#high fives to everyone drawing crop top Yuuris

[cosmiquechatte]

For whatever reason, I decided drawing a pole dancing figure would be good practice without using any references so naturally it ended up becoming Yuuri. XD 

My friend so kindly informed me there’s a crop top Yuuri trend thanks to @zephyrine-gale! So here’s my offering of thanks for all the wonderful people drawing Yuuri in crop tops! 

[catamight]

Viktor wanted to insist, to everyone after the fact, that it was absolutely his idea. 100% his plan, all along, yes. It hadn’t been some kind of freak accidental miscommunication, nor had he begged or pleaded Yuuri to agree to the offer presented. No, Yuuri had been far more interested and calm about it than he’d been, really.

Really.

(At first.)

In the wake of the Grand Prix in Barcelona there had been wave after wave of announcement-cum-celebrations. Whether Yuuri fully appreciated it or not, he was – officially (even though Viktor had now insisted many times that earning 6th in the world during Sochi was nothing to sneeze at Yuuri why are you like this) – one of the topmost figure skaters known to man. And Viktor had announced a return to the ice, and with his legacy, and their relationship…it was a tad chaotic, for a while.

Offers for interviews or other publicity stunts came from just about everywhere. Many of them were turned away, mostly because both men wanted five minutes of breathing room, which in their world meant about a week.

When it came time to decide what to do, and whose invitations they were going to accept, they poured over the many emails and voicemails together.

“This is a photo shoot offer,” Viktor remembered he was the one who had said it aloud, partly excited but mostly curious. “For both of us!”

“From who?” There wasn’t a drop of reluctance in the Japanese man’s voice. The surprise must have shown on Viktor’s face, because Yuuri smiled, kind and eager. “I’m not unfamiliar with photo shoots, I’ve done a few before.” It wasn’t wry at all, Viktor realized, but amused.

“I know, I’ve picked up a magazine or two with your face on it.” Viktor was casual and teasing simultaneously, enjoying the face Yuuri made as he realized Viktor never exaggerated – because he himself was pure exaggeration. Those magazines were aggressively on display in his apartment, and it was natural law that Viktor had exactly two ounces of shame.

“Y-you know what I mean. It’s pretty easy, you know? I’m not intimidated by a camera. And, I don’t have to talk to anyone.” Yuuri was only a little defensive, but otherwise seemed genuinely secure. “Best part about it, really.”

In Viktor’s mind, he was already drawing comparisons. The few shoots Yuuri had done were all sports, or sports equipment related. Most promotional material had to be taken from when he was on the ice; his expressions were pure and unfiltered there, and frankly (as in Viktor would fight people to the death in defense of Yuuri) beautiful. He was fairly sure Celestino had shot down anything that was outside the realm of their shared profession.

Viktor, on the other hand, had given Yakov at least two ulcer’s with his various decisions to model for clothing lines and other far less…related endeavors.

“This is for Vogue magazine. You know who they are, yes?”

“I do,” Yuuri insisted, still looking confident about the idea. “I don’t mind.”

--

As it turned out, Yuuri did mind. He minded a lot.

Viktor, endlessly amused, surmised that Yuuri had deeply misunderstood something. Whatever had gotten lost in translation, the deduction had somehow been made that Vogue wasn’t interested in dressing Yuuri in haute couture. The opposite, of course, was true.

“It’s fine, Yuuri,” Viktor assured, allowing people to fuss over the length of the outer jacket he was now wearing. It might not have been designed specifically for him, but he wore it like he’d been born to. Deep magenta and gold, with swathes of silk and cream linen underneath. A deep v-neck cut was the highlight of the whole outfit, really. Someone, Viktor thought, had been paying attention to his exhibition skate. “You look wonderful,” he decided to add, since the panicked expression on his love’s face hadn’t yet ebbed.

“I – I didn’t think they’d – I mean, I’ve done one fashion thing in my life, and it was because a single cashmere sweater was involved (and I got to keep it). But this is all too nice!” Viktor often wondered how Yuuri could be quiet in one moment and explosively emotive in the next. It was like he bottled it all up and leaked those big expressive feelings when his heart got too full. “I can’t wear this – I look like one of those monkey-wearing-a-suit photographs you see on greeting cards. I feel like a peacock!”

“Please.” Viktor’s voice came out in a purr he hadn’t really meant to use, but oh well he got Yuuri’s face to go from white to red in record time and that was worth it. “You’ve worn far more … risqué outfits before.”

Yuuri’s misery was subdued by his reaction to Viktor’s soothing confidence, but it still marred his countenance. His very attractive, very lovely countenance. Which should never look this horrified, Viktor thought. “That’s different. That’s – that’s for skating. This is just embarrassing.”

“Why on earth is this any different?” Viktor skirted around asking why, why, Yuuri considered himself so average, because frankly that was a conversation for a different time (and Viktor was not ready to be stabbed in the heart by Yuuri’s answer; plus, he would insist on cuddling for years afterward and they had people waiting on them). “This is a performance too, you know. That’s what I’ve always told myself.”

