He seemed so...shocked? Understandable given as they'd never met before and Lilith decided popping in as a surprise was the best option, she at least hoped he wouldn't attack her for now.
Legs shifted embarrassed at his little outburst, watching him carefully she decided to stick to her distance for now as not to scare him any further "You must be scared, I'm sorry dear, I wasn't sure how else to approach" The Demoness gave a small innocent smile, picking up his dropped phone by her hooved feet and holding it close as if she'd treasure whatever he touched.
"I'm Lilith, I've been...observing you for a little while I hope you don't mind" It didn't seem he had noticed much, so that was enough of a sign to her that he didn't.
Taking a small step forward, gentle hands held out his phone to him as a sign of a peace offering "This is important to you is it not? You humans cling to it a lot I've noticed, such a strange little device. I-I mean no harm, please don't be scared okay?".
Part 2 of Model!Yuri and Photographer!Otabek.
Part 1 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5
AO3
The next time Otabek works with Yuri Plisetsky, he's expecting it. He’s been paying more attention to the names of the models he will be working with and Yuri’s name had finally shown up again. Not that he was necessarily looking for it.
Of course, even if he had not seen Yuri’s name on the latest contract he would still know. The clothing that lines the racks around him is none other than the same line of tacky animal prints that he remembers Yuri modeling before. He can't fathom how someone as talented and as good looking as Yuri would end up modeling for a designer with little to no fashion sense, though he can't deny that Yuri can pull them off.
Yuri actually makes them look good.
“Will you stop with the fucking hair?”
Otabek glances back. Yuri’s vanity is set up in the same room as the photo studio, set off to the side behind Otabek to be out of picture range. His stylist fusses over a few strands at the front of Yuri’s head that Yuri himself keeps ruffling loose every time she turns her back.
“Just leave it like that.”
“But Yuri, it’s not--”
Yuri’s voice deepens in warning. “Don't touch.”
Otabek’s lips twitch. They're the same few strands of hair he had pulled forward at their last shoot. Admittedly he’s glad that Yuri is leaving them down. He looks better with his hair a little unkempt. Slicked back and still isn't a look that suits Yuri Plisetsky.
The other side of Yuri’s head is braided tight against his skull, intricately woven until it meets the length of blond hair that rests against his back. Otabek likes this look. It suits the clothing and the wearer.
This time Yuri is wearing a tight pair of leopard print leggings, black with white spots. Faint glimpses of gold and teal circle each spot. Heavy, black combat boots come up just above his ankles. The shirt is a tight white V-neck. Two enormous paws come over each shoulder, the claws set tight into the chest area right where the end of the V meets.
Yuri stomps over, ruffles a few more strands of hair out of place, much to the dismay of his stylist and stares at Otabek, challenging him.
“Otabek Altin.”
Otabek’s lips twitch. “Yuri Plisetsky.”
“Consider yourself lucky that I'm booking you a second time,” Yuri tells him, with all the confidence of a top model. “I rarely work with same photographer more than once.”
“Is that so?” Otabek brings the camera up to his face.
Yuri shifts into a position without being told what to do. He slips his right hand into the neck of his shirt and grabs his right wrist with his left hand. Both arms are positioned perfectly so as not to block the design of the shirt. Otabek snaps a few pictures.
Yuri turns to the side when Otabek moves, tilting his body enough to expose one of the paws fully. More pictures. Otabek can't deny that he loves the ease that comes with working with Yuri. If he had a choice, he would only photograph him.
They're nearing the end of the shoot. Otabek is almost out of film and Yuri seems to know that without being told. It’s at that moment that Yuri hooks a thumb into the waist of his leggings and tugs them down an inch, exposing a perfect cut of hipbone. His other hand slips up the hem of his shirt, brushing his fingers seductively across his abdomen.
Otabek’s mouth goes dry and he almost forget to hit the shutter-release to capture these perfectly posed, tantalizing shots.
Then it's over.
Yuri is stepping out of the lighting and off to the side, running his fingers through his hair to break it from the confines of the product holding it down.
Otabek steps up beside him and inclines his head. “A pleasure working with you again, Yuri.”
Yuri smirks. “Because I wasn't as much of a shit as last time?”
Otabek’s brow rises.
“Don't act so damn surprised.” Yuri pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it to his stylist who scrambles to catch it before it hits the floor. Otabek adamantly keeps his eyes on Yuri’s face instead of giving in to the pull of glancing at the newly bared skin. “I know I'm not everyone’s cup of tea.”
“Ah,” Otabek shrugs and offers a faint smile. “I happen to like a little unsuspecting spice.”
Yuri snorts and shakes his head.
“Though I will admit,” Otabek gestures toward the clothing racks. “It’s a shame they keep putting you in these unfortunate animal prints.”
Yuri eyes flicker back toward the clothing before they return to Otabek, narrowed into a glare. His lip curls into a sneer as he says, “Oh yeah. It’s a damn shame I'm modeling my own line of clothing because no other model is competent enough to do it for me.”
Otabek’s jaw drops and the camera nearly tumbles from his grasp. “Your…”
“Yeah, asshole.” Yuri jerks a thumb back at the clothing racks behind him. “My line. I designed this unfortunate animal print shit.”
Fuck…
Otabek runs his fingers through his hair, grips at the nape of his neck and sighs. “Shit… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--”
“Yeah, it's whatever.” Yuri pulls an oversized sweater from of one the racks and slips it over his head. “Again, not everyone’s cup of tea.”
