Magic in a Bottle: Angelina Tarrant vs Shimmerlace Snuggleblossom II (Apex Match)

[Malkavia]

She didn't feel anything in the first few tics but a quick shift in her balance when she was loosed from Angelina's grapple. Her nail peeled off her thumb like a loose postage stamp, and off she went stumbling, back on her heels. She felt horror before she felt pain, turning pale while her face drooped, staring at what had been her thumbnail. The flesh in the frame of her nail was already swelling, a puffy dome of hard flesh, streaked with blood that pooled at nail's root. Her hand shook, and the blood trickled down her thumb and wrist.

The pain made her choke like steel wool had caught in her gullet. Of every laceration and bludgeon of this evening performance, this was the most extreme agony, as if her entire swelling nailbed were punctured full of uncountable needles. The skin loathed the air, and just the sensation of the atmosphere on the hitherto protected skin made the raw sensation blare. What was worse than the acute pain, though—that was the anticipation. The tissue was exposed. Just brushing it against the inside of a pocket would be like scraping sandpaper over a raw wound.

Shimmer's lip trembled. Her tearducts were soggy empty wells, and her eyes blurred and burned. A wave of adrenaline roiled over the Feychild, and she twisted towards Angelina with am incoherent bellow, a toothy scowl, and a back-handed, spinning blow at the pirate's face.

[Monsy]

Angelina expected more thrill from peeling a nail. She can almost envision the pain, somewhat, like your whole body becomes an exposed nerve and now someone dumped alcohol all over it. Now centre that intensity into a single nail. Fresh breeze, and all that flying bacteria, eager to chew on a fresh and healthy nail bed, ripe with overflowing blood both leaking and inflaming the whole digit. Go and get her Mother Infection.

She wanted to know what an infection taking hold looks like, even before the physical signs. Shimmer’s face became a study point. The eyes, lips. The pull and twist of the lucid cheek. Burst, for fuck sake -- Angelina wanted to say, with the nail pinched between her thumb-pad and the top-knuckle of her curled index. She turned her hand around, confirmed the nail’s existence, then flicked it away. Then Shimmer came in hot, swinging, and spinning.

Angelina’s smashed face felt squeezed and light the moment she dipped her knees, like all the blood that worked so hard to get there had suddenly flushed out. Then she popped up and seized the arm. One hand on the wrist. She used the movement to slide into a one-eighty turnaround on her heel, stepped back once, then tried to march a full wall-walking prance. Up the turnbuckles, one-two and three, gradually curling back, with hair as her red cape. Once she reached the zenith point, she’d try to moonsault over Shimmer’s shoulder, land on her feet, then quickly roll to her back and pull Shimmer’s limb into an arm drag!

[Malkavia]

Flick. Angelina discarded the nail, and Shimmerlace—bent over and a feather's length away from a sob—flinched. There goes another glob of fey flotsam, like Thistle or her tooth. As she swung with her good hand, snarling, an image slithered through the guttering ravines in Shimmer's mind: A gnarled claw. She saw thick, yellowed keratin growing from her thumb like a goat horn. Every heartbeat itched in the thumb.

Angelina caught her wrist. The instant froze, heart and breath and all, but only for a flash. Then—up our Marauder flew, grip on Shimmerlace's wrist like a vise, one boot on the first turnbuckle, then up to the second buckle. Up, up, up! An arc Shimmerlace imagined tracing red up to the glittering violet stars. God, but even with her back throbbing and thumb screaming bloody fucking murder, the technique of this cunt sliced like a scalpel down the navel. After all that, your Marauder could still fly.

That half-second sensation of sitting at the wrong end of a telescope, shrinking while the real star burned up the atmosphere, made Shimmer's chin tremble. Her chest burned, and her throat clamped around a sob, her hand — the bad one dripping red at the inflamed nail root — grasped up to catch Angelina's scalp, to grab a knot of red hair and yank her back to Earth. Shimmerlace groaned through her teeth: "Nnng-nuh!"

