An abridged list of Yuuri’s favorite Viktor Nikiforov Photoshoots
(Who am I kidding. They’re all his favorites. These are just some of them.)
Viktor is eighteen. It’s the shoot for SKATE that he did after the Turin Olympics. He’s standing in front of the Hermitage, wearing an open parka and a sweater underneath, tight jeans and high boots. The sweater’s folk art-style pattern would be ugly on anybody who isn’t Viktor Nikiforov. His hair is still long, still flies out for what seemed like a mile behind him. His medal is around his neck. He stares down the camera, feet planted, face determined–a man who has just reached the top of the world and plans to stay there. It was one of the first pieces of Viktor merchandise that Yuuri purposefully bought for himself–Viktor’s face looked out at him from the magazine rack in a Kiosk in a train station in Fukuoka and he couldn’t help himself. For a long time, Yuuri thought that the Hermitage background must have been photoshopped in. He thought this, in fact, until Viktor found the magazine in one of the Boxes Under Yuuri’s Bed and informed him that he vividly remembers that photoshoot because it was done at three in the morning during one of the coldest nights on Saint Petersburg record.
“The only thing they photoshopped is my lips, because I’m pretty sure they’d already turned blue.”
When Yuuri is thirteen and hasn’t yet realized that the term “I want to be above Viktor Nikiforov” can have two meanings and he means it both ways, his favorite Viktor photoshoot is attached to an interview that he did about volunteering at a poodle rescue. The image is of Viktor with his hair all frantically knotted up on top of his head, kept in place by five different rubber bands and a lot of hope. His shirt is lime green and bears the logo and name of the rescue organization in question, which Yuuri has been reliably informed is some Russian pun that is the equivalent of something like “PAWSOME POODLE RUFFSCUE.” He is surrounded by a litter of puppies which the description below the photo informs readers are all named after Russian pop stars. He’s busy making faces at the two closest to him and doesn’t notice two others who are paws-and-head first inside a massive bag of puppy chow behind his back. Yuuri still makes involuntary cooing noises whenever he’s shown this image without prior warning.
The Versace photoshoot Viktor did for the Swimwear/Summer 2013 collection. It’s on a beach. His hair is salted and his eyes are the same exact color as the ocean behind him. He’s on his knees. One hand is planted firm in the sand, behind him gripping a half-handful. The other is on the waistband of his jeans, pulling them down to reveal his hip and a Versace swimsuit. His iliac furrow is stark; the hair below his bellybutton is neat and dark blond. His eyes are half-lidded. He’s shirtless. His nipples are hard. Someone has artfully misted him with water to make it look like sweat, or maybe sea-breeze. Even Viktor telling him that this particular photo was actually done in a studio, on a pile of sand with a beach umbrella stuck in it (And also that the reason his eyes are half-shut is because the fans kept blowing sand into them) cannot ruin this image for Yuuri.
(”Oh, the pages of this magazine are stuck together!” says Viktor, when he finds it in a Box Under Yuuri’s Bed. “AHHHHH,” Yuuri responds. “AHHHH!”)
A beautiful and melancholy Annie Leibovitz shoot. It’s natural light done in a wash of blue, and Viktor is looking towards the camera with his chin resting on his hand. He’s laying on a bed, or maybe a couch, and it’s foreshortened to where his face is in focus but the rest of his body is just a hazy line until one sees the blurry form of his bare feet just barely in frame. The sweater he’s wearing is large and looks warm. His hair isn’t as styled as it usually is, and one can actually see the darker blonde low-lights that usually get lost in that blinding sea of platinum. His gaze is pensive, maybe even a little lost. The camera is so close to his face that one could count every eyelash if they had the inclination. It’s beautiful, and made something ache inside Yuuri that he’d never actually realized was part of him.
(”We weren’t even supposed to shoot that day,” Viktor told him once. “She met me in my hotel room a few weeks before it was supposed to happen and she just happened to have her camera with her. We were discussing…I can’t even remember now. Schedules, maybe. I had a headache and I asked her if she minded if I laid down. She said no, she didn’t mind. She asked me if I minded if she took a few pictures and I said I didn’t. She sent me that picture a few days later and I knew it had to be that one.” “You look so sad,” Yuuri whispered, their faces inches apart. So close that Yuuri could count every eyelash if he wanted to. “I think I was,” said Viktor, and Yuuri kissed him.)
