‘The electric street-lamp may indeed be ignored, simply because it is so insignificant and transient. Fairy-stories, at any rate, have many more permanent and fundamental things to talk about.‘ (J.R.R. Tolkien in On Fairy-Stories)
‘In about ten minutes she reached it and found it was a lamp-post. As she stood looking at it, wondering why there was a lamp-post in the middle of a wood and wondering what to do next…’ (C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe)
aka 'am I petty enough to write a lamp-post into my story just because my friend said it’s a 'no-no’ in fantasy? Why yes, yes I am.’
Someone might have already done this, so if they have ignore this. But I felt it was really important to mention:
Please DO NOT change or add to the official genre(s) of Yuri!!! On Ice on Wikipedia or any other site. This is so, so important. I noticed some posts going around with pictures of this happening. I know you’re excited about Victuri becoming canon. Believe me, I’m over the moon, too. But Yuri!!! On Ice is NOT a yaoi, and it is not shounen-ai.
Yaoi is a genre of anime geared toward creating fan service for women. It portrays very heteronormative, and often times unhealthy m/m relationships, not with the purpose of having positive representation, but for the enjoyment of straight women (I mean, lbr, it’s basically fetishization). Dgmw, I’m not necessarily saying yaoi is all bad, I have watched and enjoyed some yaoi in my time. But it is absolutely NOT a genre that matches YOI.
The creators of YOI have not labeled it as anything more than a sports anime for an extremely important reason. And when you label it as a yaoi/shounen-ai, even in jest, you cheapen the beautiful message this show is trying to get across.
This show has literally made history. Japan is still very homophobic, and here we have not a yaoi, but an everyday sport-centered anime portraying a healthy, completely normalized relationship between two men; the way it should be. Not to mention, this show is about so much more… romantic love is only one element among many in YOI.
I’m not super good with expressing things clearly, so if anyone who gets what I’m saying has something helpful to add, it’d be much appreciated.
I’m not saying you can’t joke about it. I mean, ngl I call YOI “Yaoi On Ice” in my head often. But please, don’t attach a genre to this masterpiece of a show that cheapens its worth.
yeah its hard to talk about but i kinda have huge identity issues...
Rly???? But ur so unique and have many constant identifiable attributes!!
[smiles politely as my identity issues collapse in on themselves and create an infinite vortex of identity issues because identity issues are one of the only permanent things I can identify about myself so if I don't have identity issues Literally Who Am I]
people want us to take the medication but refuse to admit that we are sick. they want us to get better, but refuse to acknowledge the struggle of recovery and how it’s not a permanent thing, anytime we can slip back. they want us to function but will critic the methods we use to get to that functioning level. it’s a losing battle, in a fight where we already lost.
“The public could change their minds about me tomorrow. Things are good right now but I’m never going to be stupid, foolish or ignorant enough to think I have control over the public. All I can control is making good music. I am so lucky that people seem to like me right now but in no way, shape or form is it a permanent thing. And I think being aware of that is what keeps you on the game.”
That’s right I am going to make this the official starter
call. ( the other one got trashed somewhere and i can not longer reblog
it. ) With that in mind, feel free to LIKE THIS or REBLOG( if you are a sideblog ) so I know and can keep track of things. This is just another way for me to know that my lovely followers do not mind me doing;
random starters ( when i feel its right )
bomb your ask box
plot with you
( when i feel its right )
( when i feel its right )
i am a very friendly person and i would like to have
things with all of you guys! I love all my followers and as I stretch to
my next milestone I would like to be a bit more organized. Do not be
scared to come to me in IM or Skype with any sort of ideas you may have I
am open to hear a lot of it!
I was a kid; sixth or seventh grade, and we were having gym class outside. It was cold, so I wore a coat. Nobody else wore a coat.
The teacher walked away for a minute, and that’s when it happened.
There wasn’t any signal, nobody said anything, but they surrounded me, and somebody forced the hood of my coat up over my head and somebody yanked the drawstrings of it tight so that it covered my face and I couldn’t see, and then they all pushed me around, laughing.
I dissociated. I felt like I was floating, all the fear I was feeling somehow distant.
And then the teacher walked back and they stopped. He must have seen, but he didn’t say anything. None of them got in trouble. I never told anyone about it because I thought it had been my fault for letting it happen. I should have fought back, I thought. I should have been strong enough to stop it. It was my fault.
For years afterwards, I never wore a coat.
I’m grown up now, stuck in the same small town where all of those people still live, and you know what they have? Guns. I’ve seen pictures of the permits, up on Facebook. Concealed carry.
I feel guilty, though, for being frightened. Illinois was a pretty solidly Democrat state—although I think a lot of the democrat votes come from Chicago, and I live in a very rural area.
But it’s not as if I’m visibly queer. I have long hair; I look like a cisgender girl. I’m not dating anyone; I’m only out as bisexual and genderqueer to a few people. I’m white. Logically, I’m relatively safe—as safe as anyone who looks like a woman can ever be.
And it’s not as if I see those people anymore, the ones from the mob. I stay in the house, mostly, and don’t see anyone, really, except my family: grandparents, cousins, aunt.
They voted for Trump.
My cousin has a baby shower coming up this Sunday—how am I supposed to go to it? How am I supposed to look these people in the eyes, these people who say they love me but think people like me are less than human?
I bite my tongue, second guess everything I say.
What a gorgeous woman, I say, when an actress comes onto the television screen, and then I wince.
