When Viktor tells Yuri he’s going to fall in love with Otabek, Yuri kicks him in the shin.
Like hell he’d fall in love with Otabek. They may call him the Russian Fairy, but he didn’t think Viktor would take the nickname so literally.
And Otabek is his friend. His best friend. He’s seen enough movies to know that falling for your best friend can hurt.
It’s been years since they’ve met. Years since Otabek rode up and saved him from a mob of Yuri’s Angels (He still doesn’t know why they’re called that when they’re anything but angels). Years since Yuri agreed to be his friend. And still nothing. Yuri knew Viktor was wrong.
In fact, Yuri has stayed for prolonged periods of time with Otabek before and doesn’t feel a thing. He’s staying with him right now. For the past month he’s been crashing at Otabek’s apartment, sleeping in his bed, lounging on his couch, sharing meals at his table.
Today Otabek drags him out of the house and straight to the animal shelter. He tells Yuri he wants a pet, something to keep him company when Yuri is gone. Yuri blinks as he follows along, startled by Otabek’s reasoning.
“It’s not like I don’t call you all the fucking time.”
Otabek shakes his head as they stroll down the endless aisles of cages. “It’s not the same.”
Yuri frowns. He doesn’t understand what that means.
Dogs bark at them from all sides. Yuri flinches when one leaps at the door to his cage, rattling the bars. Dogs are… okay. But Yuri enjoys the quiet, self-sufficient, sassy nature of cats.
Otabek, Yuri thinks, must be a dog person.
“Why don’t you just have someone else come and stay with you?” Yuri continues, moving closer to Otabek as a particularly large dog pants heavily at him from the next cage over. “Like your sister?”
“You know she’s busy with school,” Otabek replies, bending forward to tickle under the chin of a small beagle.
“Tch,” Yuri clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. He turns away from Otabek to watch a dog attempt to dig a hole into it’s fluffy little bed. “Who gives a shit about school?”
Otabek’s reprimanding voice sounds further away. Like he left Yuri there to ponder the nonexistent logic behind a dog trying to turn it’s bed into a rabbit hole. With a heavy sigh, he turns and his heart stutters in his chest at the sight.
A small kitten dangles between Otabek’s hands, his touch gentle as he lifts her off the ground. Even from a distance Yuri can see the small red collar around her neck marking her as female. Otabek brings her up to his face, lightly pressing his nose against hers. He chuckles when her small tongue darts out to kiss his nose and Yuri swears the entire world tilts on its axis.
He doesn’t know if he can walk anymore. But it doesn’t seem like he has to because Otabek brings the kitten over to him. She glances up from her spot, snuggled against the bend of Otabek’s elbow and the side of his chest. Her eyes are the same color as Yuri’s, the same striking teal that Otabek has already admitted he loves so much.
“I think I found who I was looking for,” Otabek says with a smile. He runs a gentle thumb across the kitten’s cheeks and smiles fondly down at her. “Isn’t that right, girl?”
Yuri turns away as color rises to his cheeks. He’s pretty sure his heart is going to beat its way out of his chest and he can’t help but imagine the smug grin Viktor will wear when he tells him…
You gasp at the sight in front of you. Looking back at you through your mirror was yourself, but not exactly. You had just gotten out of the shower, and once you walked by the mirror, something a little blue had caught your eye. You went into the shower with y/h/c hair, and now you’ve come out with royal blue hair. You took deep breathes as you lifted some parts of hair from your scalp to see that all of it really was blue. Some strands were a more faint blue than others.
Meanwhile, Peter was sitting on your living room couch, giddy with anticipation. You didn’t know it yet, but he was the one who had put the blue dye in your shampoo. It was semi-permanent, he figured it’d be a funny little prank. He impatiently waited to hear something from you, knowing your reaction wouldn’t be subtle. He had heard the shower turn off, “Hows it going in there y/n?” Peter called to you.
It all clicked to you now. Peter was the one who had ruined your hair. Of course it was him. Blue hair to match his red and blue suit. “Peter Parker, I’m gonna kill you!” you screeched as you bolted into your room throwing on two pieces of clothing that were the first items you saw, a pair of underwear and Peters hoodie that you “borrowed”. With your wet blue hair, you marched out to the living room where Peter was laying, laughing uncontrollably. His eyes ran up and down your body and rested on your hair, “Well you look, amazing,” he told you, attempting to stop his snickering.
“You think this is funny, Parker?” You grumbled, breathing heavily.
“No, no not at all, I’m sorry. I think it’s hilarious,” He knew you meant war when you said his last name, but he couldn’t help but give himself a small pat on the back at his clever prank.
You groaned at his comment and began to advance towards him. Peter was taking no chances, knowing you were currently wild. So he flexed his arm out, and from his wrist shot out a web that pinned your fist to the bookshelf behind you. Looking at your hand that was covered in a sticky substance, your jaw dropped and features turned to a bewildered look. Oh he did not. You yanked and pulled at your hand, but it wasn’t escaping anytime soon.
