#;modelau

[kaijoskopycat]

Another addition to Model!Yuri and Photographer!Otabek cause I can’t let go sometimes. Plus... Viktor had to make an appearance before I completely ended it anyway.  AO3 || Previous

“I'm surprised you agreed to this,” Otabek says as they stand in the elevator. His arm is draped casually around Yuri’s waist as Yuri fiddles with the hem of his loose, tiger printed sweater. 

“Have you seen this line of clothing?” Yuri counters. He scowls at their reflection in the elevator doors. “If it wasn't so fucking amazing I would've said no. You really think I want to work with him that badly? He’s gonna drive me batshit crazy.” Otabek chuckles. “You're admitting someone else has a decent line of clothing?” Yuri punches him in the side as the elevator bell rings. The doors rumble open and Otabek’s arm falls away, hoisting his camera bag up his shoulder. Yuri barely has the chance to take half a step out of the elevator when he’s knocked off his feet, tackled by a tall, silver haired man. Yuri’s string of curses is drowned out by the shout of, “Yuratchka!” Otabek can't help but smile. “Get the fuck off me, old man.” Yuri struggles underneath Viktor’s weight. Viktor pulls back, beaming. “You agreed to a shoot with me! Yuratchka, I knew you always wanted to work with me.” Yuri successfully shoves Viktor away and scrambles to his feet. He scowls down at Viktor, straightening his sweater. “I'm not doing this for you, idiot. I'm doing it for the clothing line.” 

Viktor pushes himself to his feet and smiles. “I’m glad you enjoy Chris’s clothing as much as I do.” 

“Tch,” Yuri scoffs and stomps past Viktor. Otabek follows, fighting back a smile. Yuri always gets a little grumpy before a photo shoot involving another designer’s clothing. “I don't enjoy it. Just this line.” “Yuri, you wound me!” Yuri groans and rolls his eyes at Otabek as Christophe enters the room. He stands beside Viktor, draping an arm over his shoulders. Otabek knows about their mutual agreement to work solely with one another as he and Yuri do. But seeing them together makes him respect that agreement even more. He appreciates the familiarity that exists between them. It makes him feel more comfortable. “You certainly seemed to enjoy the last photo shoot you did for my clothing line,” Christophe smirks, his eyes flickering between Yuri and Otabek. Otabek’s eyes widen minutely. He glances at Yuri, watches the color rise to his face before he raises a single finger toward Christophe and Viktor. Viktor pretends to look scandalized and Christophe laughs. “Consider yourself lucky I decided to work with you again.” Yuri enters his dressing room and slams the door behind him. Otabek sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He turns toward Christophe and Viktor. They're grinning at one another like they have a secret worth sharing. Otabek doesn't know if he wants to know it. “Christophe.” Both pairs of piercing eyes turn toward him at once. It's unnerving. In their industry, both Christophe and Viktor are powerful men. That fact doesn't escape Otabek as he gestures down the hallway. “Should I set up?” “Yes, of course!” Christophe breaks away from Viktor and makes his way to the hallway opening. “Second door on the right. The set should already be set up. Feel free to the adjust the lighting as you see fit. I trust your judgment.” “Mm…” Otabek nods in understanding and heads down the hall. He’s about to open the door when Christophe calls after him. “And Otabek?” Otabek glances up, hand on the door handle. “I think you’ll enjoy the outfit I’ve picked out for Yuri. It suits him quite well.” He winks and disappears around the corner. Otabek shakes his head and makes his way into the photo studio. If this outfit is anything like the last Otabek knows he’ll like it. Maybe a little too much. 