A photo that is actually part of a larger spread done in the follow-up to the Sochi Olympics, focusing on Viktor and his prospects with the home-team advantage. He’s crouching down on the ice, forearms stretched out over his knees to keep himself balanced on his blades. He’s looking at something off-camera, attentive, eyes striking. His shirt has a cropped hem, rising up over the jacket he has wrapped around his waist and playing at the line of his spine. His gloves are fingerless. His hair is a little long and it’s pinned back choppily at the crown of his head. The line of his collarbone is exquisite.
A unedited photo that wasn’t supposed to make it out into the world but did, accidentally, because some intern momentarily posted it as the header image for an online interview. It was saved to many, many hard drives in the ten minutes it was up. Yuuri, who has an alert for Viktor’s name set on his phone, dropped it into a snowbank when he opened it. The image isn’t really anything remarkable–a shot of Viktor taken from above, laying with his legs crossed a the ankles and smiling. He’s done many shots like it, some even in that exact same pose, and there would be nothing special about it (Except that it’s Viktor Nikiforov–they’re all special to Yuuri) if it weren’t for the fact that wardrobe obviously put Viktor in a pair of jeans that were either one size too small or had been poorly tailored.
Or, Yuuri later finds out, were suffering from the fact that Viktor forgot to wear underwear that day. “Yuuri actually got down on his knees and thanked God,” Phichit tells Viktor, very drunk at a party years later. “I DROPPED MY PHONE, PHICHIT. I WAS LOOKING FOR MY PHONE.” “HIS DICK,” Phichit continues, in a bad imitation of Yuuri’s voice and accent. “HIS DICK, PHICHIT. HE’S CIRCUMCISED.”
Viktor, delighted: I always knew something good would come of Dickgate 2014!
I used to waitress at a bowling alley and I was a closer, so I went to malwart after I got off. This night I closed and got to malwart around 1:30AM. I’m in a lime green shirt, apron still around my waist. I’m obviously not an employee here??? And someone comes up the me and asks me where they can cash a check at here. I know it’s customer service, I’ve cashed checks before, but it’s after midnight they aren’t open??? I’m tired af and just wanna shop but I don’t want to be rude?? “I think it’s gonna be at customer service, but they’re closed.” I was polite, now back to shopping, right? No. “When will it reopen?” I’m kind of cranky now because I just want to get groceries and leave. “I don’t know, I don’t work here.” This man is SHOOK, “you don’t?!” Like he doesn’t believe me. He then starts to try and inspect my name tag (I hadn’t taken it off).1) I look nothing like a malwart employee right now and 2) my badge also says the place I work for, my first name, and a picture of me (the bowling alley is attached to a casino so the badges are made to make sure security knows the Id is yours). I was so pissed at this man by this point i rip my badge off my shirt and shove it in my purse going “no! I don’t! Ask someone in a malwart uniform!” And just storm off with my cart. I might’ve overreacted at how mad I got, but I spent eight hours waiting on bratty teens and drunk asshats.
Today is my Birthday, and here is a new design for myself! My self-insert/inksona whatever you wanna call it is Erika Cuddlesworth, and this is a definitive version of her, I think.
Her clothes are a fusion of gear from the game I like. The cap is a fusion of the Squidvader Cap and the Jellyvader Cap. Her shirt is a fusion of the Part-Time Pirate and the Easy Lime Stripe Shirt, turned into a sleeveless hoodie. And the shoes are a fusion of the Grey Sea Slug Hi-Tops and Hunter Hi-Tops.
I loved the little drabbles of the guys supporting their wives in labor. May I ask for a Genji and Zenyatta one? Separately and obviously Zenyatta's child being from a donor.
Genji was no stranger to pain, he had both inflicted it on others and had massive pain inflicted on himself, from his own brother tat that. But he absolutely hated to see others, especially those he cared about it pain. So to say he was worried over you, was the greatest understatement known to man.
“I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay….”