“Look just calm down,” he tried to reason, with a wide smile on his face, “wait, is that my sweater?” he asked you in a higher, curious tone of voice. He cocked an eyebrow, as he studied the article of clothing. But because he was a teenage boy, his eyes became glued to your naked legs. He was quite enjoying your outfit,
“Don’t try to change the subject Peter. What did you do to my hair?” you demanded, ignoring his burning gaze,
“It was just a joke, baby. I swear.” He said, taking slow steps towards you,
“You think it’s funny that I get to match your stupid onesie now?!”
“Ugh, it’s not a onesie,” he whined, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger, “babe, I’m sorry-”
“Sorry isn’t going to help when I kick your ass!” you interrupted him, yanking at your hand once again.
“I’m not letting you out of that till you calm down y/n,” Peter told you, gazing down to webbing.
“I’m not going to calm down, my hair is blue!”
He sighed, and tilted his head to the side. He began walking towards you again. Once he was within arms reach of you, you brought up the hand that wasn’t pinned down, and swung it at Peters chest. He caught it before it could hit him, and he pressed his body against yours. Trapping you completely, in the corner between the wall and the bookshelf. You tried taking back the hand that he had a hold of, but he held it tightly and closely to his chest. You grabbed a fist full of his grey shirt, and attempted to push him away, but he wasn’t budging.
Peter lowered his forehead to yours, knowing your wild mood was slowly fading. He knew what he was doing, and he knew the effect he had on your body. “Stop it. I’m mad at you,” you spoke to him sternly, determined to keep your fuming attitude, to prove a point to him. “No, you’re not,” he persuaded you with a smile.
“Yes, I am. Look at my hair!” You argued not looking him in the eye. Again you tried shoving him away, but it was hardly worth trying, without control over either of your arms.
“There’s nothing wrong with your hair. It’s perfect,” he whispered to you. You stopped struggling against him, and decided your best bet now was to give him the silent treatment. Moving your head to the side, you didn’t give him any attention and took your forehead away from his. Shortly after, you felt a pair of soft lips press themselves to your temple. You closed your eyes at excitement of butterflies attacking your stomach. Peters lips pecked a trail of kisses down the side of your face, “I’m sorry,” he muttered in between every one of them. Leisurely, he brought them down to your exposed neck. Sticking to your plan of the silent treatment, you didn’t protest.
“Please-forgiveme-I’msorry,” he repeated every time his lips left your neck and reconnected them.
“I hate you,” you whispered, just barely audible for him. Peter smiled against your neck and placed his forehead back against yours, “What was that?” he asked teasingly with a grin. You tried so hard to keep a smile from taking over your lips, but you failed trying, “I hate you,” you said louder to him.
He shook his head with a smile, “No you don’t,” he declared with a laugh. You just nodded your head in response, letting out a laugh also.
“Nice sweater by the way,” he said to you, “mind telling me where you got it?”
I have spent WAY too much time on this thing. Have you ever just flexed out of nowhere? No one is even around. You just flex all your muscles to see if you have any and then you go walk out of your room as if someone saw you during that whole thing? Okay I’m just gonna go pass out from hunger now.
“There was this woman at the last dance who was like, ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks!’” recounts photographer Ethan James Green, sitting on a park bench near his apartment in lower Manhattan. “She screamed it while I was taking her picture.”
Green is quite young (27) and best known for capturing a very youthful downtown underground scene, so it’s slightly surprising that he spends his free time hanging around LGBT senior center dances, taking black-and-white prom-esque portraits of the elderly attendees. His subjects may be old, but in front of his camera they seem anything but. They flirt, they flex, they cavort, they make out, they goof off. “It’s almost like we’re on a fashion shoot,” says Green. “People really show up. They get to have fun, not care, just be who they are and not think twice about it.”
The subjects he shot for Vogue attended two of these dances. The first, last fall in Brooklyn, was hosted by GRIOT Circle, a 21-year-old organization dedicated to serving the needs of elder LGBT people of color (its motto: “We don’t do bingo!”). The second, this spring at the Copacabana on West 47th Street, was a fundraiser in support of SAGE, a national services and advocacy group founded in New York in 1978.
Three decades ago, when SAGE organized its first women’s dance, Jerre Kalbas, then a sprightly near-septuagenarian, manned (or rather, womaned) the door. In those days, she remembers, “we were still very frightened, very hidden.” Now 99, Kalbas walks with a cane and wears gloves to ameliorate the pain of acute carpal tunnel in her hands. She can’t dance (“Not these fancy dances!”), but she’s still showing up. “I love to see all the women dancing,” she says. “I mean: It’s amazing.”
Hoooo boy! Hit my first self imposed deadline for this project! Main poses roughed out! *flexes* It’s been awhile since I’ve hand drawn any animation but I had to be a part of this project!!! Everyone’s scenes have just been so freaking great and inspiring! <3
Still messing around with the colours and BG but I’ve been super loving this whole process <3
He doesn’t talk and acts all stoic as Zelda’s knight but hjfbkfshdbh it’s all an act…. like this fuckin nerd pats his tummy after eating, and will kick open a treasure chest with bare feet acting SURPRISED when it hurts, and makes lil shiver noises when he’s cold, and fucking flexes his muscles when shirtless…… like he’s not cool dont let him fool you