Christophe is right. Otabek does enjoy the outfit Yuri will be modeling. Flames lick up each side of Yuri’s upper body, embroidered with a shimmery material that makes them look real when they catch the light. They stretch across Yuri’s chest, across his abdomen, almost touching in the center where a stripe of mesh connects the shirt. Otabek can see Yuri’s stomach clench through the mesh and he has to remind himself to look at the whole outfit, at all of Yuri. Not to fixate. The pants are jeans, though not simple ones. Christophe redefines the casual jeans and a t-shirt. The dark wash jeans hang low on Yuri’s hips, darkened with stains that look like streaks of ash. Holes riddle Yuri’s legs, some exposing his pale skin, some with flames peering through the tattered, burned material. “Beka.” Yuri’s voice, low and teasing, breaks him from his distracted stare. “I told you this line was fucking awesome.” Otabek’s lips twitch. “Awesome is one word for it.” Yuri crosses the space between them. He runs his fingers up Otabek’s arm, stopping at his shoulders. He squeezes and leans in to breathe the word, “Hot,” against Otabek's ear. Otabek shivers and watches him saunter toward the vanity where the makeup artist is decidedly absent. He fiddles with his camera, adjusts the lights once more (he’s done it three times already, but Yuri’s costume has given him other ideas for the shoot) and does everything he can to focus on the photo shoot and not how badly he wants to rip that shirt off Yuri’s body and make him hot in other ways. Distraction, Otabek thinks with a frown. Only Yuri could muddle his brain like this. He turns away from where Yuri sits, intent on cleaning his lenses when Viktor walks in. Viktor is equally as captivating. Otabek now understands the appeal, why he's so sought after in the modeling community. Viktor is statuesque. Tall, broad shoulders, slender waist, perfectly shaped, pouty lips, eyes a color nearly as stunning as Yuri’s. Ice blue. His eye color is perfect for the clothing theme. Silver boots travel up from the ground, clutching at the top of Viktor’s thighs. His legs look impossibly long in those boots. The dark blue pants look as though they’ve been painted on. Otabek swears they must be to fit in boots as tight as those. Viktor’s shirt is completely sheer, white. Crystals are intricately woven through the fabric and every time they catch the light it looks as though an icicle forms on Viktor’s skin. Otabek wants to say something, but he doesn't know what would be appropriate to say. You both look amazing sounds too obvious and it doesn't begin to do this line of clothing justice. It’s almost as though Christophe designed this line specifically with these two in mind. He waves at Viktor, about to comment on the way the shirt draws the eye, when a voice he never expected to hear at a photo shoot comes from down the hall. “Viktor! Honestly, you forgot the armlets. Yuri too! I know they're not the most comfortable, but they really…” Yuuri Katsuki comes stomping through the doorway, slowing his gait when his eyes land on Otabek’s shocked face. “Really make the outfit…” He finishes with a sheepish grin. “Katsuki,” Otabek says as Yuri shouts, “What the fuck is Pork Cutlet doing here?” Otabek shoots him a glance over his shoulder to which Yuri offers his tongue in response. Yuuri grabs Viktor’s arm, slipping on brittle looking bands of fake ice from his elbow to the palm of his hands. “I--” He pushes Viktor faces away as he whispers something in Yuuri’s ear. “I'm actually a makeup artist.” Yuuri pulls back and shrugs. “Christophe requested me for this project and I just…” His eyes cut to Yuri and his smile softens. “I couldn't pass it up!” “Ah, my Yuuri is too sweet,” Viktor coos as he loops an arm around Yuuri’s waist and presses his lips against his forehead. “He was just dying to work with me and--” Yuuri pushes his face away again and scowls, ignoring the wounded look Viktor flashes at him and the crocodile tears. “Viktor, please. Professionalism. I work with you all the time.” Otabek chuckles and he hears a snort from Yuri in the background. Though Yuri likes to act like Viktor’s fiancé is the most offensive man on earth, he knows Yuri cares about him, even likes him, likes being around him a lot more than he wants to admit. Yuuri’s lips twitch as he walks past Otabek, offering a nod in greeting, and heads toward Yuri. “I've got similar accessories for you too, Yurio.” Otabek turns, watching as Yuri scowls and holds out his arms. He knows about Yuri’s qualms about that nickname. He also knows that he understands why Viktor gave it to him, even though he hates it. Grabbing a small camera out of his bag, he slowly heads over to the vanity where Yuri sits. He holds up the camera to Yuuri who has already started to unpack his impressive array of makeup and holds it up to him in question. Yuuri nods enthusiastically and gestures toward an empty seat off to the left. Otabek shakes his head. “I'm more comfortable standing,” he admits, shifting to the left to snap a picture of Yuri as he scowls at his reflection in the mirror. “Gives me better angles.” “Don't you dare take shitty pictures of me, Beka.” Yuuri chuckles softly as he presses a gentle finger under Yuri’s chin to tilt his head back an inch. “Then I’m lucky pictures of you are never shitty.” Yuri’s cheeks flush a deep red and his hands clench on the arms of the chair. “Oh, maybe I won't have to use any blush,” Yuri teases, dodging Yuri’s leg when he kicks it out in frustration. They all fall silent after that. Yuuri focuses on building the intended makeup to go with Yuri’s outfit. Yuri lets his eyes flutter shut, opening them only when Yuuri asks him to. Otabek snaps pictures here and there. He’s never gotten better photos of the makeup process. He watches Yuuri build a fire on Yuri’s face, quite literally. He lines Yuri’s eyes with a pitch black kohl. From the kohl he builds a fire, two flames that grow from the tips of Yuri’s eyelashes, over his brows, and onto his forehead. He contours Yuri’s face with black, ashen smudges that look like burn marks etched into Yuri’s skin. When Yuri opens his eyes, the final product brings out the faint flecks of gold in his eyes. He looks like he could set the world aflame. He’s already set Otabek on fire. Viktor’s makeup, when finished is equally as impressive. The second Yuuri’s first brush hits his skin, he falls silent, relaxed. And Yuuri builds an ice age on Viktor’s face. He takes time to tint his skin blue, contour his cheeks in a deeper blue shade and a pale, icy blue highlights the rest of his face. An icy shimmer dusts his cheeks and his eyes and Yuuri adds small crystals below his eyebrows, sprinkles flecks of glitter on the tips of Viktor’s lashes. His makeup is prettier than Yuri's, more feminine. Or it would be if Viktor’s raw masculinity didn't make it look so intimidating. As he steps into the light and turns to flash a smirk at Yuuri, a shiver runs down Otabek’s spine. Otabek is almost certain if Viktor had the power to do so, the room would be covered in a sheet of ice. “Perfect,” Christophe croons as he steps into the room and takes in the sight of Yuri and Viktor, their looks fully completed. “Yuuri, your skill never fails to astound me.” Yuuri, in all his modesty, blushes in response and shakes his head. “Really, it's your clothing line that brings it out.” “Sassy and modest,” Christophe tuts and smiles at Viktor. “You make sure you keep this one.” Viktor taps his ring finger where a tan line can faintly be seen. “I already am.” After the comfortable banter, Viktor and Yuri take their places against the black backdrop. The negative space surrounding them combined with the light blaring in from all sides makes them seem ethereal, almost supernatural. It’s like the sun and moon in the center of a pitch black universe. Otabek lifts his camera and is immediately struck by the fact that he doesn't know where to face his lens. He is naturally drawn to Yuri--for more reasons than one--but Viktor is such a natural that he can't help but tilt to the side to keep him in the frame. Christophe must sense his hesitance. He comes up on Otabek’s left and says, “Individual shots are needed, but I want them together as well. I want to focus on the stark contrast between the two.” Otabek nods and finally pushes down to take the first photo. Yuri’s eyes burn as the camera goes off, catching a moment when he runs his tongue across his upper lip and traces a finger down the flames that dance along the right side of his body. Viktor extends a hand, the faux ice bracelet that wraps around his palm glistening in the light. Otabek snaps a photo. It almost looks like Viktor holds a snowflake in the palm of his hand. Yuri leans his body backward, bracing his back against the dark wall and stretching his arms out on either side of him. He tilts his head downward, drawing attention the flames on his body and on his face. He sure knows how to work those body angles. Otabek snaps another photo. And another as Viktor imitates Yuri’s pose, back against the wall, hands in his hair, one leg draped elegantly over the other. His eyes flutter shut. The crystals catch the light. He looks regal, all-powerful, all-knowing. “Yuuri, I need you for a moment.” Otabek pauses as Yuuri shuffles over. Christophe gestures toward Viktor and Yuri and says a few things that Otabek doesn't hear before Yuuri runs off to grab a few brushes and a palette. When he returns he heads toward Viktor, pulling Viktor’s right hand toward him. “If you were that desperate for me to wear my ring, all you had to do was ask,” Viktor says with a smile. “Wrong hand,” Yuuri points out, flashing a grin. Otabek chuckles. He takes a few more pictures of Yuri as Viktor’s hand gets a makeover. “There!” Yuuri steps back and turns toward Otabek. “I’ll get out of the way before I sully your photos.” “Yuuri!” Viktor’s voice rises in protest. He reaches toward Yuuri. “You could never--” Yuuri steps out of reach. “Hand!” He warns with a frown. “Ah…” Viktor has the grace to look sheepish as he steps back into place. “And what am I to do with my hand?” Otabek notices the tips of Viktor’s fingers are darkened, black like they've been burned. “Fingers to the bottom of Yuri’s chin, like you're scratching it, or tilting it up for him to look at you.” Yuri immediately scowls and Christophe claps his hands. “And that's the exact face I need you to make Yuri! Such a capable model!” Otabek fights back a smile as he lifts the camera. Viktor’s lips curl into a smirk and it looks so natural, an image of a normal interaction between Yuri and Viktor and yet so much more. He snaps a few pictures before Viktor moves his hand, improvising. His fingers slide across Yuri’s cheek, down his neck. They pause at his collarbone when Christophe tells him to stop and Yuuri once again scurries over. He covers Yuri’s pale neck with trails of blue and silver. It looks as though ice has formed on his skin, so realistic it makes Otabek shiver. Viktor doesn't need a cue when Yuuri moves away again. His fingers press against the end of each trail. Otabek’s camera goes off. Yuri lifts a hand pushing against Viktor, another to press against his neck like he’s trying to warm the cold imprinted on his skin. They feed off one another, Otabek notices. He’s never seen Yuri work with anyone before. But as much as Yuri doesn't like people, he needs them to help him improve, to give him goals to reach, a reason to surpass the level he’s already at. Viktor is the best person for that job. He’s a level Yuri hasn't reached, a person Yuri desperately looks up to no matter how much he denies it. Otabek has seen the rare glimpses of admiration. They warm him. He wants this for Yuri, for him to reach greater heights in anything he aspires to do. He knows when the last picture is taken by the way Christophe cheers and sighs dreamily. “Aaah, what did I do to deserve such brilliant models?” Viktor prances away from the background and grins at Christophe. “You are simply too talented, my friend.” Otabek ignores their chattering and places his camera on the table before heading toward Yuri. Yuri who is trying to tug the dark red, black and gold wristlets off his arms and failing with a string of creative curses. Otabek can't help the faint smile that crosses his lips as he grabs Yuri’s arm and slowly, carefully slides the bracelet off. He does the same with the other arm, bringing Yuri’s palm to his lips before letting him go. Yuri’s cheeks light up, but he slides an arm around Otabek’s neck to pull him in for a kiss when Viktor’s shout interrupts them. “Yuratchka, professionalism! No making out while on the job.” He already has his arm around Yuuri’s waist, their bodies pressed tightly together. Yuri’s lips curl into a snarl. “Shut the fuck up, old man! Like you can talk!” He snatches one of the bracelets off the ground and whips it across the room at Viktor. iktor dodges with a hearty laugh and Christophe croons, “How fiery!” Otabek grabs Yuri around the waist before he can throw himself at the two of them. “My fire,” he says softly, chuckling as he presses a kiss to the side of Yuri’s forehead. Yuri grumbles and relaxes in Otabek’s grip. “I'm gonna kill you all. I hope you know that.” “Only after I get you out of that outfit,” Otabek counters. Yuri hesitates before slipping an arm around Otabek’s waist, his hand dipping into the back pocket of Otabek’s jeans. “Yeah, only after that.”