That was your mantra as you sat with your legs criss crossed on the floor, rocking back and forth, only pausing to give a brief whimper. Genji held your hands between his warm metal ones, his thumbs gently massaging the back of palms. You craned your head back before looking at him with a pain and exhaustion-laced smile, sighing softly and squeezing his hand tight. Just looking at him made you smile despite your exhaustion. He had most of his faceplate off; his black hair and scarred face visible, his emotions clear as day to you. He had dressed up in a comfortable pair of black sweats and a lime green t-shirt that says ‘Future Daddy’. It made you laugh anytime you saw it and you were absolutely sure that’s why he wore it; his devotion to bring light and laughter resolute.
Your eyes squeezed shut for a brief second as a small wave of pain went through you, your shoulders jumping when Genji leaned forward to press his forehead to yours. He laced his left hand with yours, his right hand lifting to comb through your sweat soaked hair. You hummed softly, releasing out a slow breath and relaxing into his touch as the latest contraction began to died down.
“You’re okay”, Genji murmured against your knuckles, lightly pecking your hand several times. His brown eyes looked into your, a comforting smile on his lips as you nodded your head to affirm his statement. You squeezed his hand back gently as he pressed a hard kiss against your knuckles once more. “Thank you dearest…”
“Would you like to move into the water, my flower?”
You nodded your head enthusiastically, pressing your face back into the crux of Zenyatta’s shoulder and neck. The omnic was actually standing so that he could hold you up, his hands resting on the sides of your round stomach while your arms stayed tightly wrapped around his neck. He had been an absolute angel the entire time; he had set up the room to your liking with the lights dimmed and lavender oils burning in one corner of the room. His soft, humming words of endearment and encouragement prevented stress or fear from settling in, his gentle touches and ‘kisses’ getting you through the brunt of your contractions.
“Take a step when you are ready my flower.”
Your eyes dragged up tiredly to his as you nodded once more, signaling that you were ready to move with him. The both of you moved careful and slow, Zenyatta quietly reminding you to take a break if you needed to, that everything would work itself out and there was no need to rush. One of his arms stayed around you as he carefully assisted you with entering the tub and lowering into the warm water. You released a sigh of contentment as you felt the pain you had been feeling in the earlier contractions lessen while in the water, looking up at the former monk appreciatively. He took his hand in yours, gently patting it before pressing his forehead to yours in a show of affection.
‘He was wearing pink and green today, as usual, though I’d never seen this particular outfit before: lace-up leather boots, ultra-skinny rose jeans, an untucked lime dress shirt, and a checkered skinny tie as loose as a necklace. With his thick black Ray-Bans and his choppy green hair, he looked like he’d stepped off a New Wave album cover circa 1979.’
- Magnus Chase describing Alex Fierro, Ship of the Dead, page 8
Eddie felt like a live wire, exposed and vulnerable. He didn’t remember ever feeling quite this unprotected, quite this free,in his entire life. He was on his own, completely alone, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating. Most people would take this chance at a new start and run with it. But all he could do was sit in the corner of an unfamiliar
café and stare down at the weathered surface of a dark wooden table, contemplating what he would do with himself now.
Myra had screamed at him, calling him all sorts of names as he packed his bag, promising to return for the rest when he found a place to stay. Eddie had no idea where that would be. He was in the middle of New York City, way over his head and yet, despite feeling like he was drowning, Eddie had never breathed quite this easily. But he still felt unsure, like he was scrambling for something to hold onto.
Then a cup touched the table and scraped across towards him. Eddie nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound, lifting his head to meet a dark gaze behind thick-framed glasses. The man wore a ridiculously bright orange apron that clashed horribly with the lime green Hawaiian print shirt beneath it. His hair seemed to defy gravity itself with wild curls springing out every which way. He was striking, right down to the pink, full lips that curved into a smirk.
down next Karen, her seven-year-old running off to join the other children. She
greeted both Karen and Kelly, turning to watch the kids as they ran.
“Can you believe what Daniel is wearing?” Kelly said under her
“What about it?” Cheyenne turned towards her.
“He’s wearing bright, tie-dyed leggings!”
“So?” Cheyenne scanned over the playground,
finally landing on Daniel. He had thick curly hair and olive skin, which really
stood out against his lime green shirt that matched one of the colors of his
“It’s a kind of feminine for a little
boy. I can’t believe Rachel lets him dress like that.”
