(Don't) Hold Your Breath
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Bright lights flash away, picture-perfect models with their smoky eyes and glamourous ensemble, stand stock still against the backlights, posing with effortless grace. Paper dolls and mannequins with their expressions schooled to reflect only what needs to be seen: glamour, passion, vitality; without betraying a hint of their own discomfort and fatigue at five in the morning.
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Click!
Click!
Click!
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The sound of the camera shutter blinking away in quick succession is comforting. A picture they say is worth a thousand words. The opportunity to showcase the raw emotions in a man-made world, capturing that shuddering glimpse of vulnerability at the perfect moment in time is what Rukia strives to do, editorials and campaigns for fashion magazines are what pays her bills and puts food on the table.
Rukia tilts the camera up. The theme for this collection is Devolve, supporting the call for sustainability in the fashion industry, breakdown the code of fashion to what it was- devolving it to the roots and basics of what clothing was meant to do. Here is a chance to capture and showcase the raw sensuality of the human body, adorned by a layer of fibers so comfortable and personal that it becomes a second skin, setting them at ease and at peace with mother nature.
Devolve- the very term conjures up the image of a body of water, flowing fluidly, cascading down a gentle slope, dripping down languidly; rivulets carving out a path of their own in the vast and open world.
She stifles a yawn, craving her daily shot of morning caffeine. Outdoor shoots are tricky. Even with the artificial backlights, her team is racing against time to capture the perfect sunrise, waiting for the sun to rise above the ocean horizon. The time is short and they need to make every second count.
Her violet eyes peer at the figure of the male model standing by the edge of jagged rocks. She takes her hat off to the man, at how he makes it look so effortless, unaffected by the elements at the slightest. The water must be freezing this early in the morning.
He is naked and bare-chested, save for the pair of leather pants clinging to him so tightly that they might as well have been painted on him. They showcase his every curve and bulge, leaving very little to imagination.
Rukia has eyes. She has seen the headshots before the shoot and she likes that he is a natural ginger. The splash of warm colour against the cool blue is distractingly good. Some people are born to stand under a spotlight, some people aren't. This beautiful man clearly belongs to the former, and she is looking very professionally and respectfully from behind her camera lenses.
The birth of Venus in all his glory, his fiery hair wild, the ends of it tugged by the winds, whipping harshly against his face while slickened wet hair remains plastered to his nape. That jawline is sharp enough to cut herself on. The way his six packs stand out, glistening with sweat and salt water as he stands powerful and unflinching as the ocean waves surge, hitting the shores; the formation of jagged rocks with water splashing from the impact— hard lines, rugged and solid, softened by the water beads trailing down low, following the lines of his sculpted face, kissing at his full lips before slipping down past his Adam's apple and the contours of his heaving chest.
Behind him, the sun rises and there is a collective exhale heard.
The first glimmer of light enters his eyes. His head tilted at an angle, the sun's touch lightly teasing at the side of his face, gilding him. The amber flecks in his eyes are almost golden against the blue-black ocean depth of his surroundings. His mouth opens slightly, his chest heaving from exertion. His gaze tilts downwards, as if just noticing that he has an audience in the background.
Through the lenses, their eyes meet. Rukia sighs. It is like the world comes alive and fades away all in the same measured breath. A weaker woman would have swooned, knees buckling.
Rukia takes the shot.
Surveying the end result, she gives a smile and nods at her assistant, giving her thumbs-up. This one might be her favourite just yet.
"It's a wrap!"
They are done for the day.
There is an immediate flurry of movements, calls from the assistants and cameramen to start packing, for models to shimmy out of their glamourous outfits and breathe again.
As the lead photographer, Rukia is in no rush. Stifling a loud yawn, she gives a lazy stretch and then starts packing her own equipment, taking her time. Unheeding of the chaos around her, her footsteps are unhurried as she wanders half-dead to her car, daydreaming about leaving the isolated beach behind for civilization and the taste of hot coffee running past her throat.
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"Fuck!"
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Her ears prick. She stops in her tracks, suddenly alert when she hears muffled swearing coming from her right. She squints and abruptly decides to trail after the noise, suddenly curious about the commotion. She pinpoints it to the temporary tent the photography team has set up as a makeshift changing room on the beach.
Strange, she thinks; the models would have left by now, collected by their respective agencies to their next location for their next project and shoot. She lifts the flap of the tent over her head, quietly sneaking in to investigate.
Thinking back, she concurs that nothing in the world could have prepared her for the sight she was about to see.
Her violet eyes connect with the ochre brown gaze from the male model from earlier. And her mouth goes 'O', unable to do more as she watches him flush a dark red, his ears practically burning. She wonders why he is still here and hasn't changed into his own clothes.
He is going to catch a cold at this rate. The blue terry towel draped over his broad shoulders is poor protection against the cold. His hair is still damp and falls over his eyes but that doesn't explain the panic in his eyes, his two hands desperately fisting and tugging at the front of his leather pants.
She furrows her brows. What on earth?
"I can't get my pants off."
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Oh.