“I never thought of it as a performance. Not skating. Not really,” came the surprising answer.

Viktor blinked. “…What did you consider it then?”

Yuuri barely raised his head. “An escape?”

And there went Viktor’s soul; time of death, ten o’clock in the morning, Eastern Standard Time. A hand clutched at the collar of his shirt, and his eyes scrunched, as if his lungs had been pinched. “Oh. I – didn’t actually consider….” Apparently his voice had decided to give out as well.

Dark hair, slicked back for the time being, kept Yuuri’s eyes free of his usual fringe. He lifted them to reach Viktor’s own, and they seemed a bit less daunted. “I thought you would have guessed; I can’t perform for anything. Phichit tried to get me into drama club once and it was a nightmare.”

The unspoken understanding was that the truth of Yuuri lay somewhere between the ice and those bursts of emotion he couldn’t help himself to show. Viktor absorbed this into the Yuuri Katsuki Lexicon he kept near his heart, more affirmation than it was proof.

He coughed, getting air back into his chest. “Well then…if you can’t escape here,” Viktor took Yuuri’s hands, rubbing his thumbs over knuckles, soothing. “Then know I will be with you in every shot. And that the people who run this show are very, very good at making anyone look ravishing. Not that you need much help with that.”

“Viktor –”

“It’s their reputation on the line, not yours, if they somehow – somehow­ – make you look terrible. Which is frankly impossible, so I don’t even know what you’re worried about.”

Yuuri finally edged back from the cliff of his mind, dark eyes on Viktor with eyebrows raised up toward the ceiling. “It’s so incredible you can tell me that with a straight face,” he said, eyelids dropping to half-mast, his smile both shy and overwhelmingly hopeful. And just a tiny bit teasing.

I plan on telling you that for the rest of my life, until it sinks in. And then I’ll tell you a million more times for good measure. “I promise, it’s not as hard as you think.”

“What isn’t as hard as I think?” This statement was accompanied by approximately negative centimeters between them as Yuuri wrapped his arms around Viktor’s waist, peering upwards through dark lashes. He didn’t sound half as seductive as he looked, but that seemed to be Yuuri’s style more than anything else; always half unsure, half powerhouse of desire – as if he’d just been waiting for Viktor his whole life.

To hear tell, that might not have been too far off.

He’s going to kill me one of these days. “…You’re going to kill me one of these days.”

“I hope not; I just got you!”

Hngh.

--

The final outfit Yuuri wore was not at all good for Viktor’s heart. Well. It was. But it wasn’t.

“You can pull that down past your shoulder, this is a loose garment – yes! Perfect, thank you Yuuri! And feel free to move a bit closer…. There we are.” The click and whirr of professional cameras were extremely audible in Viktor’s ears, as was his heartbeat. “Keep your eyes on each other!”

As if either of them needed reminding.

Both outfits were less gendered than they first appeared. The small shirt Yuuri wore, with its off-shoulder sleeves and short length, immediately became recognizable as something that should have been a crop top but looked classier, somehow, the fabric tapering at the bottom into a point, covered in intricate beadwork. A bright blue shawl draped over his arms, weaving around his person, now no longer covering his shoulders but tucked into the crook of his elbows.

And those pants, high-waisted and adorned with silver buttons, were not loose. The phrasing of this description was very specific: if Viktor even dared to think the word ‘tight’ in regards to the man more or less in his lap, he was going to spontaneously combust and die.

“Am I doing alright?” Yuuri managed to ask this in spite of the blush on his face.

Viktor has enough willpower to smile back, warm and obvious without words, that Yuuri returns the expression wholeheartedly, relieved.

What happened after the shoot in the dressing room shall remain undisclosed. If it wasn’t obvious that natural law dictated Viktor put his mouth on Yuuri’s mouth (and other places) while he was still decked out in such delectable attire, then there was no hope for the world.

--

The resulting images are incredibly flattering (or the photographers in question would have never forgiven themselves, to be honest – it was hard to deny Yuuri ‘Doe-Eyed Except For When He’s Searing Your Undergarments Off’ Katsuki).

“This one caught both of our rings, see?” Yuuri points out, still red-faced regardless of everything because he is still himself. He did have a good time, or so he promised Viktor, despite his lingering amazement that anyone wanted him on the cover of anything. “It looks nice.”

Viktor’s inherent vocabulary insisted that ‘nice’ was an understatement. “…I need the original image file. I need it.” “You’re not planning on hanging it anywhere, are you?”

Wounded, Viktor affected a wounded expression. “It’s like you don’t even know me!”

--

For years after, it was the first thing people saw when visiting their flat in St. Petersburg. When Yuri Plisetsky laid eyes on it, he made an ungodly, unflattering noise that warmed the cockles of Viktor’s heart.

Yuuri lamented ever letting Viktor make a copy of it that size, but he never seemed interested in taking it down.