#Kinda lost my art rhythm for a while so im trying to get back into it by drawing portraits

[anomalouseden]

I liked Wicked a lot

[cnc-hoebayb]

Coqueta

Worked Fashion week in my city last weekend and now i can’t get this idea outta my mind for the life of me

Chris as a flirty cute model while u work on him~

.

Busy people and loud noises crowded around as you strut through the small hallways of the backstage area. Models and designers ran in every direction; grabbing food, phones, clothes, random last minute necessities all in the nonstop flow before call time.

You had your job, your order and rhythm of work, and it was 10 minutes before they all had to be on the runway. Gel, hairspray, and pins in your hand you zoom through final touches on each model. You finish with a spritz of glitter on a curly haired young girl- done. The designer grabs her by the hand and sets her in line with the others, finding his placement for a perfect before show picture.

You admire the way he adjusts and changes last minute details on their clothing, perfecting his art in the most fascinating ways. The admiration in you gets lost as someone comes up from behind you urgently, gripping your shoulder and waist firmly to spin you around.

“You’re hair and makeup right ?” The frantic man steadies himself on your shoulders, panic setting in on his face.

“Yea that’s me..” you stutter out nervously, growing more anxious with his own flustered state.

“Ok good. I need help... like now.” He side eyed to the designer who was very much so distracted, and his eyes said it all. And now that you looked at him, so did his outfit. Head to toe he was draped in black and yellow, a color that so naturally made every detail of his face stand out. The trademark symbols from the designer you were working with plastered his clothes and he was accessorized more than you had seen anyone before.

But more than anything you noticed, it was the fact that he was latee late, and he needed to be out and on that runway with the rest of his crew ASAP, especially before anyone had the chance to notice.

And like that you go into complete work mode. Spotting a chair off in the corner and snatching it as quick as possible, plopping it in front of the snack table and forcing the frazzled man right in. He sits patiently and let’s you do what you need, hands fidgeting a little in his lap as he eyes you gathering an assortment of tools from your little work belt.

You take your place in front of him, taking action and leaning his head up so you had a better look at his face. You stop for a second as he looks up to you with a small smirk, making your cheeks brighten immediately. He had a natural suave energy to him, a womanizer with a sweet spot maybe- he wasn’t entirely full of himself and you could see it.

Analyzing him in your mind was going smoothly as you lightly pounced a makeup sponge over some slight blemishes on his chin. Shit, his face was so perfect it almost didn’t need anything done with it. You stop and step back to look at him from a distance and plan your next move.

He looks back at you with another smile and raises his brow suggestively. “You know you make the cutest face when you’re focused?” He finally speaks up and your eyes widen at the comment, an irrational nervousness rising in your tummy.

“Oh yeah?” You play along lightheartedly to surpass the sudden nerves he gave you. “What kinda face? Asking for future reference..”

You lean back in to start working on his hair quickly, grabbing some pomade and a comb. He tries to make eye contact as you work.

“Your brows squeeze together really tight that your nose scrunches a lil bit, and your lips purse in a really cute way- you almost look mad.” He describes you quirks and you laugh, surprised someone noticed and described something silly of you so well.

“And your lips are actually really.. really cute.” He draws out the sentence and his voice lowers an octave as it leaves his mouth. Now your whole body rushes with a flow of heat. You bite your lip instinctively. He chuckles at your visible reaction.

“So you’re a smooth talker, huh? Must hit it off really well with the other models.” You spill out, everything coming like natural, no time for nerves anymore.

He makes a “pshhh” noise and shrugs it off. “Smooth talker maybe, but these models here... they ain’t really the type i typically shoot for.”

You push his hair back with your fingers for some last details and catch a glimpse of his perfect profile. “You’re telling me models aren’t your type?? damn i assumed wrong.” Your fingers brush his jawline and he smirks.

“Whats the type you typically shoot for then, stud?” He leans back a little in his chair and licks his lips, making direct eye contact as you pull out a little chunk of hair to frame his face.

