#especially because

need to preface this by saying that a) i wrote this months ago and b) i don't really remember what i've said about model au on here so this quite possibly retcons a solid 80% of it (here's the link to my original post).

NOWWWW idk if any of this makes any sense at all but this is, like, pre-relationship. i wanna say they've had sex a few times maybe idk but it's not anything Serious. except for, well, the way it clearly IS. and they're both being idiots about it:

Ja'Marr's face is turned to watch the sunlight where it bleeds through the bottom of the curtains. Joe looks at him for a long time without saying anything; at that splinter of light that curves across the flat bridge of his nose. How it sets his dark lashes aflame. There is something humming in the air, a quiet intensity that hadn't been there the night before—hadn't been there when Joe had walked up to him in a room full of strangers and touched the pad of his thumb to Ja'Marr's pulse point, not when they had gotten into a car together, not when Ja'marr's fingertips had tipped his chin up and he had let himself be kissed breathless. It looks different at day, this thing between them. (It always does.) It's quiet only for a moment, Ja'Marr making a small noise as he reaches for the nightstand. One of his earrings drags over the tattooed skin of his neck as he raises it to his earlobe. It catches the light silently. Paints it across his skin in golden freckles. Joe is still staring; the whole of him gold-dipped and glowing. Something in his chest pulls painfully. “So,” he says quietly, syllable drawn out in an attempt to sound more casual than he feels. “How come you never texted me?” Ja'Marr freezes; face suddenly closed off, the set of his shoulders defensive in a way it hadn't been just mere minutes ago, when Joe had pressed his teeth to the curve of his collarbone. Joe braces himself for something he knew was coming: a grimace that's half pity, half embarrassment, an apologetic smile. An oh, that's what you thought this was? Surprisingly, what Ja'Marr eventually says is, “I didn't think you were still interested. In me.” Joe opens his mouth. Closes it again. The silence stretches in the space between their bodies. “Well, I was,” is what he finally says and it's so little of what he actually wants to say that it almost feels like a lie. “Am,” he rushes to correct as Ja'Marr's mouth goes tight. It's difficult to look at him directly most times, but especially in moments like these; expression hard and unreadable. All that icy beauty dusted across high cheekbones and downturned eyes—untouchable in a way that has Joe's fingers tangle painfully in the sheets when all he wants is to reach out, pull him in, keep him close. “Most men—,” Ja'Marr pauses for half a second, words cutting his mouth open. “It's difficult for people to be with someone like me. You ain't gotta be a part of this whole mess.” I didn't think you would want to, is what he doesn't say. “So you made that decision for me?” Ja’Marr laughs. It’s an ugly sound. “Don’t be naïve, Joe,” it echoes harshly in the empty room. Joe's throat clicks painfully as he swallows. There's so much he wants to say, so many emotions swelling in his chest he can't make sense of. All these different threads of hurt and wanting that are braided so tightly together that it's hard to separate them. Petals of dull rejection that had slowly bloomed between his ribs after he spent weeks waiting for a message that never came. He's angry, he realises belatedly—trying to keep afloat amidst all these webs Ja'Marr keeps spinning around him; all of these unspoken assumptions Ja’Marr has painted him in ever since Joe first laid eyes on him and had found himself wanting. “Well, I'm here, aren't I?” He spits, voice rising sharply. “You're the one who keeps sending me away.” Ja'Marr's head turns sharply. There is something in his eyes that Joe can't name; something vast and unspeakable. It's the first time Ja'Marr has looked at him since they have begun talking. And Joe— Joe can't stop staring back at him; at the curve of his eyebrow, the faint scar beneath his ear that runs down the length of his neck. He doesn't want anybody else, doesn't want anything but this. It's a terrifying thought, sharp and sudden, liquid electricity pulsing all the way down into his fingertips.

okay. i also have a couple of half-baked scenes cause (i think) i wanted to get a feel for the universe—for who ja'marr is in this universe, how he fits there, his relationships, his thoughts on the industry itself:

