A model brawl
By the Masked Writer
The studio buzzed with the usual controlled chaos: assistants adjusting lights and makeup artists making finishing touches. All this turmoil revolved around Eliza and Camille, both towering figures of beauty, each in her own way. Eliza, with her golden hair cascading in soft waves and icy blue eyes, embodied the ethereal grace of a classic runway star. Her willowy frame seemed almost delicate, with long limbs and narrow shoulders giving her an almost otherworldly elegance. In contrast, Camille radiated more power and magnetism. Her raven-black hair, straight and glossy, framed sharp, angular features, while her lean body, with defined muscles, added a hint of danger to her allure. Though just as tall and slim as Eliza, Camille’s toned arms and defined legs suggested some hours of workout, giving her movements a confident, almost predatory edge. The tension between them was as much in their differences as in the unsaid rivalry simmering beneath the surface. “Alright, ladies,” the photographer boomed, adjusting his camera. “I want fire. Imagine you’re rivals, both fighting for dominance. I need drama, tension, passion. But always keep it fierce and sexy.”
The models took their places, heels clicking against the polished floor as they moved into the first pose.
In the first pose, Eliza and Camille faced each other, their bodies close but not touching, as if about to engage in a duel. Eliza tilted her head slightly, her icy blue eyes staring daggers at Camille. Camille responded with a smirk, leaning in just enough to make it feel like she was challenging Eliza to strike first. Their lips were painted blood-red, their expressions oozing venom.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Camille murmured, low enough that only Eliza could hear.
Eliza’s jaw tightened, but she held her pose. The tension was palpable, captured perfectly by the camera.
“OK. Next pose!” the photographer instructed. “Camille, grab Eliza’s wrist like you’re trying to stop her from walking away. Eliza, look defiant. Push back with your body language.”
Camille’s fingers wrapped around Eliza’s wrist. Her grip was really firm, her nails digging into the skin. Eliza winced but didn’t break character. Instead, she leaned back slightly, her free hand poised to shove Camille away.
“Perfect!” the photographer shouted. “More intensity!”
Camille’s smirk widened. “Careful,” she whispered. “Wouldn’t want you to break a nail.”
Eliza’s lip curled into a subtle snarl, barely restrained.
Then there was the third pose:
“For this next shot,” the photographer explained, “Camille, I want you to grab Eliza’s hair like you’re about to yank her down. Eliza, I need you to look like you’re about to fight back. I want to see wild, untamed energy.”
Camille stepped closer, her fingers sliding into Eliza’s golden curls. Then she pulled and it was far from gentle. Eliza gasped, her scalp stinging.
“Ouch! Ease up,” Eliza hissed, keeping her voice low.
Camille, instead of loosening her grip, leaned in close, her breath warm against Eliza’s ear. “What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little realism?”
Eliza retaliated in the next shot by gripping Camille’s arm much tighter than necessary, her nails digging into the skin. Camille’s smirk faltered as she stumbled slightly, her footing precarious on the polished floor.
The photographer clapped his hands. “Yes! That’s it! Now, for the final shot—full-on chaos!”
After this tension-raising shoot, the models were instructed to mimic a physical struggle, their bodies entwined as if mid-fight. Eliza grabbed Camille’s shoulder, pushing her backward while arching her own body elegantly. Camille countered by pulling Eliza closer, their faces inches apart, each glaring like they wanted to tear the other apart.
“More! Make it primal!” the photographer encouraged.
Camille’s hand slid back into Eliza’s hair, this time pulling harder. Eliza hissed and retaliated by pressing her forearm against Camille’s chest. Camille responded by stepping forward aggressively, forcing Eliza to take a step back, her stiletto heel wobbling on the edge of a prop platform.
“That’s enough,” Eliza growled under her breath, her voice low and furious.
“You’re welcome to walk off,” Camille whispered, her voice dripping with mockery.
The final frames were captured, the tension between the two women almost tangible in every shot. When the photographer called, “That’s a wrap!” both women turned away sharply, their icy smiles vanishing the moment the cameras were no longer on them.
Backstage, Eliza stormed into her dressing room, her heels clicking sharply on the tile floor. She slammed the door shut and threw her silk robe onto the couch, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady her breath. She caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror and saw her golden curls disheveled, her lip glossing slightly smudged, and most of all, she saw the flush of anger on her face.
“She’s unprofessional. Completely unhinged,” Eliza muttered under her breath, dabbing at her lip.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the door flying open. Camille stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, eyes burning with fury.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me,” Camille snapped, stepping inside without an invitation.
Eliza turned slowly, her eyes narrowing as she straightened up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Camille slammed the door behind her, rattling the vanity lights. “What the hell was that out there? Shoving me like amateur? Who do you think you are?”
Eliza crossed her arms, her voice low and dangerous. “Oh, don’t even start. You yanked my hair like you were trying to scalp me. If anyone’s unprofessional, it’s you.”