The Feychild's's instinct clambered, quivering, desperate, from one flash of an image to the next: Yank the scarlet hair. Angelina would tumble back-first from the corner, land on the Feychild's shoulder, boots no doubt kicking up a storm downwind of the Feychild's face. Next image: Shimmerlace would step back one quick pace, two paces, three (faster faster) and then charge the ringpost and—toss. Like throwing a log. Crotch her on the ringpost. Split the sorry rabbit-napping cunt down the middle.

[Monsy]

Angelina can feel the pain they must’ve been in, but she didn’t empathize. Not one bit. And in fact, the fact that it happened to them and not her was always a point to laugh. If not for the fucking other multi-armed layer of pain-stew. One day, she WILL have her laugh, in their face, perhaps standing above them, though that wasn’t needed. Right now, the only thing she needed was to shut up and walk vertically. Up those turnbuckles, flex her swelling back, squish bruise to bruise, then vice them together as her feet moved, knees ache and ankle pinched.

NOPE! Said the pink-haired FUCK. A pull on the hair, yoink against the scalp and gravity had its way. Her mid-spine came over Shimmer’s shoulder and collar-bone. Angelina initially sputtered a cough, then looked out and saw her vision upside-down. Her body was bending in a round n shape. And it burned. The first she thought of was: For fuck sake, what NOW? With nuisance being the name of the play. Angelina grabbed Shimmer’s head with both hands and brought her knees up. It was self-inflicting to her back, but she could simply roll. Then Shimmer began to dash, and there fucked those plans.

Now, wind and arousal often didn’t mix, but it sure did here as steel practically smashed her outer cunt. Eyes bulged and watered, flushed, hands immediately dove between steel and pink-panties, holding her white-hot, somewhat aroused sex as a surge of mortifying buzz and agony soared from head to toe. It pulsed in waves and her thighs now clung to the post in a soft leg-lock, shivering. She was sitting up on the turnbuckle and the suspending cable, looking out, facing the crowd, face locked in peril. Her mouth opened to peep something, wide, then closed as it made this squealy-bark that otherwise died off as pathetic as it started. Clenched teeth.

[Malkavia]

It was disappointing that absolutely fucking nailing this cunt's pussy over the top rope didn't make a sound. It would have been so gratifying to hear a clunk or a DING or a crunch. But no, Angelina's skirt swished, and her netted leggings stretched, but the impact got absorbed into too much tender skin to really ring out.

That bark just about made up for it though—as did the contortions in her face, and the way the pain roiled through her like a visible wave. Shimmerlace gasped in breath. Her thumb had not stopped throbbing. No, actually, squeezing, then tossing a full-arsed woman just made the bloody stub on her thumb ache that much worse. She heaved a groan that came deep from her chest and stomped the mat. Then she breathed in. It was red-hot steel needle through her nailbed, the mutiliated skin underneath, the shallow bone, flashing pain all the way up to her elbow. She heaved her will against it. It's nothing.

Keep moving, growled her inner hobgoblin.

She jumped to the bottom rope, facing the corner, which was instinct, but she only had to blink to see where her instinct was prodding her. Here was Angelina, curled around the ringpost all curly in her lips and sweaty on her brow. Shimmerlace licked her lips, ascended rope number two, and aimed to slip her arms under the Marauder's pits. She'd take an S-grip around her ribs and squeeze until the air huffed and rasped out of Angelina's throat.

"Head's up, shithead, it's 'bout to hurrrrrrt again." The Feychild felt her heart like the cymbal on a drumset, high and tinny and unstable. She tightened her grip. She could fall from the second rope, suplex this cunt—but there was a higher sky to touch. She could see that same suplex, delivered from the top. Fuckin'. Rope. She took a deep breath, sprung up her thighs, and jumped.

She made it, bouncing and grinning and sweating, to rope number three.

From there, her plan was pretty clear: Drop Angelina into a suplex to smash her black-horned brains like an egg. "Fuckin' WHINER!"

[Monsy]

Just had to… Not fall off, right?
This SEEMED easy, with her ankles locked around the post, allowing her to relax them idly. But this just made more pressure on her fuckin’ cunt, and she can feel that shit ridge up between her folds, smush all her girly bits and then get a minor wedgie. Her upper-body leaned towards the left, with two hands on the post, all she can think about was: Don’t fuckin’ puke.