[kaijoskopycat]

Model!Yuri and Photographer!Otabek Happy belated birthday @makariaartsabout :D Happy Birthday, Yuri Plisetsky, you angry, russian nugget. Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 AO3

Otabek had never planned to go into fashion photography, but as fate would have it, he has an eye for camera angles that fashion magazines highly favor. Now he’s done this so many times that it’s second nature.

He already has his cameras and lenses set up behind him, the preliminary camera in hand. He focuses the lens on the lights, on the background, on the people milling about, on the clothing that hangs on the racks around. Snaps a few pictures here and there. He likes having images of the setting for himself, to remember where he was, how he’s progressing and where he’s going.

As he clicks through the photos, he pauses to zoom in on the fabric. A wide variety of tacky, overdone animal prints. He grimaces. He’s seen some bad fashion in his time in the industry, but this one is definitely high on the list of things he’d never wear. How could anyone look good wearing what looks like dead, dyed animal skin?

With a sigh, he lowers the camera. A door opens off to the right and he hears one of the managers ushering the model in. Otabek tilts his head backs and hopes for a model who will listen, who will take his non-verbal queues and cooperate. He’s not a talkative photographer and works better when the models understand that.

“If you’ll just head over to the--”

“I know where the fuck to go.”Otabek grits his teeth. Great. A model with an attitude. He doesn't think this shoot with last.

Holding back another sigh, he lowers his head as the model steps into the light and Otabek’s heart stutters in his chest.

The first word that comes to his mind is beautiful. But that doesn't begin to do this young man justice. All models can be described as beautiful. This young man is maybe a few inches taller than Otabek, slender, but there’s definition to his muscles that make it hard for Otabek to pull his eyes away.

He’s wearing a full leopard print suit, pants hung low on his hips and jacket open over a bare chest. His long, blond hair is slicked back, away from his forehead. It hangs down his back, stopping just below his shoulder blades. But the most captivating part of him is his eyes, piercing, teal. They're such an odd color that Otabek struggles to pull his gaze away.

The indifference he sees in those eyes is as startling as it is interesting. Otabek has never met a model so impassive.

“Ah, Altin, this is Yuri Plisetsky. He’s…” The manager comes up beside Otabek and gestures toward Yuri’s slouched form. “He’s really a lot more professional than he appears.”

“Mm…” Otabek nods. He doesn't look at her.

Yuri Plisetsky.

Yuri steps into the exact spot Otabek wants him to start in and takes a deep breath. Otabek watches all the disinterest bleed away, watches the scowl on Yuri’s lips disappear, the furrow in his brow smooth out. He slips his hands into the pockets of the suit pants and tilts his head back a fraction of an inch.

Otabek’s eyes widen. It's such a captivating pose. So simple, but the angles are all perfect. It’s exactly what Otabek is looking for.

“A lot more professional than he appears…” Otabek mutters to himself as he lifts the camera to his eye. That's clearly an accurate way of describing Yuri Plisetsky.

Click.

Otabek snaps a few of the same pictures then shifts onto his knees. When he moves, Yuri moves with him. He doesn't have to say a thing. When he shifts to the left, Yuri tilts his head to avoid the wrong kinds of shadows. When he moves to the right, Yuri pulls open the right side of his jacket, giving him a teasing, enticing glimpse of more of that pale, unblemished skin.

“Can you--” Otabek tilts his head downward and Yuri tilts his head down too. It's the first time during the shoot that Otabek thinks, this isn't right. He purses his lips and brushes his finger over the shutter-release, but he’s not quite ready for the picture.

He stands and lowers the camera. Yuri’s brow rises, but he doesn't move when Otabek takes a step forward. He stops in front of Yuri, fights the urge to glance downward, to stare at the long expanse of Yuri’s abdomen up close. He stares into Yuri’s eyes and even though neither one of them says anything, Otabek knows he has permission to do what he didn't ask aloud.

He reaches forward, brushes his fingers through the hair just above Yuri’s forehead. It’s soft, despite the product that holds it down. Otabek ruffles the hair, letting a few strands come loose and fall forward.

“There,” he says as he steps back, holding the end of one strand between his fingers.

Yuri stares at him. Otabek doesn't see the same impassivity he saw before. Confusion, yes, and maybe a little amusement. Yuri’s lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile before all emotion dissolves into that same disinterested stare.

Otabek stares back. He releases the end of Yuri’s hair, reaching up to trace the tips of his fingers from Yuri’s forehead, down across his jawline, to the tip of his chin.

“You have a beautiful jawline,” Otabek says softly as he steps back. “We need to frame it.”

Yuri’s eyes widen minutely and Otabek sees his throat bob as he swallows. A light coloring dusts his cheeks and Otabek thinks it's the perfect look, the perfect expression he’s looking for. So he snaps another picture.

“What the fuck?” Yuri hisses, his eyes narrowing. “I wasn't ready.”

Otabek snaps another picture.

“Altin,” Yuri growls, his composure easily slipping.

“Otabek,” Otabek counters. He lowers the camera again and gestures toward the stylist who brings him a loose fitting tank top with a sequined tiger face sewn into the front. “My name is Otabek.”

Yuri blinks at him and doesn't move. The stylist stands beside him, the tank top held out for him to grab.

“I'm not sure if you know how this works,” Otabek begins, allowing himself a small smile. “But generally when the stylist brings you a new piece, you're supposed to change into it.”