“It looks good on you,” Otabek offers, trying to salvage what he can.
“Damn right it does.”
Otabek nods and turns back toward his cameras. He should pack up. He should leave before he makes any other stupid, unintentionally rude comments. Before he ruins this more when he wants to make sure he has the chance to work with Yuri again.
As he’s zipping up his bag and sliding the final lens into its case, he feels a gentle tap on his shoulder. Glancing back as he straightens up, he catches sight of Yuri backing away. He waves to Otabek and says, “Until next time then?”
Otabek stares, unsure if he hears correctly.
Next time?
“Otabek?”
Snapping out of his stupor, he nods and lifts his hand in goodbye. “Yeah,” he says, fighting back a smile. “Until next time.”
Yuri smiles back this time and it's bright, almost childish. It makes Otabek’s heart forget how to beat for a moment, makes him forget how to breathe.
And then Yuri is gone. Yuri and his cursing, his naturally abrasive nature, his undeniable talent, his unexpected professionalism, his tacky fashion sense. Everything that makes him not-everyone's-cup-of-tea.
Otabek catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror standing on the opposite side of the room. Dark boots, dark jeans, black top that shows off the tattoo sleeves he spent ages designing. The tattoos don't stop at his arms, they trail across his knuckles, up his neck. They're on his hips, his ankles, across the top of his feet. His eyebrow piercing gleams in the bright studio lights. The small gauges in his ears match well with the darkness of the rest of his outfit.
He knew, going into any business, that the tattoos and piercings may turn out to be taboo. He didn't care then and he doesn't care now. If someone turns him down for a job because the story of his life is etched into his skin, then they don't deserve to have someone with the impressive resume he has. That's how he’s always seen it.
But as he stares at himself now, the only thing he can think is, I’m not everyone’s cup of tea either.
“That’s a rude thing to say to your master.” He huffed, staring right back up at Luxu. He was a cat in a human body, everyone knew that. Well, apparently not everybody. “I’m way more interesting than any book you could possibly read. So you should clearly pay more attention to me.”
◤ The touch to his shoulder made him jump as he turned to the body next to him. He should have smelt the man getting closer, but the Fanalis was still adjusting to being blind.
If he was honest with himself he wasn’t adjusting at all. In fact, he had thought about dying many times. He just turns away, “oh.” was all he answered. ◢
{ ♫ };;
"I… I don’t know. You, as yourself, have to find that out yourself. Rather you trust me or not, that’s your choice. However," Maka paused, taking in a deep breath. "if you, oh, lets say you put your trust in me.. I won’t disappoint you. I promise with my very own soul.”
▓⊰❊;;
Her trust was not something that was easily given, not after
her sister broke it, forcing her out into this castle by expos-
ing her to the kingdom. "If I, say, put my trust in you. Would
you stay here, and help me protect my castle?" Agile hands
reached out, fingers combing through her pigtails. "My dear
girl, what is your name?"
"Garotinhas?" ela ergueu a sobrancelha, parecendo ofendida com o termo que o Vermelho usou—quer dizer, tinha tanta cara de inocente assim? "Eu tenho quase vinte anos, muito obrigada."
Elizabeth era mais incisiva do que deveria—para o seu bem. O lenço azul amarrado na blusa branca de seda estava levemente desalinhada, além de alguns manchas no tecido, o que sugeria que ela esteve envolvida em alguma coisa. Mas ela parecia bem—bem demais até.
"Eu não faço ideia de onde estou, mas vim de Columbia" retrucou, virando a cabeça para olhar melhor ao redor. "Eu estava na First Lady e aí apareceram uns caras e… bem… eu tive que fugir e cá estou. Nós não estamos em Paris, estamos? Isso aqui não parece nada com a Paris que vi no meu livro."
E como falava! Todos os modos da garota, seu jeito de falar, a audácia e a firmeza com que concluía os fatos, mostrava que ela não era boba não—era muito inteligente, na verdade, já que por toda a sua vida a única companhia que teve na torre onde esteve morando até então foram os livros.
Informação demais. Foi isso que Dante concluiu no final das contas enquanto cruzava os braços sobre o largo peito coberto pela camiseta preta de costume. Algo parecia estranho sobre ela, no entanto... Paris? Capulet City não era nem perto de Paris, muito pelo contrário, seria necessário horas pra percorrer todo o caminho "First Lady? O que diabos isso deveria significar pra mim?" Ele murmurou em um tom bem baixo, só pra sí mesmo.
Também tinha a questão das marcas no lenço... Será que ela estava machucada? Entrou em confusão com os grandalhões de Capulet City e acabou por machucar a cabeça esquecendo da história real? "Vamos por partes, como dizia Jack o Estripador" Dante gargalhou. Boa, mencione um assassino para uma garota falando com um estranho - boa, Dante.
---------"Qual é o seu nome, senhorita 'Tenho vinte anos, não sou garotinha'?"
Augustine~ Hah, is that really how you answer the phone? For everyone?
-He chuckles a bit. What a nerd.-
This is Maxie. I figured I’d try calling your number since I’m not doing much else. How are you?
——{ -✿♥- } "I'm a very formal man." Augustine pouted, but it wavered after a few seconds and turned into a bright smile. "Maxie! A-ah... it's nice to hear your voice again. And I'm alright, a little bit busy, but ya know... nothing too much though. How are you doing?"