“The type of pretty girls that help me in a rut last minute and look mad when they’re focused..”

Your hands rest on your waist and you hold back a flattered smile. Well- you really try to at least. His teeth clench down on his bottom lip and that side smile says it all.

“Well isn’t that specific,” you finally say and he stands up out of the chair to hover over you. It didn’t hit you how tall he was until this exact moment. And the smell of him and his cologne sent a little shiver down your spine. He was intoxicating.

“Yea it is, pero sé lo que quiero, y tú..” you swallow hard as he inches closer, his chest almost pressed flush with yours. He flips his hair almost too perfectly and if you weren’t so enamored by his presence right now you would’ve told him to leave his hair alone after all the work you did.

Youre caught off guard as he pushes a strand of hair off your shoulder and tucks it behind your ear, his lips getting ever so close. “.. i think I’d like to see more of you running fingers through my hair again.” You don’t notice at this point his hand around your waist gently, properly resting on the small of your back as he held you there at his convenience. The cold metal from the rings adorning his fingers hit the sliver of bare skin on your side. You fall into his touch unapologetically.

“Christopher! Christopher Velez get over here right now, VEN!” You both dart your heads up to the shouting in the distance, it was the now very frustrated designer realizing his star model was about to be late on the runway. Took him long enough.

You gulp down the tension as he lets you go gently, but still hovering over closely. “Looks like that’s my cue, mamas.” He smiles a devilish grin as he notices his boss become more undone the longer he stands there.

“Leaving so soon?” You tease as you know he had to be going now. There was no time for him to play his game right back at you. “I was kinda lookin forward to knowin ya better... Chris.” You finally say his name now that you knew, and you made sure it was in the most seductive way you knew how. Rolling your tongue the slightest and lowering your voice to that sweet sultry hum you could tell got to him so well.

“CHRIS.” The designer yells for him louder this time, panic in his voice rising. Christopher furrowed his brow and pouted as he looked down at you conflicted.

“And i thought i was the smooth talkin one,” his fingers brushed yours as he leaned in for one more quick whisper in your ear, his body bouncing with urgency as the yelling from the distance progressed.

“Wait for me after the show, i promise you’ll wanna stick around for the after party.” He parted with a quick tilt of your chin, positioning your head up as he pressed his lips swiftly on your cheek. That was unexpected. You blushed a bright hot pink and melted completely.

He darted away towards the curtain that led to the stage, looking back at you with almost the same amount of redness in his cheeks. “You better be worth it, pretty boy,” you shout over the dozens of busy people around, not even bothered at the interactions that had been taking place the whole time.

He plops in his place in line as the designer starts pushing other models out into the path of the runway. He puts his hand to his mouth, pressing his plump pink lips to his palm dramatically, and tossing it your direction.

He giggles uncontrollably at himself for his childish little pick ups, and it’s actually too funny that you can’t help but to catch that dumb kiss and hold it in your pocket. He winks at you as you make the motion of saving it for later as you zip your jacket pocket.

“Im a flirt- not a player, baby. I’ll make it worth it.” He responds quickly and struts through the curtains, his eyes and smile piercing through your body as he walks away.

Fucking models.

[b4kuch1n]

two ghosts in Morioh

another day of running around taking care of businesses with my mom. Got some down time in the afternoon and spent it on this. yes Im a fluff writer now. somebody take me out the back

warning for non-plot, terrible poetry (Im serious. Ive never written a poem in english before. its not too nice to the hand), a filler OC thrown in on the spot, lotsa outta-nowhere headcanons, and all else possibly applicable. 

Read on AO3 

Okuyasu finally picked up.

Which was a good thing, because Josuke didn't wanna seem fussy or overbearing. 'twas a lost cause anyway, his mom would tell him, given that he had been anxious ever since he came home from the supposed double date that afternoon, and had walked from one end of the hall to the other over forty time (yes, she counted up until forty), mumbling to himself, hands firmly in his pants' pockets because he knew the moment he stopped holding it tight he would ruin his pomp by running his hand through his hair in frustration. An emotion that he caused to himself, his mom would remind him, because he refused to just walk over to Okuyasu's house and knock.