Yeah… Because like THIS would tip that scale.
At least that’s what she told herself, squeezing those eyes shut. Like rung towels, there was sweat, and a stingy pinch in her eyes like there was gunk and morning fatigue. Her body wanted out, and she could feel her eyes sink from the repeated and non-stop Shimmer-supplied damage.

And still. The Scion wasn’t missing a damn beat. She didn’t peg her as a flyer, but more of a bird-watcher from when they spied on the rooftop. But going high herself was a quick way to a broken neck. So she thought.

“I’ll pah-AAAAAA…ss.” One nail down and somehow, Shimmer was stronger than ten seconds ago. Her ribs contracted and Angelina wheezed out in a recognizable squeal. Breathless, Angelina found herself being tugged with Shimmer’s ascent, finding her feet and locking hands on Shimmer’s grip. The two stood together amidst the many flashing phones, holding their breath for the ring to shake.

“You ain't got no wings.” Angelina mumbled while looking out, then attacked the injured thumb by slamming her palm right against it. If that broke Shimmer’s grip, then Angelina would turn and walk two steps onto the ropes, teetering left and right with slightly spread arms. Then she’d jump, landing Shimmer’s shoulders in a somewhat awkward angle. The headscissor is all she needed, though, to lean back and finish the rope-walked avalanche Frankensteiner!

[Malkavia]

The top rope bobbed when Shimmerlace leapt onto it. She sank all her strength into tearing Angelina off her perch. Her arms and wrists sank deep into the Marauder's ribs. The Feychild's thighs flexed. Her shoulders strained, and a shower of glittering sweat arced from her hair down to the mat below.

But Angelina held firm.

Shimmerlace glowered down at Angelina—and her legs locked around the ring post. At that moment, a shard of bile boiled at the deepest reaches of Shimmerlace's gut. She hated those legs more than she had ever hated anything. "For fuck sake—"

Angelina pounded on Shimmer's thumb. The Feychild saw the pain coming an instant before it it erupted. She ordered her hands to hold firm, an underlined imperial directive straight from the brain. But her body wasn't having it. The pain was volcanic crags in the flesh that smoked and sputtered fire. Her arm spasmed. Her grip came loose. Angelina slipped away.

Ain't got no wings. Shimmerlace gurgled with rage, but Angelina had slipped behind her. All she could see was the looming shadow, until those legs locked her throat. Her pulse slithered, painfully, under Angelina's clenched thigh. Then there was wind, and soaring, and a glorious bright arc across the glittering violet and ruby sky—until she splat head-first into the mat.

It was a curse, thought some small detached part of her mind. The third-rope curse that struck every time she grasped a cloud. Fuzz and dark popped into her vision, and headache pain drooled from inside her skull and down her throat. She felt nauseous. She clenched her hands around her head and opened her mouth, but no sound came out, and she rolled onto her side, where she twitched and rocked with her knees drawn to her chest. Fetal position.

[Monsy]

No, it wasn’t higher than that ladder. Not by a damn 12-pounder. The landing is wood instead of fuck-your-back-crete, and ropes had more spring for that extra lateral. It still felt more threatening. Being flung off the top wasn’t something she was used to, or even being threatened with. That was always something in her domain. And though she had her wits to turn that shit around, it didn’t sit quite right.

So she bumped again — on her front in a controlled splat. The thing about Frankensteiners is you didn’t release that early. You cinched, then drove them the fuck down in a headscissoring barrel roll. She half expected a crunch, and when she looked over her shoulder, there was a whisper hoping for it. “Mm--” Her face scrunched up with sweat. Misses Back-muscle was tightening up, so when she bent and shuffled on the floor to face Shimmer, her back flared with nerve pinches and pricks.

“Hey Shimma.” Angelina mumbled softly, then curled those wicked lips from a broken nose. She dragged herself purposefully low to the ground to be on Shimmer’s level, a snake slither to come up and position her mouth near their fairy ear. “After a fall like that and layin’ how ya are. Do your legs still work? Can ya breathe on ya own?” Angelina bit Shimmer’s fairy ear and started tugging on it like a dog, just like Fight the LAW 2. If it came free, then she would get up, wobbly and with one hand on her back. Now standing over Shimmer’s head, she tossed the ear in her clasp between her hands idly.