“A little birdie told me you been spending a lot of time in Cincy lately,” Justin bats his lashes at him, sweet and provocative. Ja'Marr doesn't blink. “Miguel needed me up there for the Mugler shoot.” Miguel would sooner die than set so much as a single foot in Ohio but it's not like Justin has to know that. Justin smiles, sunny and deceptively innocent. “So nothing to do with a certain someone then?” Ja'Marr does not dignify him with a response. “Well, I heard,” Justin continues, unperturbed, legs hanging over the armrest of the couch and Ja'Marr should have known he was not going to let him off the hook that easily, “that you've been giving his brothers fashion advice.” Ja'Marr snorts. “No idea what you're talking about.” It's not even a lie, not really. It's hardly giving advice when Dan sends him two pictures of the ugliest khaki shorts Ja'Marr has ever seen accompanied by a singular question mark. He barely even knows what to respond half the time. “Hm.” “Hm.” One of the stylists comes over to check his make-up. Ja'Marr allows her to turn his head this way and that, eyelashes fluttering as she drags the tip of her brush down his nose. “Important to double check your sources.” “You probably right,” Justin grins dangerously, diamonds glittering between his teeth. “Must have been a different supermodel Tee seen sneak outta Joe's hotel room at 5am.” “Just— shut up.” Ja'Marr stubbornly refuses to meet his eyes, blood rushing to his cheeks. Justin doesn't say anything for a long time, just looks at him, long and thoughtful. It's so uniquely Justin, this manner in which he can take one glance at Ja'Marr and unravel and comfort him in equal amounts. “Just sayin’.” This time it comes out soft. Tender.

this:

He doesn't talk to many of his high school teammates anymore, but Justin has stuck around. He has always been interested in this; talking to one of the photographers, touching his hand to the different pieces hanging off the racks. Has spent entire off-seasons just following Ja'Marr around, back when he used to open over 60 shows a year, each night spent in a different hotel room. Ja'Marr thinks Justin likes the anonymity that comes with accompanying him—spending time around people that barely know his face, let alone his name. It's a rare luxury for people like them, not being the most famous person in a room for once. Ja'Marr watches him for a long moment, gaze caught on the way he's smoothing out the wrinkles of the Dior vest they allowed him to try on. One of the stylists brushes his shoulder, makes him turn to the side. It's always with him, that undercurrent of envy, when he sees Justin like this; a toned body littered with imperfections. Calluses on his hands, scratches on his biceps from where defenders have raked their nails over his skin. Bones bruised and bloody from the force of two bodies colliding. A life that, if the dice had fallen differently, could have been Ja'Marr's for the taking. He is reminded, abruptly, of the surgery scar on his right hip; the skin surrounding it marred and tight and discoloured compared to the rest of him. How they had edited it out on the first editorial he had ever been on—how they had edited it out on every editorial he has been on since. He had a lot of time to get used to it. It shouldn't still hurt to think about. It's the reality of the industry, the way it turns bodies into a commodity. There are days where he barely feels like a real person—a life half-lived in the mind of others, existing only in the eyes of strangers; only made beautiful when someone else molds him into something desirable. There is no one else who looks at him the way Joe does. Maybe that's why he is so difficult for Ja'Marr to talk about. Why his chest still tightens painfully whenever he remembers their first meeting—Ja'Marr wearing a boring, inoffensive dress to fit in with the company Justin tends to keep at his events. How Joe had taken one look at him and hasn't stopped looking ever since.

this next part is kinda. worldbuilding ig. i'm trying to remember what i was trying to do here exactly and i think it was about a particular designer ja'marr worked with in college? idk tbh lmao:

Ja'Marr likes her work but, more importantly, he likes her. Hadn't forgotten about her, even after he had become the youngest male model to open a Prada show. After he had been to the Met, clad in a purple Valentino dress that had been too stiff to even sit down in. Then she had gotten an invite to New York fashion week and Ja'Marr had offered to walk for her. Had done it every year since, even when he had people like Casey Cadwallader and Virginie Viard blowing up his phone, begging him to close shows for them.

and this idk:

I like the ruffles at the bottom, Joe texts back, a few moments later. They're very flowery Ja'Marr's gut wrenches painfully at the sincerity of it all—this awkward little offering of affection.