When the boy in question finally picked up, Josuke was a bit stiff from the draft in the hallway as well as from the tension built up by being stubborn. Okuyasu's voice only just managed to break through.

“Josuke?”

He sounded a bit hoarse. “Yeah, dude, I'm here,” Josuke said. The tension didn't leave him immediately like he hoped. “You didn't come.”

“Fuck, sorry about that. I'm jus'... 'm not in the best mood right now. Didn't wanna ruin it for you guys.”

“Shit, what happened? You okay?” Josuke could hear something fell on the floor with a metallic clunk. “What's that?”

“Oh it's-- 's the paint can. I'm fixin' up big bro's room upstairs. Been meaning to for a while now so... It's.” Okuyasu trailed off.

Josuke felt his shoulders stiffen up a bit more.

“It's some'n to do.”

Josuke bit his lip. After a moment of consciously picking off all traces of anxiety from his manners, he said, calmly, “I'm gonna come over.”

“No, dude, y'don't have to!” Okuyasu immediately barked, with something like panic in his tone. “I'm a bummer right now,” he added, almost sheepishly. “It's dumb, it'll go away on its own. Jus' some'n from the class.”

“Don't even think of it as me coming over to comfort you if that's better.” Josuke had to actively try to stay nonchalant now. “I'm helping with the room fixin'. It's gonna take the rest of the night with just you. That cool?”

He just caught his free hand moving towards his head on its own when Okuyasu sighed and he could hear the paint can being picked up. “Fine. I'm gonna be upstairs, let yaself in when you're over.”

By August 1999, Okuyasu had been sleeping in the guest room downstairs for ten months.

Keicho was a private person, and nobody could blame him at that. No kid would want to leave their toys trailing about when their father was so quick to anger. Keicho had faced so much of that misdirected rage, had put himself between his father and his younger brother so many times, that anything he had that wasn't broken he held on with an almost death grip. His routines, his CD collection, his rules, his own anger. He never learned to let go, and Okuyasu, whom Morioh had given more chances than it ever did his brother, had been feeling something like pity for that, and then guilty for pitying his brother.

He didn't really want to use Keicho's room again, especially when he never got his brother's permission. When Keicho had left balancing the book in Okuyasu's hand, their life became a clash between Okuyasu's fussing about trying to take care of things and Keicho's own rhythm and order, the solution to which that they came up with being that Keicho got the entirety of the second floor to himself. Okuyasu didn't mind – everything was simple with him, really – but after Keicho's death he felt even more out of place in that part of the house.

“It's fine if you wanna seal it off, dude,” Josuke told him one evening when he stayed the night, “you're the one living here. It's not like people know or care about that stuff, either way.” Josuke was smart, but he also believed in courtesy and manners even though he had been subjected to so much of the opposite of that, and it made for a strange kind of trust in humanity. One that was different from Okuyasu's own.

So in the end he decided to only seal Keicho's room. He had been slowly packing everything his brother left behind in the house into small carboard boxes and stashing them in the hallway. He wanted to keep a whole afternoon and evening free just to fix up the room itself, but he didn't think today would be it.

“Yeah, Koichi actually steered me home the moment we were sure you wouldn't show,” Josuke said mid-sweep. “I don't think Yukako mind. Actually I'm pretty sure Yukako doesn't really want me there third wheeling them. Gotta say I was about the same.”

“Sorry for leaving you hangin',” Okuyasu repeated, just as apologetic as when he said it the first time.

“It's not your fault you aren't well, dude,” Josuke stood up straight, free hand in his pocket. “Though a word beforehand would be good. But you were home late from the class, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Goto-sensei holding you up again?”

“Nah, he's nice.” He would be, after Josuke and Okuyasu dragged him out of some serious troubles last month. He was also a nice man in general. Okuyasu thought his writing style really didn't reflect that.