Yuri’s scowl returns and he shrugs off the jacket, whipping it toward the stylist as he yanks the tank top out of her hand. “I know what the hell I’m doing, Otabek.”

Otabek reaches behind him, replacing his small camera with a larger, more impressive lens. Yuri is worth it. “Then let’s get back to work, Yuri.”

Yuri tugs the tank top over his head and sneers before allowing his face to fall into a expression expected of a model.

Otabek lifts his camera and whispers, “Perfect.”

Click.

[kaijoskopycat]

Part 3 of Model!Yuri and Photographer!Otabek Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 4 || Part 5 AO3

Otabek has worked with Yuri now more times than he can count. He’s done what he told himself he would never do and cancelled on other models when Yuri’s manager called him for a last minute photo shoot. He finds himself comparing other models to Yuri, losing his patience with them, ending shoots earlier and earlier because he’s sick of giving directions he doesn't feel like he should have to give.

He’s also used to Yuri as a person now. Used to his scowls, his derisive comments toward everything he doesn't like (that list is long). He knows where Yuri is from, about his attachment to his grandfather, about his annoyance with his bubbly elder cousin, Viktor, who happens to be a model as well. Otabek has seen his covers, his spreads in fashion magazines. He’s stunning, there’s no doubt about that, but too flashy for Otabek’s taste.

He knows how Yuri takes his coffee, extra cream, no sugar. Knows that Yuri’s favorite food is his grandpa’s pirozhki. Knows that Yuri doesn't just love animal print clothing. His taste extends to furniture and all other home decor as well. He loves wildcat stuffed animals and has a pet cat himself.

Otabek has grown fonder of Yuri than he has of any model, of anyone, in his lifetime.

He’s working on the final wash in his development process of another image of Yuri when his phone rings. He assumes it’s Yuri. They're having dinner tonight. At Otabek’s place. It’s the first time since he’s moved into his own apartment that he’s invited anyone over. But he wants Yuri to see all sides of him. Not just him behind the camera, not just him in the outside world, but him in a place where he feels most comfortable, where he can be himself.

He turns off the gentle stream of water and gently hangs the finished photo on the line with the rest of the prints he’d developed over the past few hours.

Ensuring total darkness is left behind him, he slips out of his darkroom and brings the phone up to his ear.

“Ah, Mr. Altin!”

Otabek blinks in surprise. He pulls the phone away from his face and stares at the contact name.

Ah, Yuri’s manager. Not Yuri.

“Anya,” Otabek greets politely. “I was under the impression that you had the day off. Yuri isn't working today, is he?” He tries to keep the rise of potential disappointment out of his voice. It wouldn't be the first time one of them has cancelled due to career obligations.

“Oh, no. He’s not working. I am…” She pauses. Otabek can imagine her biting her lip in the same exasperated way she does every time she apologizes for Yuri’s abrasive behavior. “I stopped by to drop off a contract I had drawn up for Yuri and I thought it would only be fair to contact you as well, as you are involved in it and--”

“Anya, what the fuck are you doing?”

Otabek’s lips curl into a smile.

“Yuri, I thought you were in your office and--”

“Are you on the phone with Beka?”

“With Mr. Altin? I-- yes, I thought I’d get a jumpstart on this for you so you could--”

Otabek hears stomping in the background as Yuri’s voice grows louder. “Give me the damn phone, Anya. Go home. Spend time with your kids, for fucks sake.”

“But Yuri, I--”

“Go! Tell your husband I’ll have more pirozhki for him next time.”

Otabek raises his voice to interrupt their exchange. “Don't forget to give Anya back her phone.”

“Oh shit! Anya, wait!” Otabek chuckles as he hears more heavy footfalls. “Beka, call my phone.”

Yuri hangs up without further warning and Otabek is quick to hit number 1 on his speed dial. Yuri is the only number he has on speed dial. Thankfully, Yuri is quick to answer.

“God, that was a fucking mess.”

“She's very good at her job, Yura.”

“Yeah,” Yuri expels a puff of air and Otabek knows the sound. He’s flopped down onto his leather couch, covered with a huge leopard print blanket. “She’s great. But she doesn't take a damn break. Sometimes I need time to myself. To do what I want.”

“Tonight?” Otabek offers, heading down the hall to check on the stew he left simmering on the stove. It’s a favorite recipe of his from his childhood. His grandmother made it, his mother made it and he adopted it and added his own little twist. Yuri shared his favorite childhood dish with him. Now Otabek wants to share his with Yuri.

Yuri snorts softly. “Tonight…” Otabek can practically hear the mischievous grin spreading across Yuri’s lips. “Are you going to let me do what I want?”

Otabek chuckles. “When have I ever told you no, Yura?”

“Good point.” Yuri lets out that soft, almost obscene sound he makes when he’s stretching. “So speaking of not saying no… this contract.”

“Ah, yes.” Otabek lifts the lid of the stew pot and breathes in. Perfect. “Anya mentioned a contract. Another photo shoot?”

“Every photo shoot, Beka.”

Otabek’s breath catches in his throat. He replaces the lid slowly, processing Yuri’s response. “Every…”

“I want you to work only with me.” Yuri’s voice shakes as he continues. Otabek knows this tone. It’s the only time Yuri sounds vulnerable, the only time he wonders if he won't hear what he wants to hear. “I know that’ll limit you, but I'm willing to open myself up to modeling the shit other designers create to give us both more revenue.”

“Yura…” Otabek rubs at his nape. He’s reluctant to admit that he’s wanted this since the second photo shoot they did together. “You know some designers work solely with their own photographers, right? They might not want me.”

“Too fucking bad,” Yuri snaps. “They don't take you, they don't get me. I won't model for anyone unless your lens is pointed at me.”

Otabek draws in a sharp breath and bends forward, pressing his forehead against the cool countertop in his kitchen. He’s smiling now. Back when he started working in this industry he knew he was a selective photographer, but he never fully closed himself off to any opportunity. This would close many doors for him, but open so many more, and the doors that would open would be the only ones he’d want to enter. Especially if he’s entering them with Yuri Plisetsky.

“Beka…” Yuri’s voice sounds far away, small. “You're allowed to say no.”

Otabek lets out a quiet, genuine laugh. “Yura, we’ve been over this. When have I ever told you no?”

“You're an asshole,” Yuri barks through the speaker, but Otabek can hear the smile in his voice. “How dare you make me wait for that fucking answer!”

“Then how about we stop waiting altogether,” Otabek says. “How about you come over right now? Dinner is ready.”

“But it’s still early--”

“I don't care.” Otabek runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. “I don't care, Yura. I want to see you.”

“Tch…” Yuri pauses and Otabek waits for the reciprocation. “I want to see you too.”

“Good.”

“Better leave the damn door unlocked for me, Beka.” “For you, Yura, always.”

[kaijoskopycat]

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.

[kaijoskopycat]

Part 6 of the supposed-to-be-finished Model!Yuri and Photographer!Otabek AU that I am too weak to let go of. AO3

“Oi, Beka. What is this?”

