“Hi,” says Viktor, smile bright and camera-ready. His hand, when he extends it, is small and delicate. “I think you know who I am, but we haven’t met.”
His accent is very thick, very Russian in a way Yuri has never heard before. He looks from the offered hand to Viktor’s face, barely an inch higher, and tracks his hair, long and pale and spilling over his shoulders. He can’t be older than, well, Yuri.
im no exactly sure how id do it yet but would any of you be interested in a ‘safe’ tag and/or blog ??? like basically a collection of stims that are free from some of the most common triggers (hands, trypo, knives, background noise, clusters, etc.) ???
think of asexuality/not feeling sexual attraction like this:
imagine you were born being unable to smell. you could see, hear, feel, and taste but you could not smell. people all around you tell you about how flowers smell. how some flowers smell sweet and others can smell more bitter. you’re confused, because you believe that bitter and sweet are words to describe the taste of food. people tell you about how flowers smell, and they hold flowers up to your nose to get you to smell them.
you smell nothing, and you might even sneeze from the pollen. you tell them to stop making you smell the flowers, because you just can’t. and they tell you, “flowers smell so good though!” and no matter how hard you try, you just can’t…smell…the…flowers.
and you can appreciate how the flowers look, and how they grow in nature, and you can draw them and read about them and appreciate the flowers but you are literally unable to smell them.
James Potter: seventeen, hair got struck by lightning at age
four and hasn’t sat down since, knuckles that jut out, holds his wand between
his teeth to impress girls- to impress the
girl, doesn’t own one pair of matching socks, the kind of attractive that
fills the ribs, fills the shoulder blades, fills the heart, Sirius painted his
nails once and he kept the polish on all week, sees the girl before registering anyone else in the room, young organs
pumping young blood, wired to himself, to his boys, to the girl, can tell what you’re about to say before you say it, he’s
just sort of like that, has a habit of leaning arms on peoples shoulders, starts
the trust fall before anyone realises they’re meant to be catching him
Sirius Black: seventeen, eats whipped cream by the fork
full, rolls up the sleeves of his robes, begins most conversations with: you absolute fuck, column of his throat
running down the neck like water, leaves his text books all over school, made
of gut feeling, of instinct, of starting before you know how to finish, a part
of him still stuck in that house, with the door slamming, with his mother
yelling, with the world ending, he is
the bomb going off in the swimming pool, he has probably made a bomb go off in
the swimming pool, smoking just outside the door- look- you can see the smoke,
you can see the shaking hands.
Remus Lupin: seventeen, jumpy, long eyelashes, the sullen quiet of fog
in winter, scars up the arms, round the neck, across the chest, eyes that stare
as if they are waiting for permission, plays the same records until he’s mouthing
the words in his sleep, gives out flowers for gifts, sarcasm that could stop
the heart, soft, like the skin above your collar bone, like stained glass
windows with light through them, like seeing a star in a textbook, knowing
that something that good is out there
even if it is far away, often has wind billowing through his baggy t-shirts, pulls
out his bottom lip when thinking, at night wakes up sweating, dreaming of blood
in his mouth, the kind you get when you rip an arm off, when you lick the bone
Peter Pettigrew: seventeen, socks right to the knee, eating
an ice cream, has a sore neck from always looking up, raw fingernails- bitten
to the cuticles, full of fear, oozing fear, could fill cathedrals with this
fear, burns books for no reason, unmade bed, the flush of a cheek that is bloated,
a mound of blood, sits on the floor because there is no room at the table,
counts on his fingers, pulled a muscle when walking up the fourth staircase,
shuts his eyes, opens them, realises he is still in his own skin, pale, a stick
of white, unassuming, like flowers, or the moment the ground gives way, all at
once, as if it was going to all along
Are you saying that the live-action movie has replaced Shang with some random gary stu OC whose straight guy boner™
is instantly activated once he realizes Mulan is actually a cute girl and not a guy
People on my feed are saying that Disney’s doing this because they’re trying to dodge “bi speculations”, and this is after making such a big deal about being progressive re: Le Fou in Beauty and the Beast - what’s wrong with Shang liking Mulan a lot when he thought she was a guy (and to end up still liking her when he found out the truth, which is how it should be)?
Like wow, you can miss me with this tbh, Disney has done it again
When a classmate showed me a photo of some shirtless, male celebrity in a desert, saying “That’s pretty hot, isn’t it?” and I just looked at her in confusion and said: “Well, of course it’s hot in the desert.”