I flinch when people use the wrong pronouns for me.
My mother says she has so much trouble remembering because she has to call me she in front of our family.
Just tell them, she says. What’s the worst that can happen?
My grandfather used to take me for boat rides when I was a kid.
He has a Trump sticker on the bumper of his truck.
They love you, my mother says.
My cousin taught me to ride a bicycle, to tie my shoes.
Voting Trump, she said on Facebook. Who’s with me.
He tells the truth, my thirteen-year-old cousin said.
What truth is that? The truth that people like me should be given electroshock? Or the truth that little girls like you are old enough for grown men to fuck them?
I am so angry.
Our family has lunch together every Sunday. At one of the lunches a couple of months ago, they had a discussion about how ‘homosexuals’ had ‘ruined’ the words gay and queer.
And there I am, in the corner, shaking.
I don’t go to those family lunches very often anymore.
They love you, my mother says, it’s not as if they’re going to disown you.
But I don’t want to be their fucking exception; I don’t want them to have to ‘overlook’ my queerness or ‘forgive’ me for it. Love the sinner, hate the sin—what sin, the sin of my existence?
I am so angry.
You act paranoid, my mother says, you act like you’re afraid for your life.
And maybe she’s right. Maybe I am paranoid. Logically, I know, I’m relatively safe, but I can’t help but feel that the teacher has walked away for the next four years.
I know the rules now, though: don’t wear a coat, if nobody else is wearing one. Smile when they call you she. Don’t glance at pretty girls. Bite your tongue. Present as your assigned gender.
The thing is, I don’t want to have to do that anymore. I want to be visible; I want to feel like I exist. Do you know, I didn’t even realize it was possible to be queer until I was twelve fucking years old? I learned it from a fantasy novel. I thought it was a misprint, at first, the main character and the love interest having the same pronouns. I had no queer role models growing up, because everyone I knew who was queer was closeted.
I am so angry.
I am tired of hiding; I am tired of feeling afraid.
the trouble is i never intend to push people away, i want to accept help from people and let people be there for me. when they offer, i am genuinely willing to accept their support and help at the time. but when it’s been a few weeks after and maybe i haven’t heard from them in a few days, maybe their responses have been shorter or different in tone, maybe they posted a photo with their other friends, and my brain processes that information and interprets my relationship with that person based on the current interactions, regardless of the past conversations where they expressed their willingness to help and be there for me. so it’s hard to reach out when my brain is telling me they don’t care anymore because of insignificant changes in their behaviour. if i push people away it’s because i genuinely don’t feel like they care about me anymore.
“I don’t understand tattoos,” Cas says. It’s a random and unexpected statement, out of the blue, but Dean’s used to that from Cas. He glances down at his chest, still bare from just getting out of bed, the anti-possession tattoo sticking out on his skin. “I understand your tattoo, of course,” Cas continues, “but I don’t understand ones that are purely decorative.”
Dean shrugs. “Some people like the art of it, I guess. Self-expression or something.” Cas stares in that way he has as Dean thinks for a moment, then speaks again. “And I think most people get them because they mean something to them. Remind them of something or someone important. Mark an occasion. Whatever.”
“Like they want to be permanently marked with the things they love,” Cas says, somewhat to himself, as he ponders Dean’s words.
"Exactly,” Dean says.
It isn’t mentioned again, and Dean promptly forgets the conversation.
It’s months later when it’s brought up again.
“Would you ever get another tattoo? One that was just for you?” Cas asks.
The Impala is on a busy street, stopped at a red light next to a tattoo parlor. Cas is peering through the window, and Dean rolls his eyes affectionately at his weird mind.
“I never really thought about it. But I guess. Maybe. Depends on what it was.”
Cas nods absently, still staring at the shop.
“Why?” Dean pries. “You thinkin’ about getting one?
Cas doesn’t answer, and the light turns green. Dean pulls away without giving it too much thought.
Again, it’s months later before it’s brought up another time.
They’re fighting a demon, one that unexpectedly showed up outside their motel for no reason other than it heard the Winchesters were there, and foolishly thought it could take them. Dean’s not really struggling with this fight, and he’s just about to pull his knife and finish the guy off, but Cas is suddenly there between them.
Cas is fierce, in protective mode, all electric grace and wings as he takes the demon out with almost no effort at all- just the wild look on his face he always has when Dean is threatened.
“Uh, thanks, Cas,” Dean says automatically, unable to really mean the words. He’s too busy staring at Cas.
Cas’ wings are green.
Dean recognizes that color green. He sees it in the mirror every morning. And he’s sure as hell that Cas’ wings weren’t always that same color.
“What, uh…um, that’s…” Dean’s stammering, unsure of how to ask his question, unsure of what his question is.
Cas looks embarrassed, which is so unlike him that Dean almost laughs. “I decided to change the color of my wings. It’s much the same as a human getting a tattoo.”
He doesn’t need to say anything else. Dean remembers their conversation about tattoos meaning something, about the art being about something or someone important. Marked with the things you love.
It takes a second to sink in, takes another second (or several) for Dean to gather up the courage to say what he’s feeling. “They’re beautiful, Cas.”
Their eyes meet, Cas’ full of surprise and hopeful joy, and Dean feels himself smile.
“I guess we have some things to talk about,” Cas murmurs.
“I guess we do.”
Dean takes a deep breath, then leans in and kisses him instead.