Kim leaned across Cheyenne. “I know. The other
day I saw him while I was picking Ryan up from school. He was wearing some
little blue jean shorts and a flower tank top.”
“What is the problem?” Cheyenne leaned forward
to break up Kim and Kelly. “He’s wearing clothes. Big deal.”
“He’s wearing girl clothes.”
“No, he’s wearing clothes. Comfortable
clothes that he likes.”
“He shouldn’t be wearing things like tights.
“Is it wrong that Ryan likes ninja turtles?”
Kim looked at Cheyenne. “What?”
“Last week Ryan has a ninja turtle themed
birthday party. Did you tell him it was wrong to like ninja turtles?”
“Well, no. There’s nothing wrong with a
boy liking that.”
“Did you tell David it was wrong to like
“…no” Kelly’s voice was quiet.
“I recall that last month there was a clown at
his party who made balloon animals for everyone. And David wanted a crown to
wear. So why could David wear what he wanted?”
“Well, it’s not feminine.”
“Why do clothes have a gender? How? They’re
just pieces of fabric.” Kim and Kelly exchanged a glance. “If you don’t mind
your sons liking TV shows or books or games, then why does it matter what
Daniel likes? He’s comfortable isn’t he?” Cheyenne looked between the other two
moms. “Let him like what he wants. It’s none of your business what he does with
“It is if it effects my kid.” Kim’s voice was
“And how does it effect Ryan?”
“Well, he has to look at that. He has to look
at a kid dressed inappropriately.”
“What if Daniel doesn’t want to look at Ryan
in his Pokémon shirt or David in plaid? What if he hates football but Trey is
always wearing that Saints shirt?”
“It’s not. It’s a piece of fabric that covers
his body, and maybe you should stop being so judgmental. I’d really hate for
your children to turn into hateful bullies because of their closed minded
“Excuse me! Our sons are kind and good boys.
You are really overstepping your boundaries here, Cheyenne.”
“You are the one bullying a seven-year-old.”
“We are not bullying-“
“You are talking about how his clothes are
disgusting and his interests are wrong.”
“But not what? But not to his face?”
“I am appalled that two grown adults would
behave like this.”
“How dare you!”
“How dare me? You are the one shaming a child
for his interests.” Kim’s mouth opened and closed several times. “Exactly. I
feel so sorry for you kids. They must be so ashamed to be themselves.”
There was a thick silence between the three
adults. Cheyenne stood up, walking to where Daniel had fallen down.
“Are you okay?” He nodded, pushing up to his
feet. “I love these leggings.”
He looked down at one of his knees. “I ripped
Cheyenne looked down to where there was a
horizontal rip in the leggings. “What if I make a tear on the other knee. Won’t
it look cool?”
He smiled. “I think it would add a bit more
style to them.”
Cheyenne smiled, too, reaching for her pocket
knife, filled with joy that Daniel was so proud of his own style.
Prompt: “Wanna see how far my six inch heel can go up your ass?”
from this list, with Roman Reigns. Requested by @dirrrtydeeds… I mean anon… again.
Pairing: Roman Reigns x Reader
Word Count: 600+
Warnings: None, I don’t think.
Author’s Note: Just a cute little thing. Blame Roman telling Stephanie to watch her tone on Raw this past Monday for making me write someone being bratty to Roman? Also WOW is this really my first Roman? (I don’t count that other drabble I wrote since it was more of an idea than an actual drabble.) I’ve been working on a longer one-shot with him for MONTHS but here’s the first official one!
Another two-for-one, and look at this contrasting pair! The right octoling is looking quite high-class with their SV925 Circle Shades, Pullover Coat and Smoky Wingtips. The left octoling, on the other hand, has a rather easy-going, hip vibe with their 18K Aviators, Lime Easy-Stripe Shirt, and Hunter Hi-Tops.
Richie smiles fondly down at him, seizing his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “So, what’ll I have the pleasure of you getting me into today?”
Eddie’s eyes dart quickly toward the cameras, making sure they’re in place. “Honestly? Anything but what you’re wearing.”
“No, no,” Eddie says, folding his hands around his shoulders. “Hear me out. Your body type is amazing for clothes. You’re basically built like an underwear model, so you can wear anything you want.”
At that, Richie perks up, posing with one hand on his head and the other on his hip, bouncing in place.
