I am worried about them

did i ever show you this edit i made

anonymous asked:

Hello! Can we have boys spoiling each other (and Yura) with care, attention, by being mindful, or by something material? Sneakily or open - no matter. Thanks in advance! )))

Viktor is notorious for having the biggest holes in his pockets. He follows a rule of thumb: if it has animal stripes on it or it’s purple, he buys it, only to dump in front of Yura’s front door for him to find (if it’s both, well, that’s like Easter come early). On the same note, if it’s pretty and shiny or it reminds him of Yuuri, or if he even remotely suspects Yuuri would like it, it becomes a “late anniversary present” or an early one, whatever festivity is closer and fits.
Yura promptly wears whatever it was the day after, feigning ignorance, doesn’t look at him in the eyes and screams a little less than usual.
Yuuri tries desperately to get him to bring it back, this is getting ridiculous, why would I want this marble peacock statue with glitters glued on it, Vitya, oh my god, no, don’t cry, I really like it- clearly to no avail. They’re probably gonna have to move out soon or at least rent a garage or something.

Yuuri is a book manual mom friend. He makes bento for everyone at the rink (even Yakov) ((they need a bigger kitchen)), sneakily gives advice when Yura is out of his depth enough to not properly ask for it but making it slip that he would need it, wordlessly wraps his jacket around his shoulders when he stubbornly refuses to get his out of the car. He reminds Viktor to take his vitamins, makes him hot tea when it’s chilly outside (with his favourite jam, even if he shudders everytime), lets him cry into his neck when it’s a no day. He bribes him with cake at the price of eating his vegetables (you too, Yura, don’t give me the scowly face, you’ll never grow up by pirozhkis only) and sometimes he even lets him win at Monopoli (he’ll never give up his rightful place as the master of mario kart, that’s for sure).

Yura is a little more complicated. He’s so desperately young, and angry, but his rare smiles when he gets unguarded are proof enough. He scowls, and screams, props his socked feet on their coffee table and drinks the hot chocolate with marshmallows Yuuri dropped into his hands. He mutters obscenities and then asks Viktor to help him solve a physics problem. Viktor chirps that he’ll be happy to offer his services and Yura kicks him in the shin.
He’s always around, no matter if he complains and pretends to gag when they kiss, he never misses a friday dinner (it’s definitely a thing, now) and makes it his duty to bring the best ingredients for pirozhki. They take turns to do the dishes.


The thing is: sometimes Viktor is emotionally unavailable; he carves lazy eights on the ice, takes off for a loop and when he lands his eyes are cold, distant, his smiles the dazzling, fake photoshoot ones. Yuuri pretends to be too tired to practice and gets them home, Yura in tow, and Makkachin attaches himself to Viktor’s hip while they kick his ass at Cluedo (Viktor is always Miss Scarlet). They order take out and watch Titanic, to Yuri’s displeasure, and Viktor cries for the last half of the movie (and part of the first, too) but when Yuuri goes to wipe his nose, his smile is toothy and genuine. He snuggles between them and remembers that he’s not alone, that, no matter how many medals he’s won, he’s just Viktor, and that’s okay.

Sometimes Yuuri is too tired, and doesn’t find it in himself to cook.
Viktor cuts up the sausages into little octopuses and only burns them a little, but everyone at the rink still eats them and choruses their thanks to Yuuri, who blushes beautifully and hides his face into Viktor’s shirt. They leave practice early, despite his weak protests, and Viktor draws him a hot bath that they take together, lazily making swirls with the soap bubbles and humming old cartoon songs together. Yura stomps in the middle of couch cuddling with hot pizza and his cat, who Makkachin loves very much, and they eat together watching the two fluffy things battle for dominance (Makkachin wants to snuggle, Potya wants to be left alone). Yuuri lets the cushions and Viktor’s arms engulf him, takes deep breaths and remembers that he’s loved.

Sometimes Yura is closed off and stormy, his muscles sore and stretched out, his snarl genuine, the caged out expression of an unwillingly tamed beast. He hurts, feeling like he’s too big for his body, like his bones could suddenly snap under the weight he’s putting on them.
Viktor pretends to give him nasty pointers on his free leg, exaggerates his woes on purpose to give him something to channel his rage on. Yura fumes and curses, carving angry lines on the ice, and Yuuri puts up some music on the speakers that’s just hurling and bass thumps and they soar through the air till they can’t breathe anymore.
They buy ridiculously over saturated with sugar churros on the way back and make katsudon, screaming at the blue monster truck to get his shit together and Yura curls on the sofa like an exhausted cat. He stays the night, and when Viktor carries him to the guest room there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips. He refuses to get driven back by Viktor the day after, so they all take the crowded bus together, but in between ominous hisses Yuri’s expression softens, and he remembers that he’s enough, and powerful, and that, even if he doesn’t feel like it, he belongs.


Sometimes, it’s easy for them to believe they’re alone. But be it by ridiculously expensive tiger printed socks or food or simply being there, the mismatched, marvelous family they have makes it just as easy to remember that they’re not.

i love aroha’s because you guys aren’t like, “i wish they’d do more,” you guys are like, “i wish they finally get a chance to rest and eat well and see their families,” and it’s just so wholesome and warms my heart, thank you aroha for caring so much about these sweet boys

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maybe we’ll have our own booth one day. yvonne and gerry. second most famous interracial experiencer couple in the galaxy.

kavinsky’s pack of dogs aka my favorite misguided boys. i realize i’m posting this in the literal middle of the night, but it seems appropriate.

i finally figured out what i wanted all of them to look like and wanted to practice their faces before i did a whole big drawing with ‘em!

  • Clive: this ice cream's gonna melt if we don't get it in a freezer soon
  • Balthazar: well have you got any ideas in the meantime
  • Clive: *puts it against Balthazar's heart*
  • Balthazar: *yelps* very fucking funny Clive

Did someone say more flower crowns? Probably not but here you go anyway.

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UPDATE ON BABIES: Still very cute and smol (but getting bigger everyday!!) but THEY CAN SQUEEZE THROUGH THE FUCKING BARS OF THE CAGE AND IM HAVING SUCH BAD ANXIETY AND CONSTANTLY COUNTING THEM BECAUSE MY ROOM IS KINDA BIG AND FULL OF SHIT, PLUS I HAVE A DOGGO WHO COMES INTO MY ROOM WHENEVER HE WANTS

Jolly Good (OB)

Word Count: 1126
Genre: Smut(ish)
Warnings: I’d say this is mostly safe unless you’re under 15 years old.

This is part of the IRL drabble collaboration ongoing with @thesammtimes (My masterlist for it // Samm’s masterlist for it )

You go meet your future husband’s family for Christmas vacation.

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Al Satterwhite     Hunter S. Thompson, Cozumel, Mexico     1974


“We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world, a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully.  We are not just Whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts.  We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us. No redeeming social value. Just whores. Get out of our way, or we’ll kill you. Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having all this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush? They are the same ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American character. They are the racists and hate mongers among us; they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down the throats of these Nazis. And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them.”  Hunter S. Thompson, “Kingdom of Fear: Loathsome Secrets of a Star-crossed Child in the Final Days of the American Century”  2004


By this late point in the good Doctor’s life, his always snarky and hysterically ironic sense of humor had fled, replaced by anger, fear and clear-eyed bitterness at the role the United States played in the world.  We can only imagine how much more pointed a comment like this would have been had he decided to live on and had encountered Trumpworld.