Otabek drops a few marshmallows into each mug of hot chocolate he made. He makes his way toward the couch, slowly, carefully. He's not about to have another accident like when Yuri made them coffee and stomped, like his usual Godzilla self, and sloshed the dark liquid all over Otabek’s favorite rug.

“You know I can't see what you're referring to when I'm in the kitchen,” he teases, gently placing Yuri’s mug on the coffee table in front of him.

Yuri wears an oversized sweater and nothing else. It’s a piece from his newest line, featuring a tiger head in an army helmet. His new designs incorporate military style dress with his signature animal prints. Yuri says Otabek was his muse. He likes to compare Otabek to a soldier.

Otabek won't admit that he loves it. Won't admit that his favorite article of clothing is the military jacket from that line with tiger print around the collar and the cuffs of the sleeves.

He lowers himself onto the cushion beside Yuri, bringing the mug up to his lips to blow away the steam. Yuri holds up a thick portfolio with the words Y. Plisetky-Candid written in Otabek’s nearly illegible scrawl across the front. Otabek’s breath stutters on the way out, making the hot chocolate leap from the lip of the mug onto his pants.

Yuri snorts and grabs the mug from his hand to take a sip.

“That one was mine,” Otabek tells him as he rubs at the new stain on his old, grey sweatpants.

Yuri shrugs and takes another sip. “It was closer.” He taps his slender fingers on the cover of the portfolio to bring Otabek’s attention back to it. “So what is this?”

“Ah…” Otabek sighs, rakes his nails lightly across the small hairs at the nape of his neck. He knew he forgot to put something away when he cleaned his apartment earlier. “I keep portfolios of all the photo shoots I’ve done.”

Yuri’s brow rises as he taps below his name.

“I organize them by model,” Otabek explains. “I have many from my shoots with you.” He reaches forward to take the file back, but Yuri holds it just out of reach.

“What the fuck is candid supposed to mean?” Yuri flips open the portfolio. “I don't remember a photo shoot involving--” He gasps as his eyes land on the image on the first page.

It’s the first candid photo Otabek had taken of Yuri, from their first photo shoot together. Yuri with a few strands of blond hair pulled forward to frame that beautiful jaw of his. Lips parted. Eyes wide. Cheeks tinted a faint pink in embarrassment and surprise after Otabek had brazenly dragged a finger down his cheek and shamelessly complimented him.

Yuri flips to the next page to find the second candid photo Otabek had taken of him only moments after the last one. Yuri is scowling in this one. His eyes are narrowed. His lips curl into a snarl from when he said Otabek’s name for the first time.

Well, he had said Altin, but had easily been swayed into using Otabek’s first name.

“These are…”

“Photos of you I took for myself,” Otabek admits with a fond smile. “Not for any photo shoot.”

Yuri presses his lips into a thin line as he turns to the next page where he’s greeted with another scowl and the middle finger. Yuri is wearing that scandalous outfit Christophe designed for him. Otabek loves this one. It shows that no matter what designer Yuri is wearing, he will always be his usual, grumpy self.

“You take the worst pictures of me,” Yuri grumbles as he slaps a hand against the next picture where he’s got a pirozhki stuffed halfway into his mouth.

Otabek chuckles. “Weren't you the one who said you would only allow my lens to photograph you?”

“For modeling spreads, asshole.” Yuri continues to turn the pages, faster and faster. He deliberately speeds past the pictures of himself sleeping. There are quite a few of them.

Otabek’s guilty pleasure.

He pulls his eyes away from Yuri’s annoyed curiosity to reach for the other mug of hot chocolate. As he brings the cup to his lips he notices Yuri hesitate on the next picture.

Yuri reaches out, trailing his finger down his own profile. Otabek can't remember exactly what he said to make Yuri laugh in that way that makes the bridge of his nose scrunch up, but he remembers thinking it was a beautiful look for Yuri. So happy. So free.

Yuri scowls. "My face... what the fuck am I doing?"

Otabek smiles down at the picture. He can still hear Yuri's boyish laughter in his ears. "Being young," he replies, reaching out to lace his fingers with Yuri's free hand. Being happy.

Yuri scoffs, tilting his head forward so his hair covers his face. But Otabek can see the red tint on the tips of his ears.

"Looks stupid..." Yuri mutters, flipping to the next page. He gives Otabek’s fingers a squeeze and Otabek knows it’s Yuri’s way of saying he likes it without having to outright admit it.

Otabek knows how to understand Yuri’s silences and gestures almost better than he understands his words. Yuri isn't good with affection, but he loves it all the same. Sometimes he doesn't know if it’s appropriate to cuddle into Otabek’s body. Sometimes he just does. Sometimes he’s too embarrassed to admit aloud that he likes Otabek’s shameless compliments, his forward gestures and easy admittance of love and adoration.

Otabek isn't embarrassed by what he feels. He’s got an entire portfolio of everything he loves about the Yuri that only he knows, after all.

“Beka, how many pictures did you--” Yuri chokes on his words and jerks his hand out of Otabek’s to slam the portfolio shut.

Otabek cocks his head to the side, trying to remember the last picture he had seen on the page. A picture of Yuri and Viktor. Viktor ruffling Yuri’s hair, laughing in that big, animated way he always does. Yuri’s mouth open as he yelled at Viktor, his hand pressing into Viktor's stomach in a failed attempt to push him away.

Out of all the photos that would embarrass Yuri enough to make him stop looking, that one wasn't high on Otabek’s list. He mentally flips through the portfolio, recalling which pictures decorate the next page.

Ah…

“You printed them…” Yuri whispers, his face beet red. He glances at Otabek, deliberately avoiding meeting his eyes.

Otabek tries to look sheepish, but judging by the way Yuri’s eyes narrow he must be failing.

“You sound surprised,” Otabek observes aloud. “You knew I had the camera on a timer.”

“I didn't think you’d develop them!”

“Printed,” Otabek corrects him with a twitch of his lips. “Digital camera, remember?”

“Beka…” Yuri growls.

“Let me see them.”

“No.”

“You do know I can look all I want when you're gone.”

“Tch.” Yuri huffs, blowing his long bangs out of his face. “Didn't know you were such a pervert.”

Otabek reaches forward and this time Yuri lets him take the portfolio away from him. He carefully places the mug of hot chocolate back on his coffee table and rests the portfolio in his lap before cracking it open to the page Yuri had slammed shut.

Maybe this does make him a pervert, but this is another one of his favorite photos. He’s in this one too, standing with his arms braced beneath Yuri’s thighs as his strong, slender legs wrapped around Otabek’s waist. His nails are digging in to Otabek’s back and red trails race up his shoulder blades, meeting the tips of Yuri’s nails as they catch on his skin. Otabek is glad his face is hidden in the bend of Yuri’s neck because it gives him the perfect view of Yuri’s face. The blush on his cheeks. The swell of his kiss bruised lips, parted in the cracked moan of Otabek’s name. The way his eyes squeeze shut, blinding him to everything but the pleasure Otabek had been giving so readily.

“You…” Otabek caresses the tip of his finger across Yuri’s cheek, down his side, over the curve of his hip just barely visible behind Otabek’s bare back. “Still look so beautiful.”

