“Are ya even listenin’ fuckin’ fluffstick?” Angelina said, closing her notebook. She sported some fake glasses, wore some dress pants, a dark red striped button-up dress shirt with rolled sleeves, a black vest overtop and a tie. Your punkin’ pirate wanted to look spiffy on the day. Her bunny, however, the fanciest of Thistle’s but the sassiest of bros, didn’t take too hot to her storytime, nibbling away at pellets she placed on the locker-room bench.
“That sounded real nice, Angie-wangie, but can ya fuck off. I’m eatin.” Said Thistle through his usual grungy high-pitched goblin voice. She pet him with a gentle brush of her knuckles, and stood up. “Yeah, but I bettah get a fuckin’ cuddle when this is done. We’re gonna have a big scary woman to take home, so I need ya to have your teeth sharp and ready. Hope she likes shibari.”
Angelina nodded, then proceeded to change piece on piece. Her pants were exchanged for the chequered skirt, belt, black stockings with a white stripe, fishnets all the way down that pulled over her naval. Her top half got a smaller, but baggier crop-top. That beloved horned skull right on the middle, with fishnet sleeves, a dog-collar, Saint Peter’s cross, then her boots. Finally, came the jacket. Our dear black leather laced with grunge tattoos. She threw her bundle of clothes on the bench, which made one big pile. “There’s ya bed til I get back.” Said Angelina, picking up her board, the antique Rodney, then opening the door, turning around to point a finger at him. “No girls. Or boys.” Then left.
Her music hit the playing field about ten minutes later. All she could think about was the image of a big girl being prisoner. Then again, who didn't?
"This is a Prisoner of War Apex Qualifier match scheduled for ONE fall! Introducing first, from New York City -- standing at five-foot-three and weighing in at one hundred and nine pounds! The Marauder! Annngelinaaaa Tarraaaant!
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