Camille laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Unprofessional? You’ve been coasting on that little face of yours while the rest of us work for it. You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?”
Eliza took a step closer, her expression icy. “I AM untouchable. And maybe that’s what bothers you. You can’t handle the fact that I’ll always be better than you.”
The air between them grew heavy, charged with unspoken challenges. Camille’s hands clenched into fists at her sides.
“You’re a spoiled brat.” Camille spat, her voice sharp. “Maybe it’s time someone knocked you off your pedestal.”
Eliza tilted her head, a mocking smile playing at her lips. “Oh, you think you’re the one? Please. You couldn’t if you tried.”
The room seemed to shrink as Camille took another step forward, her dark eyes locked onto Eliza’s. The tension was suffocating, each woman’s breath shallow, their voices growing louder with every word.
“You don’t intimidate me,” Camille said, her voice low but vibrating with fury.
“Good,” Eliza shot back, her tone like ice. “Because I don’t need intimidation to put you in your place.”
Camille’s lip curled in a sneer. “Say that again. I dare you.”
Eliza stepped even closer, their faces mere inches apart now. Her voice dropped to a whisper, sharp as a knife. “You. Will. Never. Be. Me.”
The silence after her words was deafening, but it lasted only a second.
“That was it.”
Camille charged, shoving Eliza hard against the vanity. The edge of the counter jabbed into Eliza’s back, and the sharp pain made her gasp. Before she had time to recover Camille’s hand lashed out, aiming for her face. The slap caught Eliza on her jawline and sent her head snapping to the side.
“You crazy bitch!” Eliza hissed, her voice filled with shock and rage. She retaliated immediately, grabbing Camille’s arm and twisting, trying to force her back. But Camille wrenched free, her more athletic frame surging forward again as she drove her shoulder into Eliza’s chest, sending her stumbling toward the couch.
Eliza tripped but caught herself, her breath ragged. “You want to fight? Fine.”
She charged, grabbing Camille by the waist and throwing her to the ground. Both women fell in a heap, their heels slipping on the polished floor as they grappled awkwardly. Eliza straddled Camille, trying to pin her down, but Camille bucked wildly, knocking Eliza off balance.
“You’re pathetic,” Camille spat, her voice strained as she managed to flip Eliza onto her back.
Camille climbed on top, her knees pinning Eliza’s arms as she leaned forward, one hand holding a fistful of Eliza’s golden hair. She yanked hard. Eliza let go a scream of pain.
Eliza twisted beneath her, thrashing her legs, and landing a kick to Camille’s thigh. The impact made Camille’s grip falter just enough for Eliza to break free. They rolled apart, each gasping for air as they scrambled to their feet.
Eliza’s curls were a mess, her chest heaving, and her hands trembled with both exhaustion and fury. Camille wasn’t faring much better—her satin robe had slipped off one shoulder, her hair sticking to her sweat-slicked forehead. Eliza kicked off her poms and Camille did the same.
Neither woman hesitated. They collided again, grappling like streetfighters with no finesse but no experience either. Camille swung her arm, aiming for Eliza’s face, but Eliza ducked and retaliated with a shove that sent Camille stumbling into the wall. Eliza pressed the advantage, grabbing Camille’s shoulders and slamming her back against the surface.
“You’re done,” Eliza growled, her voice breathless.
Camille snarled in response, her hands clawing at Eliza’s arms as she tried to push her away. She managed to shove Eliza back just enough to regain her footing, but the effort cost her. Camille’s movements were slowing, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as fatigue began to set in.
Eliza saw the opening and charged again, grabbing Camille by the waist and forcing her down onto the couch. Camille fought back desperately, her hands slapping and clawing at Eliza’s face, but her strikes were getting weaker, her energy draining fast.
Pinned beneath Eliza, Camille’s legs flailed, her feet scraping against the floor. “Get off me!” she gasped, her voice high and strained.
But Eliza didn’t relent. She grabbed Camille’s wrists and forced them above her head, leaning her full weight onto her opponent. Camille thrashed weakly, her chest rising and falling as she fought to catch her breath, but it was no use. Eliza was firmly in control.
“Had enough?” Eliza hissed, her voice a mix of triumph and venom.
Camille glared up at her, tears of frustration pooling in her dark eyes. She tried one last time to twist free, but her strength was gone. All she could do was lie there, panting, her humiliation written across her flushed face.
Eliza held her down a moment longer, savoring her victory before finally letting go. She stood, brushing her disheveled curls out of her face as she adjusted her robe. Camille remained on the couch, utterly defeated.
Eliza glanced down at her rival, her breath short but her voice dripping with condescension. “Next time, don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Camille didn’t respond. She lay there, her chest heaving as she stared up at the ceiling, her pride in tatters. The room was silent except for the sound of their labored breathing, and when Eliza finally walked out, Camille stayed where she was, too drained and humiliated to move.
The End