Yuri slaps his arm and shoves at him. “Fucking pervert,” he mutters, shifting to lean into Otabek’s side. He cuts a glance toward the picture. Otabek hears him swallow thickly beside him before he says, “Your back looks sexy.”

Otabek snorts. “I don't look too bad,” he agrees, lifting an arm to drape it over Yuri’s shoulders.

“I said sexy,” Yuri points out, pressing his finger against the image of Otabek’s lower back.

“Sexy,” Otabek repeats as he tilts his head to the side to press his lips against the side of Yuri’s head. “Am I turning the page?”

“No.” Yuri gently closes the folder. “I don't need to see anymore pictures. I have the real thing.” He pushes the portfolio to the seat of the couch beside Otabek and shifts until he’s straddling Otabek’s waist. “I’ve pretty much seen the entire <em>candid</em> file anyway.”

“Mm,” Otabek hums, lifting a hand to brush Yuri’s hair behind his ear. “Except I have a few more files of candid photos of you.”

“What the fuck, Beka?”

[kaijoskopycat]

Part 4 of Model!Yuri and Photographer!Otabek (this part in particular was encouraged by @makariaartsabout) Part 1 || Part 2 || | Part 3 || Part 5 AO3

“You know, when I invited you over it wasn't supposed to be for a photo shoot,” Otabek says as he pulls out a small, commonly used digital camera.

Yuri clicks his tongue and smirks, running the tip of his forefinger across the bunched up waist of Otabek’s sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He doesn't know why Yuri changed into them. Doesn't care. Because damn do they look good on him.

Otabek snaps the first picture and only belatedly notices Yuri’s tongue running across his upper lip in a manner as leisurely and alluring as the finger on his sweatpants.

“Fuck… Yura…” Otabek cards his fingers roughly through his hair in exasperation. Heat spills across his body as Yuri’s next pose is to pull up the front of his shirt, grasping the hem between his teeth. It's animalistic, dirty, sexy.

Otabek’s finger spasms on the shutter-release, takes the picture for him.

“I’m not even close to done, Beka,” Yuri breathes as he releases the fabric of his shirt, only to tug it over his head. Shirtless Yuri Plisetsky is a sight Otabek has seen many times before, but never like this.

Never has Yuri been so provocative. Every other time involved high fashion poses, more statuesque and hard beauty than this bewitching allure.

“Talk to me, Beka.” Yuri demands, sliding a single hand into the top of his pants as he angles his head back an inch. He brushes his fingers across his lower lip and Otabek quickly snaps another photo. “Tell me why you're using a digital camera now. Why the film in the shoots?”

“I--” Otabek doesn't know if he can form a coherent sentence just yet. He allows himself to drink in the sight of Yuri, hand down his pants, the other moving up to fist in the hair at the front of his head, pulling it loose. “Shit…”

“Beka,” Yuri all but purrs, tugging his pants down a fraction of an inch.

“Digital camera was easiest to access,” he admits with a shrug, shifting to relieve some of the pressure in his tight, black jeans. “The film…”

Yuri drops both hands to the waist of the sweatpants and slowly tugs them down, swaying his hips from side to side. Otabek’s finger repeatedly clicks, taking photo after photo.

“Tell me about the film.”

“It’s too easy nowadays,” Otabek replies breathlessly. “There's little room for error in a digital world.”

Yuri releases the fabric, lets gravity pull the sweatpants to the floor. His tight boxer briefs are--of course--tiger striped, gold and orange and black.

Otabek throws his head back and laugh. “God…” He loves him. He fucking loves him.

“Yura,” Otabek continues, snapping a few more photos as Yuri’s thumbs hook into the elastic waist of the boxers briefs. It's very obvious that this is exciting Yuri. Otabek is far from unaffected himself. “I like taking the time to develop photos. I like knowing that I'm not perfect. I like remembering that photography has traditional roots that speak to simple human error and it's okay to over expose a photo. It's okay to size it wrong, to use too much developing fluid, to overwash the final product. We’re only human.”

“Holy fuck, Beka,” Yuri drops a hand to his front, groping at himself over the tiger print fabric. He moans, soft, breathy. The sound goes straight to Otabek’s groin. “You really are perfect.”

He can't wait anymore. Otabek sets the timer on his camera and places it on the nearest table. As he crosses the room toward Yuri, he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside.

Yuri’s eyes widen, his mouth drops open and Otabek sees his hand tighten on himself as he closes in. “I--”

Otabek slides an arm around Yuri’s waist and pulls their bodies together. “Perfect,” he repeats, brushing his nose against Yuri’s. “That's my line.”

He’s kissing Yuri, right as the first timed photo goes off. And Yuri is melting against him, running his hands up Otabek's arms, gripping at his shoulders. Otabek swallows the moan that Yuri hums against his lips. He slides his hands downward to grip at Yuri’s ass over his tight boxer briefs.

“Tacky,” Otabek breathes with a faint twitch of his lips.

Yuri blinks at him. It takes a moment for his eyes to clear before he scoffs and husks, “You love them.”

“I’ll love them even more when they're off.” Otabek slides his hands into the back of the tacky briefs. He relishes the feel of Yuri’s smooth skin, the roundness of his ass. Revels in the way Yuri groans his name.

The camera goes off again.

He kneads his hands into Yuri’s ass, pulling him in a slow, heated rhythm against his hips. Yuri shifts, reaches behind himself to tug the back of the briefs down.

“Then take them off.” Yuri’s voice breaks, exposes his want in a way the sultry expression on his face could never do. Because Yuri can make that face in photos and sell it like he means it. No one can hear his voice like this but Otabek.

Otabek huffs out a tight breath between his teeth, swears internally because Yuri is making his iron control crumble. He slips a hand downward, pinches at the bunched up fabric and tugs.

The camera click slices through the fog of his mind, reminds him that this is real. This isn't a photo shoot. This isn't Yuri as a model. This is a side of Yuri that belongs to him. His.

He’s about to look down. He’s about to take in a sight he’s imagined, dreamed about more times than he would ever admit to Yuri. Even if Yuri openly admitted to getting off to Otabek’s voice. But Yuri stops him with a hand against his chest.

“Wait,” Yuri gasps, taking a step back. It's amazing how badly Otabek can ache for Yuri even though he’s right in front of him. “Let me just…”

Yuri trails the tips of his fingers back and forth across Otabek’s chest, tracing the tattoo designs. He pauses right over Otabek’s heart, draws circles with the tip of his forefinger before walking them downward.

“How…” Yuri’s voice is soft, awestruck. His fingers dance across the slim line of hair that trails into the top of Otabek’s jeans. “How do you stay behind the camera when you should be on the other side of the fucking lens?”

Otabek let's loose a shaky breath he wasn't aware he was holding, resolutely keeping his eyes on Yuri’s face. “I like to capture moments.” He sucks in another breath as Yuri flicks open the button of his jeans, making quick work of the zipper.

Another picture.

“Uh huh…” Yuri’s eyes are trained downward. He reaches his other hand forward, peeling the jeans open, exposing the stain of Otabek’s lost control. “To capture moments…” He tugs and the jeans pool at Otabek’s feet.