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Rukia stiffens. It only takes a second for her to realize that she is completely out of her depths in the situation. She has no idea on how to help. She checks their surroundings, hoping to find someone else to help. She pokes her head out of the tent, frowning when she realizes it is just them.
"Where's everyone else?"
"They've left a while ago. My agent's gone to find the designer. If he can't find him, I asked him to come back with a pair of scissors instead. I'll cut this damn thing off myself if I have to!"
With that, he huffs and scowls, turning his attention back to his pants as his hand begin gripping and tugging at the leather material again.
"Why can't you take off your pants?"
His face flushes even darker if possible, the red swarming down the column of his neck and he averts his gaze from her.
"Zipper's stuck."
Rukia creeps close, concerned. It does not sit well with her to just leave him like that. She supposes the right thing to do in this case would be to try and help even when she might not be the most experienced when it comes to the situation.
She heaves a sigh and tilts her head up at him. It is just her luck that models are all built tall like giants and she is petite enough that she needs to stand tiptoes and crane her neck when she is talking to one.
The man jumps when he feels her small hands covering his, biting back a curse at how cold her hands are. His eyes twitch and there is a nervous bob of his Adam's apple. "W-What are you doing?"
"I'll help you," she says, swallowing thickly. "What's your name?"
He licks at his dry lips. "Um... Ichigo."
"Okay, Ichigo. I'm Rukia. I can help—"
Her fingers pick and grip at the pull tab, her other hand pulling at the front of the pants, stretching it as flat as she can. She gulps, her face suddenly warm when she realizes how close her face is to his bulge and judging with how tight the pants are, she is willing to bet that he's gone commando underneath it. Her fingers are suddenly shaking despite her best attempts to remain calm.
"Just—" She chews at her bottom lip— "Breathe in and then hold your breath for as long as you can. I'll slide it down. I'll um... be gentle."
"O-Okay."
Focusing her attention at the stuck zipper, she tries her best to pull the slider down the teeth but the damn thing just will not give. She frowns, crouching closer and unintentionally grips at the front of the pants tighter. She tugs and then gives a harder than normal pull.
Next to her, Ichigo hisses sharply. He bats her hands away, glaring vehemently at her.
"Gently," he hisses at her.
She gulps, her face flushing. "S-Sorry."
Her heart thunders as she gives it another try, her mouth turning unexpectedly dry when the slider gives a sharp hiss. it makes it down the beginning of the teeth, sliding barely past the top stop. Behind it, Rukia sees the faint curl of ginger hair, hastily averting her gaze when it becomes apparent that she was right about two things.
The first, Ichigo is a natural ginger and the second, underneath the leather pants that he has, he really is naked.
Clearing her throat, Rukia raises her gaze hesitantly towards his, suddenly shy when she sees the colour in his cheeks, the way he chews at his bottom lip, his hands fisting at the leather. Her hands are clammy though she tries her best to remain calm. She is no amateur or an inexperienced rookie on her first photoshoot. Nude models are still models on the job. Nudity is sometimes a part of the job requirement in shoots and it is incredibly unprofessional of her to be behaving like this.
"Um... so we're almost there. Yeah, just um... hold still."
Ichigo gives a throaty chuckle at that, muttering under his breath, "Oh trust me, I'm not going anywhere right now. I'm all yours."
"R-Right."
Her face burns and she is ever so glad that her hair somewhat covers her ears so no one can see that they are on fire. She holds her breath, listening for the way his breathing hitches, his chest rising as the slider slides lower.
"A-Almost there," she murmurs. The space between them seems nonexistent and the tension between them is thick enough to be cut through with a knife. The hunger is primal, like a match has been lit within her and the fire is spreading within her like wildfire. The thoughts that plague her make her feel devolved, not in control of herself.
If Rukia wants, if she were any less of Rukia, she can touch him right there and coax a reaction out of him. It wouldn't even be that hard. The zipper is almost down. Ichigo is naked underneath it. She can just slide her hand underneath and—
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No! Bad Rukia!
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Rukia huffs, shaking her head. This is not her. This is wrong.
She is not a fucking pervert!
Rukia clears her throat. She is determined to turn her attention back to helping Ichigo out of his dilemma. Then much to her mortification, her hand takes on a mind of her own. It brushes a little too close, a little too intimately and almost immediately garners a reaction.
"S-Sorry. I swear I didn't mean to—"
She chews at her bottom lip. She hides her face, pretending that she had not heard his strangled gasp, the way his eyes had fluttered shut when her hand drifts closer much than she intended to his crotch. She wrenches her hand away, putting some distance between them again. She gulps, feeling as though she has been burnt, desperate to pretend that she had not felt his cock hardening under her touch.
It is useless of course. The leather pants are made with a single goal in mind, to mimic the appearance of a second layer of skin; completely inseparable from his own body. She surreptitiously takes another glance at his bulge. The outline of it straining against the leather. It looks almost painful.
How mortifying!
She forces herself to look away. It does not mean anything, she tells herself, chiding herself for behaving that way. That is just a biological response to touch. Ichigo must be so embarrassed. Heck, what would he think of her?