“But no one would know it,” Eddie continues, flicking the bottom of his lime green tie-dye shirt, “because you dress like it’s 1991 and you’re auditioning for Bell Biv DeVoe.”
Richie’s hands drop back to his sides.
“Don’t get me wrong: I love that you’re not afraid of color and you’re not afraid to take risks. But there are ways of doing that that are going to be more flattering for your features. I promise, you don’t have to give up your personality to look good.”
Eddie keeps his word with the very first outfit he puts Richie in: a pair of skinny jeans, a nice worn belt, and a navy short-sleeved button-down with tiny cherry coke bottles printed all over it. Richie does a playful spin, and Eddie comes forward immediately to fix his collar.
“See? The pattern on this is kind of wacky, but it’s small enough that it isn’t distracting.” Eddie’s thumbs brush up against the sensitive skin of Richie’s neck, making him flush. “And the base color is right in your wheelhouse for your skin tone.”
After cycling through a few more business casual and casual options, Eddie hands Richie a grey three-piece suit and an eggplant button-down with tiny white pinprick polkadots. Richie raises an eyebrow.
“Just–indulge me, please,” Eddie says, physically turning him away and pushing him in the direction of the dressing room.
A couple of minutes later, Richie emerges barefoot in the button down, slacks, and vest, but still carrying the suit jacket in one of his hands, and Eddie makes a sound that’s somewhere between a whine and a groan. The cameraman stifles a laugh. Eddie shoots a look at one of the producers and whispers, “Please edit that out” before darting forward to take the jacket from Richie. “Here, let me.” He holds it open, allowing Richie to slip his long arms into the sleeves, then turns him back to fix both collars. Eddie tops it off with a nice pair of shoes and a matching eggplant pocket square, and takes a few steps back to look Richie over. He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying the outfit–but he’s definitely enjoying the look on Eddie’s face about the outfit. “I thought it would need more tailoring, but this looks…really, really good on you, Richie.”
Richie tucks his hands into the pockets of the slacks and smiles bashfully. “All due respect, Eds, I think you’ve dressed me in what you like to see on me.”
Eddie bites back a smile. “You’re not wrong.”
“Mm… Daddy like?” Richie says, shimmying his shoulders a little.
Summary: Dating an idol had its
complexities…but what could she do when destiny was the one that brought them
The sound of a cup being placed over the woodened counter sounds around
the empty boutique as she folds another piece of clothing that had been left
out of said place. Her eyes constantly go to the door expecting to see some
customer, but it was difficult to see someone at a boutique so late at night.
The soft jazz in the background fills the atmosphere as she goes to one of the
shelves, standing on her tiptoes to place the folded sweater where it was
supposed to be, struggling slightly as she mutters the words from the song
under her breath. She pulls down her shirt once she placed the sweater where it
was supposed to be, hearing the sound of the small bell that welcomed someone
inside the boutique. Her feet make her turn around and she almost trips without
moving as she looks at the person entering the shop, his recently dyed pink
hair casting against the pastel blue walls of the boutique.
She clears her throat as she walks towards the counter, taking the remains
of her cup of tea before tracing her eyes over his features as he looked at the
male clothing. His eyes were fixated over the newer pieces of clothing and his
casual look was fashionable as well, a striped t-shirt and some trousers to
make him look like a fashion icon –and he was one, apart from other things. Kim
Kibum, she recognizes, member of a very well known group and most importantly,
a person that she had looked up to for a little bit. She bites her bottom lip as
she takes notice of the notebook under her, trying to concentrate in her notes
for studying instead of ogling at him. Obviously, he was handsome and from what
she saw on interviews and shows, he was really a personality that was
considered one of a kind. Yet, when she’s too immersed in some concept that she
didn’t understand, she hears a soft voice calling her over.
Summary: After being single for a long period of time, AJ finally decides to listen to his friend’s advice and gives the dating scene a try. He just wasn’t expecting the first time to be in a place like this. Or with the same sex, for that matter.
Warnings: m/m sex, and um.. not really anything to be warned about. Maybe just a whole lotta smut, language, and bad writing. This is also kind of an A/U fic, meaning no wrestling related stuff will be involved. Also stating the obvious that if you don’t like slash pairings.. look away!!