“Not…” Otabek can feel the strain in his voice. “Not be caught in them.”

He jumps as Yuri presses his finger to the stain and circles, slowly. His eyes flicker upward, watching Otabek’s expression pinch as he tries to restrain himself.

“What about this moment, Beka?”

This moment… “Fuck, Yura…” Otabek yanks his boxers down and kicks them and his jeans off his feet. He’s lifting Yuri off the ground, feeling his long, slender legs wrap around his waist when the next picture goes off.

It burns. Everywhere Yuri touches, it burns. It almost feels like he’s etching his own tattoos into Otabek’s skin and Otabek hopes he’s leaving marks because no tattoo he has on his body could begin to imprint on his soul the way Yuri has.

The feverish way Yuri grinds into him, whimpers his name, scratches his back… it’s animalistic. He would expect no less from Yuri Plisetsky.

“Beka,” Yuri gasps, pulling Otabek’s hips forward with a squeeze of his legs. “I’m already…”

Otabek’s fingers slip between Yuri’s cheeks, hooking inward. The broken groan that leaves Yuri’s lips makes Otabek shudder. His grip on Yuri’s hip tightens, bruises. He can feel it form beneath his fingertips, but Yuri doesn't tell him to stop.

His fingers move with ease. Yuri is already so open, already sucking his fingers in as deep as they will go and Yuri keeps panting, “deeper” against his ear.

“You…” Otabek gently withdraws his fingers, gripping Yuri’s ass to support his weight.

“I’m sick of waiting,” Yuri breathes, catching Otabek’s lower lip between his teeth. He bites down, hard. “Stop being a goddamn gentleman. I can take it.”

Otabek snorts and brushes his lips against Yuri’s. “Who am I to deny you what you want?”

As he sinks into Yuri all rational thought crumbles as easily as Yuri fits around him. And he does fit easily. It’s like Yuri’s body was made to consume him.

“Ahh…” Yuri gasps, his nails dig into Otabek’s shoulders, his head tips back. Otabek vaguely hears the camera go off again in the background and can't help but think of how perfect Yuri will look in that picture.

Otabek tilts forward, presses his lips against the stretch of Yuri’s neck, pulls the skin between his teeth. Yuri shudders at the contact, hoarsely whispers, “Yes…” as Otabek bites down.

He drives into Yuri, relentless, needy. Yuri, to his blissed out credit, moves along with him. He uses Otabek’s strong, broad shoulders as leverage, pushes up as he lifts his hips. Otabek can feel the muscles in Yuri’s back clench and release, clench and release. Powerful, overwhelming as the muscles that tighten around him.

“I'm not gonna--”

“I know…” Otabek’s hisses out, slamming a hand against the wall beside Yuri’s hips. He’s not going to last either.

But that's okay. He’s wanted this for longer than he can remember and if it doesn't last forever, he’s okay with it. He knows why he doesn't get caught in moments, because they don't last. But moments never cease to exist. This will end, but he has an infinite number of moments to spend with Yuri.

“It's okay,” he breathes against Yuri’s ear. He slides his lips across Yuri’s cheek to steal a brush of a kiss. “Let go, Yura.” He presses their foreheads together. “Let go.”

Yuri’s voice cracks as he comes, the sound splintering around Otabek’s name. He throws his head forward, pressing his face into the crook of Otabek’s neck. It’s his panting of, “Shit, Beka… fuck, that was so good,” that sends Otabek over the edge.

Otabek now knows what it’s like to be blinded by the flash of a camera. He sees white. Repeated flashes of bright light burn behind his eyelids. He thinks maybe this is what Yuri sees, that maybe he was blinded by the camera too often and that’s why he fell into Otabek’s lap.

But Otabek doesn't care. He’ll flash a few more blinding photos of Yuri Plisetsky if it means Yuri will be his forever.  

“Wow…” Otabek presses his forehead against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. “Wow.”

“That's one word for it,” Yuri snorts, shifting his legs so Otabek lowers them gingerly to the ground.

“Can you stand?”

Yuri laughs. “You're pretty damn confident in your skills, huh, Beka?” Yuri sticks his tongue out as he moves one step forward. “I can walk just f--”

Otabek catches Yuri around the waist as he stumbles forward. The camera softly clicks away another photo.

“Well, fuck…” Yuri relaxes in Otabek’s grip as he pulls him back against his chest.

“How about…” Otabek moves them slowly toward the table where he left the camera. He reaches out to switch the power off. “We just stay like this for a little while?”

Yuri scrunches his nose and furrows his brows. “Thought you didn't like being caught in moments, Mr. Fashion Photographer.”

Otabek chuckles and presses a soft kiss to Yuri’s temple. “Maybe I can be caught for a little bit longer.”

[kaijoskopycat]

Part 5 - End of Model!Yuri and Photographer!Otabek Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 AO3

“Can you believe the tacky shit he wants to put me in?”

Otabek glances at the clothing on the racks they pass as they enter the photo studio. Sure, it’s not necessarily something he would wear himself. Bold printed button-downs and sheer tops are not his thing, but he’s seen more than his fair share around town. Coupled with a dark pair of jeans they don’t look too bad. Then again, they don’t make nearly as much of a statement as Yuri’s outrageous animal prints.

“Tacky?” Otabek replies with a soft tut and a half smile.

“Shut the fuck up, Beka,” Yuri mutters, scowling at the stylist who’s smile in greeting instantly melts away.

“You’re not making any friends here,” Otabek points out, shifting his camera bag up his shoulder.

“Who the hell said I wanted to make any more friends?” Yuri growls in return, kicking off his shoes as he reaches his vanity and ruffling the mess of his hair.

“I’m going to set up,” Otabek tells him, reaching out to brush Yuri’s hair out of his face. “You gonna be okay?”

Yuri sneers, pulling out his phone. “I won’t bite anyone’s hand off, if that’s what you mean.”

Otabek chuckles and nods. He leaves Yuri in the hands of the unfortunate stylist.

Yuri is in rare form today. Not that Otabek can blame him. It’s his first photo shoot for a line of clothing that isn’t his own. Under their new contract, Yuri agreed to model for other designers. Otabek assured him on more than one occasion that he wouldn’t mind shooting Yuri in only his line if that’s what he preferred, but Yuri was reluctant to close all doors to them and, true to his word, accepted an offer from the next designer to reach out to him.

Yuri, it seems, is quite popular with other designers. His prowess in front of the camera drew plenty of well-known names to him and he had always turned them down in the past. More offers had piled into Yuri’s lap since his time in the industry than all the jobs that Otabek has worked in his career. Yuri always turned them down.

Otabek can’t help but feel a swell of pride at the fact that he is the reason Yuri Plisetsky, one of the most sought after models in the industry, is now on the open market.

“Otabek Altin.”

Otabek turns to find the source of the voice. He recognizes the man even though they’ve never met in person. Tall with blond hair ruffled at the top of his head that bleeds into a dark root undercut. Christophe Giacometti is known for his bold attitude and sensual style. Otabek can already tell he’s going to drive Yuri insane.

“Your photographs of young Yuri…” Christophe glances over Otabek’s shoulder where he can hear Yuri berating the stylist for her choice of hair product. “Are simply delicious.”