“Tell ya what. If that’s the case. Instead of lockin’ ya in a gibbet.” Angelina threw the ear down at Shimmer’s body, then barked, “It’ll be a fuckin’ iron lung!” Then she ran to Shimmer’s right, bounced off the ropes, galloped over and picked up speed, bouncing off one more time. She came back at 120% max speed and used Shimmer’s body as a stepping stone to launch. Her shotty knees pulled in and hit the third rope. Her arms crossed and she leaped, HIGH, twisted and flipped with her leg swinging into a crescent that was coming straight down, axe-kick style right towards that tendered neck.

[Malkavia]

After Shimmerlace conked her head, the world sagged. It was as if the world's solid stuff had been replaced with viscous liquid. Everything drooped and melted and swam together. Her sense of location was usually a point — You are here, on the map. But now it was more like a cloud of probabilities. You are...somewhere in this sphere. Swimming and swishing and tumbling around. The mat was diagonal, and the lights tilted overhead. A sliver of the fairy thought it was beautiful, but the rest knew what was coming.

When Angelina sank to her level, she shuddered. Her command to her body was the usual instinct, MOVE, but the body was in full rebellion. However much Shimmerlace coaxed her muscles to move, she was screaming into a mob. She tried to crawl away, but the attempt was so pathetic she barely scraped the mat. She was like a captive: she could hear every word Angelina said, could wince at their cut and shrivel at what they implied. But she couldn't mount a response.

Then, Angelina's teeth sank into her ear. Shimmer's gasp caught in her throat. Her chin trembled. She jerked as if she had been kicked, then curled into a tight ball. Then she held very still and waited for the agony of having her ear ripped from its root.

It never came.

It took a moment for Shimmerlace to understand. She didn't process what happened until the Marauder stood, then tossed the elf prosthetic. It bounced of her shoulder and settled in front of her face, where it lay, deflated and dead looking. She winced. A blush prickled her face, and she felt a faint, sickly curl between her legs. It was an aching, sweet, humiliating something. But much larger than any of that—she felt a surge of nauseous relief. It bubbled up like a soda bottle freshly uncapped. Her body went loose. She sighed.

It was only silicone.

Her body settled back into one, single will.

"GRK!—"

The Marauder stepped on Shimmerlace as she launched herself to the third rope. Shimmerlace jerked, and a look of anger flashed over her face. She rolled over the ear, crushing it with her shoulder, in time to leave the mat empty and unforgiving for Angelina as her leg unwound its lethal kick.

[Monsy]

An iron lung, huh?
She didn’t have one, obviously. But fuck if she couldn’t build one. It would just need fuckin’ time, money and some goddamn sweat. At the end of the day: she can fuckin’ put Shimmah in one if she wanted. And when she would, if she would, she’d know enough about the machine to put her in incorrectly, uncomfortably; unable to talk.

So she flew on that premise, able to do, touch and smash through any obstacle with enough punch and jump. She’d dismantle it and put it back together horridly out of spite. And that’s exactly how she came down. Without Shimmer’s neck to land on, Angelina’s foot over-swung and landed more on her front toes. That wouldn’t be so bad if her forward momentum didn’t just kick in -- stumbling, with her bodyweight awkwardly jacking her hip. She can feel the kneecap itself jostle in its V-shape boney home and the tendons pull to the point of near explosion. With how lithe she was, you can also see the individual muscles shake and pull inside her thigh like they were disturbed from a nightmare, then watch her buckle and quietly yelp.

“...crap..”

Angelina gasped and was down on one knee, then stood from adrenaline to take another step, but that was surely and utterly fucked. Her other knee wasn’t so hot either, but this was another league of suck. Totalled. So she was left standing on one leg, staring down bent over, looking at her muscle-twitching knee with disgust in her brows, fury in her teeth and pain in her eyes.

“...fuuhhh… dge…ing… nnnggh--”