading that much of it - until he catches sight of his own name at the top of a page. It seems like the writer has a crush on him. Dean knows who he wants the mystery person to be - he’s had a crush on a certain blue-eyed physicist since forever - but there’s no way it could be Castiel. That’d be just too good to be true - right?

And if you need more than those

All of Shirley’s high school AUs on Ao3

All of Emily’s high school AUs on Ao3

And Shirley’s high school AU tag on Tumblr

Those are all the fics/resources I can think of for now!! Hope it helps!