Her mouth is dry and she stills, tilting her head upwards at him. Their eyes meet. She is waiting for Ichigo to make the next move, fully ready to bolt in embarrassment the minute that he hints that he no longer feels comfortable in her presence.
Ichigo clears his throat loudly, his fists clenching tighter to the leather. His Adam's apple bobs. In his gaze, Rukia sees his hesitation but he does not look away. Neither does she.
With the limited lighting inside the small changing room, his eyes glow as the stray rays of sunlight seep in through the fluttering tent flaps. Rukia is torn between wanting to run and staying to indulge in this strange tension-filled stare-down with this handsome stranger.
She is transfixed, scarcely remembering to breathe as she looks and stares. She is lost in the moment. Her heart is pounding away like a hummingbird's wings on steroids. He consumes her every attention and it is not hard to see why.
Rukia is an artist and a photographer. Her appreciation of the Golden Ratio is innate and second-nature. Her mind instinctively grounded in proportions and symmetries; her eyes sensitive to the juxtaposition of colours and tones, the play of light on her surroundings, granting light and breathing life into her models as it gilds and kisses at their edges and curves. Her breath hitches unbidden and her fingers itch to press themselves against his cheeks, to tease and brush along at his lips, to comb through his wet hair if only to bring their bodies closer.
The light is golden but on Ichigo, it becomes him.
It makes an everlasting impression on her. Orange and bright sunlight shining down on the ocean blue, white waves splashing against jagged black rocks- warm tone on cool.
Rukia thinks back to the moments captured behind her lenses, staring at a man seemingly born from the rolling ocean waves, living and breathing- organically and seamlessly at one with the misty blue ocean world. The brightness of his hair, his ocher brown eyes that remind her of hot chocolate and caramel toffee, the warmth of his naked body thrums so deliciously despite the morning chill- Ichigo is so warm.
She wants to make him her muse, to watch him shrouded in golden light and immortalize those moments. With Ichigo, she thinks, she can imagine a world without the night, a world where the sun never sets, hung high above the sky, unencumbered by the weight of heavy grey clouds.
She watches as his pink tongue darts out to lick at his lips. He opens his mouth about to say something.
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"Yoo-hooo, Ichigo! I'm back!"
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Caught off guard, Rukia is completely unprepared for the appearance of a third party. Yes, that's right. She remembers now. Ichigo's agent has gone off to get help. Her blood turns cold at the sudden sing-song voice. She knows that voice and that cannot amount to anything good.
She gulps, urgency lacing her tone as she asks Ichigo, "Who did you say your agent was again?"
"U-Urahara."
She scowls. Her heart skips a beat. Of all people, it just had to be him. That man—
"Oh-ho! What do we have here?"
Rukia winces. It is too late.
They both turn their heads towards the direction of the entrance, just in time to see a shaggy-haired blonde stagger into the tent, a pair of scissors clutched in his hands. He takes off his green and white bucket hat, amusement dancing in his eyes as he takes in the scene before him. He is not expecting Ichigo to have company. To see little Rukia here with him, down on her knees in such an interesting position, very much verges on scandalous. His lips quickly curl into a sly smirk.
It will make for an interesting gossip to share with Yoruichi after work if nothing else. Who would have thought little Rukia and Isshin's boy would meet under such interesting circumstances?
Hah! Byakuya just might have an aneurysm if he knew what is going on.
"Well then, Ichigo. Are you going to introduce me to your new friend?"
Ichigo gulps, suddenly realizing how it must look to Urahara. He chances his last glance at the woman in front of him. They are about the same age but the raven-haired girl is tiny, barely coming up to his shoulders. Her eyes are, for the lack of a better word, bewitching but more than that, it has taken all of his self-control to tear his gaze away from her pink lips.
He cannot help it. Her touch is so hot it burns through clothes. But it is not good enough. He wants to feel her touch on his bare skin. Is it wrong of him to imagine those pink lips closing in on him?
On his fingers?
Maybe even lower.
On his—
No! He is disgusted with himself. This woman- Rukia was only trying to help. It is not right for him to take advantage of her kindness like that. It is not right for Urahara to misunderstand her.
He clears his throat loudly, stammering to Urahara. "I-I can explain! This is not what it looks like! It's not what you think it is! Rukia's just helping me—"
"—oh, is she? Well, I suppose some would call what she is doing, helping you with your um... situation down under."
"URAHARA!"
Urahara's pale eyes twinkle with mischief at that. Ichigo's cheeks colour. He tries to shift his obvious arousal out of view, to no avail. He hisses sharply at the tight constraints, the discomfort at his delicate member.
All Rukia feels is dread coiling in her gut as she gets up on shaky legs. She wants to find a hole to bury herself in. Urahara is up to no-good and unfortunately a family friend of the Kuchikis. He is never going to let her live it down.
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Author's note:
Very very belated day 8: warm tones/cool tones
Pssshhhh! Move over meet-cute, say hello to IR awkward meet!