Otabek grits his teeth and manages to offer a slight smile as he extends his hand. “We’re both very pleased to be working with you.”

Christophe grabs his hand and pulls it up to his lips, ghosting them across Otabek’s knuckles. Startled, Otabek yanks his hand back. Christophe only laughs in response.

“Sometimes I forget that people aren’t as forthcoming with affection as Viktor is!”

Ah… Now Otabek understands Yuri’s reluctance. He knew he had seen Christophe’s signature line on someone familiar. Viktor Nikiforov’s most recent editorial spread involved extensive explanations of why he preferred to model the Giacometti line and involved more images of him in provocative poses than Otabek feels was necessary for a high fashion magazine. At the very least, Yuri will be able to prove that even a mesh shirt can be elegant, high fashion as opposed to dime store, back alley club smut.

Not that Otabek would ever say this to Christophe. He’s a photographer. He’s not here to have an opinion on the fashion, only to capture it in the best light he can. And he’s got the best model to do it with.

“For fucks sake,” Yuri’s voice comes up close from behind Otabek. “If this was any more see through I’d be fucking naked.”

Otabek glances over his shoulder. His breath catches in his throat. Yuri is barefoot. The leggings cling to his ankles, a sheer black and white geometric design climbing up his calves to his thighs. A solid cut of black fabric covers Yuri’s front, reaching like claws down his inner thighs. His ass is equally as covered, blocked off in solid back. The shirt is completely sheer, tight. It looks as though it’s been stitched straight onto Yuri’s skin. A red diamond decorates the center of the shirt, starting right below Yuri’s navel, framing a each nipple on either side of Yuri’s chest and stopping at the juncture between his collarbones.

He can't figure out why Yuri was bitching about the hair product. Yuri’s hair is wild, tousled in a way that gives it volume enough to look like a lion’s mane.

“Close your goddamn mouth, Beka,” Yuri warns as he passes by. “You're gonna catch flies.”

Otabek quietly wheezes as his eyes fall to Yuri’s waist and the perfect way an identical diamond on the back of the shirt points straight to his ass. Which, he has to admit, looks amazing in those tacky leggings.

Christophe gasps and claps excitedly beside him. He turns to Otabek with a wide, dazzling grin. “I designed this outfit specifically for Yuri!” He admits with a admiring sigh. “I knew he’d come to his senses. I'm simply too big a name to pass up for long!”

“Mm,” Otabek hums in response as he pulls his cameras out of his bag. “That and the promise of wearing something other than dead animals…”

“I fucking heard that, Beka!”

Otabek’s lips twitch as he lifts a camera and snaps a candid photo of Yuri’s scowl and accompanying flick of a finger.

He opts out of using real film for this shoot and collects only the few digital cameras he intends to make use of instead. Developing images of Yuri is more enjoyable when Yuri is in his element.

“Ready, Yuri?” Christophe steps up beside Otabek as he slips a new memory card into his camera of choice. Otabek glances at him. The air of frivolity is gone, replaced by a mask of concentration Otabek has seen on more than one big name designer. Christophe wants certain things from his models and his professionalism speaks to that desire.

“Turn to the side.” Yuri blinks once, not used to needing to take orders on set, before turning his body to the side. Christophe nods and fists his fingers into the mess of hair at the front of his head. “Grab your hair like this, tilt your head to the side… no, no, I mean forward. Yes. And scowl. Give me that signature bad boy look.”

Yuri’s eyes widen for a second long enough for Otabek to capture a quiet image of his surprise before he delivers exactly what Christophe is looking for. His scowl is almost a pout, drawing everyone in. Alluring.

“Perfect,” Christophe breathes, shifting from foot to foot. His nervous energy can't even distract Otabek from the sight of Yuri outperforming Viktor Nikiforov in his own favored line of clothing. “Perfect. Yes, now bite your lip.”

Otabek snaps a few photos as Yuri tilts his head enough to draw stray strands of his messy hair forward. Christophe releases a wheeze of excitement.

“Yes. Yuri, you know exactly what I'm looking for.”

The reverence in Christophe’s voice is not lost on Otabek. He knows it’s weighed heavily on his own tongue before when compliments on Yuri’s looks, on his abilities, on Yuri himself have fallen from his lips unbidden. He should feel pride to hear them come from someone else.

Instead he feels this unbearable urge to blindfold Christophe. To tug Yuri behind the curtain, to keep him away from the prying eyes of others.

Insanity, he thinks as he clicks away another photo.

Yuri’s eyes flash when they meet his, a brief glimpse behind the mask of the model. He understands. His lips twitch into a hint of a smirk as he grips at the neck of the sheer top, tugging it down an inch.

“Yuri, Yuri, Yuri,” Christophe chants breathlessly beside him. “You outdo yourself.”

Yuri narrows his eyes for a moment and Otabek steals that photo for himself.

“But now...” Christophe grips at the neck of his own shirt. His lips curl into a devilish smirk. “Rip it.”

Yuri pauses, fingers clenched in the fabric of the designer top. “Did you say--”

“Rip it,” Christophe repeats, making a tearing motion down the center of his own top. “Tear your nails through it, rip it down the middle, leave it in shreds on your body. I don't care. Rip. It.”

Otabek stares at him, waiting for a laugh, for a smile. Surely he has to be joking. He can't even imagine how much a shirt like that would cost, despite the decidedly small amount of fabric used. His eyes flicker toward Yuri to find him pulling a little harder at the neck of the shirt.

“Yura, you--”

Yuri’s lips spread into a wide, mischievous grin.

“Make sure you capture every moment of this, Otabek Altin,” Christophe purrs, stepping back to watch the monster he unleashed.

Otabek quickly brings the camera up to face just in time for the first tear to echo through the room. That fabric shreds easily. Yuri is able to rip it apart as simply as he can tear a piece of paper. And he’s careful about how he rips it, deliberate in the placement of each tear until it literally hangs in wild shreds across his upper body.

His throat is tight as he slowly lowers the camera, taking in the sight of the animal Christophe so readily released. Yuri’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes gleaming, but he’s smiling. Laughing. He’s running his fingers through his hair and genuinely enjoying himself.

Christophe smiles as he steps away. “I've got a dinner date with Viktor and his adorable little fiancé.” He reaches out to squeeze Otabek’s shoulder. “You don't mind cleaning up, do you?”

Otabek stares at him and manages to shake his head. His eyes immediately flicker back toward Yuri.

“And you're welcome,” Christophe calls over his shoulder.

Otabek presses the bottom of his palm to his forehead and sighs. He places the camera back in his bag and crosses the too-bright photo set to grab Yuri’s wrist and drag him behind the backdrop.

Yuri smirks as he settles against Otabek’s chest. “That wasn't too bad,” he muses, drawing a finger up the side of Otabek’s neck. “Don't think I would mind modeling for that flashy asshole again.”

Otabek snorts softly and rests his hands on Yuri’s waist. “If he’s going to make you rip all the clothing off, I might be able to get used to it.”

Yuri snickers and presses their lips together. “I'm sure you would.”