Josuke raised an eyebrow at his answer. Well, Josuke would have a different impression of Mister Goto Azuma, moderately famous novelist, given that the one who had to take a pen in the arm to grab the man (then under a Stand's control) was him and not Okuyasu. That kind of viciousness must keep people wary for a long time. Not to mention the apology gift they got was a place in Goto's ten-hour creative writing course organized by the uni, which was of no use to Josuke, but which Okuyasu snatched right up.

Outside of that event though, Goto-sensei was a mild-mannered, if a bit emotional and wordy person. He had anguish in his heart, sure, but he told Okuyasu once in class, in the tone of someone who was citing their name and age, that he wanted to love everything and anything more than he wanted to wallow in his sadness, so he channeled all of it into his writing and left his personal life free for his other emotions. Okuyasu found that a good way to do things as any.

“I'm gonna trust you on that,” Josuke said after a stretch of silence. Okuyasu grinned. “Anyway, something happened during the writing class then?”

“Yeah-- well, nah, but yeah.” Okuyasu rubbed his hands nervously under Josuke's confused look. “I mean, kinda? Goto-sensei gave us a prompt, and then I wrote something sad, and it bummed me out. 's all.”

Josuke's eyes grew wide. “Oh,” he said, “huh.”

“Yeah, it's dumb. Tolja don't mind it.”

“It's not dumb if it bums you out, dude.” Josuke leaned the broom against the desk and stepped closer to Okuyasu. His pomp looked almost plastic-ish under the buzzing light of the room. Okuyasu blinked when he held his biceps with both his hands. “I like you happy, Okuyasu. We gotta go there somehow, and I'm not a waiting man.”

Okuyasu looked at Josuke, eyes somehow brighter than the light should've made them, hands holding him firm as if willing him to believe. As if that had ever been necessary. He took a deep breath, and broke out in a grin.

“Thought so. You're a musical man.”

“Hell yeah I am.” The grin crept up onto Josuke's face, and he dragged Okuyasu in for a quick hug. “So, what's that piece you wrote today about?”

“I mean, you can read it.”

It must be impossible for Josuke's eyes to grow wider than this. This was maximum wide eye for him. “Really?”

“'s not fine art or some'n, but if you're cool with that, why the hell not. Wait here.”

Josuke waited in Keicho's half-cleaned room while Okuyasu went downstairs to fetch his notebook. Goto-sensei didn't care what his students did with what they wrote after class (“It's yours,” he had said, with passion, “and me telling you what to do with what's inherently yours is against everything I live for. Any experience you have with your own writing is deeply personal and unique, and if that includes setting your drafts on fire and inhaling the smoke, who am I to keep that from you?” He seemed to actually got misty-eyed at that idea.), but Okuyasu liked the man, and he thought keeping the things he wrote in his class in order was a way to show respect to a good teacher. Or it could at least make up for his terrible handwriting.

He flipped through the notebook as he went back upstairs. Man, he wrote more than he thought he did.

“Here,” he handed the notebook – opened to the correct page – to Josuke, who had finished sweeping the room and was bouncing on the balls of his feet in a subdued excitement. Josuke seemed extra careful with his hold on the thing.

“It's a poem?” Okuyasu didn't think that was actually meant to be a question, but he faltered a bit nonetheless.

“It's-- yeah. You aren't into that?”

“Dude, I barely read actual literature no matter what kind, that's not the thing. I'm just... poems are supposed to be even more about emotions than, like, novels and shit, right? I, uh...”

Josuke bit his lip. Okuyasu tried to follow the thread of logic.

“Goto-sensei said our writing is whatever we will it to be. If ya worry this won't be manly and cool, I'm gonna. I'm gonna will it into being for ya.”

“It's not that, dummy.” Josuke smacked him over the head with the notebook. He was smiling again though, so Okuyasu didn't mind. “I just don't think I can get the whole experience without you, like, walking me through it. Since you're the one with the emotions in this poem and all. So can you...”

Okuyasu grabbed the notebook. He looked at Josuke, and then at the words on the page between them, and then tentatively finished that hanging thought. “...recite it for ya?”

“Forget it if it bums you out again, okay?” Josuke held his hands up. “I'm cool either way. I wanna read it properly, sure, but if it's gonna ruin the night for you then forget it.”

Okuyasu stood there with his own notebook in his hand, with his boyfriend, in his brother's room that they were cleaning. He looked at Josuke, and then up at the buzzing light, and then at Keicho's CD collection on the shelf, newly dusted.

Finally he took a deep breath and said, “I'm not gonna hold onto it like that, dude.” And then he took Josuke's hand and said, “Let's come up to the roof for a bit.”

They left Keicho's room behind and went up to the attic, from where they climbed their way awkwardly up onto the Nijimuras' newly re-tiled roof. August was too early to feel chilly at night in Morioh, but there were winds, and the sky was wide open. Okuyasu thought it was a good place as any to give the poem a reading.

They settled on the warm tiles, and then Okuyasu had to stand up to go get a flashlight, and when he came back to the roof Josuke was still there – as if he would go away the moment Okuyasu blinked – the notebook balanced on his thigh.

“Ready,” Josuke said once Okuyasu had sit back down snug next to him, partly as a question and partly as a confirmation of his own status, and Okuyasu nodded.

“Alright.”

Okuyasu had never recited a poem before. His mom was a storyteller when she was alive, but there was a long stretch of time during which her conditions worsened slowly and the occasions lessened until both her and the stories were gone. His dad wasn't a wordy man, not outside of anger and grief. Keicho really would rather have silence than a human voice outside of his own, and again Okuyasu couldn't blame him for that. Or even question it, really, not when Keicho had his CDs and treasured them so. Outside of all that, Okuyasu had also never been good at school. He had other things to do, and the few literature classes he actually sat in for never saw him chosen by a teacher to read anything out loud from the textbook.

So, Okuyasu didn't really know what he was doing, no. But he was also a simple man, and right now it was doing it or not doing it. And Josuke had casted his vote – the only one that counted here and now.

“It's called 1999,” he said, and found his voice a bit raspy. He didn't figure out to clear his throat.

Cigarette butt on the ground

he chose one to pick up

and hold like a torch

Hand over head

Whispers like smoke

flow

1999

numbers he carried

one

in his left pocket

on the pad

along the line

into the waves

it's important, that's what he said

Cigarette butt in the air

His hand red

His eyes red

through them, the sky orange

twilight is for a while,

if statues are the same

1999

replays dissolve

into statics

into waves

away

one

on his lips

I didn't mean it like that,

or was it

I never told him,

or even

I don't think he knows,

that's what he said

Cigarette butt against the sky

futile

1999

variables

one

dissolved into the waves

my name is doubt,

and his I never got

1999

I met two ghosts in Morioh.

They were quiet a long time after that. When Josuke spoke up, he sounded like he just cried a bit. “Dude, that's so fucking sad.”

Okuyasu tried to keep himself from shining the flashlight on Josuke to see if he really had been crying. “For real? I don' even know what it's exactly about anymore. Jus' a buncha, uh, concepts put together randomly.”

“It got emotions into me, alright? So it's good to me, deal with it.”

“It makes you sad!”

“It's good sad though. Like listening to a late artist's album sad.” Josuke threw an arm around Okuyasu's shoulders. “That's how art is.”

“Sure,” Okuyasu harrumphed, but then smiled to himself, just a bit.

The two sat there on the roof well into the night. At one point they found their hands intertwined; Okuyasu let himself lean into the contact, flashlight and notebook laid aside, essentially forgotten. Late night breeze felt like sleep.

“The point of that poem is that I love you,” he said, and let it be.

The hand in his own tightened, and Josuke replied, with all the conviction his being could store, “I know, dude. Love you too.”