Angelina Tarrant vs Shimmerlace Snuggleblossom - Gibbet Match

[Monsy]

There was a lot to laugh about. True.
This chick wasn’t just playing with fire, she was sucking her own matches and gasoline. The beauty of sucking, the foolishness and self-deprecation was just an art form she needed to appreciate more. Darn right she was going to crown this bitch a little cub -- shame there wasn’t any cliff to toss her off after. Rather, in came a boot to give her own take on that scene.

Oof.
That landing was soft.
So soft that she felt a little uneasy sinking that foot in, like a knife into a wet, raw steak. It felt awful, yet oh-so needed. Shimmer wasn’t out, despite the spittle on her chin. That wee puke-staff came right for her, aimed to bite her just under the breast against her ribs. Angelina leaned back into a flexible arch, like her spine was rubber. The staff stretched past her chin and right over her nose tip. She grabbed it, switched her foot to pressure their shoulder, digging in the heel and giving the staff a grand ol’ YANK! “Ya staff or ya shoulda, girl.”

If that took a fresh dub. She’d first step back, just a couple paces -- let them stew and stir in their pain-soup.

“Aye. This thing grows and shrinks, ya? How do ya…”

Twist, pull, push. She fiddled around from end to end, thumbing it over; a cap on one end, something to twist, but the goop on the crease told her that wasn’t it. On the other side, there was a wee button she pushed and it clicked, sliding down.. “Ah, magic huh. Like a fuckin’ assassin. Alright, well…” She preferred its long form, so pulled it out again. “...Back to it.” And putting one foot on their waist, Angelina raised the staff over her head and brought it down so the end busted against their kneecap.

[Malkavia]

That top-rope stomp stayed hot in the sternum a long handful of heartbeats—it kept her chest tight, made breathing back-splintering work, all while nausea sagged in her throat. None of that stopped her trying to yank back her staff. “H-hand…Hands off, cunt!” She shook like a dog on a leash—filthy rat paw digits off the arsenal girl—but her shoulder wrenched, the staff ripped past her fingers, and by the time she collected the energy to start rolling onto her feet in pursuit, a boot was back just beneath her breast.

There was a crack like a golf club against a ceramic tea kettle. “AAAACH—TSSSK...FUCK...” Then a bellyful of a scream. Shimmerlace rolled over a knee blazing with bone-deep, eye-popping, neck straining, funny-bone busting pain. “FUCKIN’ GOOSE BLOWIN’ FEATHER SHIT EATIN’ FUCK FUCK...” The Pixie shoved a fist between her teeth and bit. Golden father on a pygmy unicorn but aluminum and kneecaps made for an ugly bite.

Angie loomed over Shimmer, staff of the Court over her shoulder. Smug as a duck, the fuckin’ pissant piece of—

She wore wee pink panties.

Shimmer's eyes drifted to the pink, even while she rocked. She could see them quite clear from this underfoot perspective. Panty shot. They even had a wee rose bow round the front hem.

(Always was a pink-in-the-sheets girl, weren’t she?)

The stream of profanity kept unloading with its FUCKIN FUCK FUCKs, but Shimmer’s hands formed a fist. Tension strained in her shoulder, then unwound in a flash, rocketing a gloved fey fist towards the soft and pink between the Marauder’s legs.

[Monsy]

What a profanity pansy.
Angelina sunk that bar in for all its light worth. Her arms went stiff and felt the bite of it connecting against something solid. Much like hitting a tree with a bat -- except it hurt them more. She let one hand go, the other hand fell to her side, still holding it. Arching back, she made a chef’s kiss to her lips and blew it as high as her hand could frolick towards the beaming sun. The crowd cringed, and got a resounding, ‘Ooooo’ to the sound of screams. It really wasn’t pleasant. More like a pig that didn’t shut up. Swear to swear, you’d think it came from her own head. She would drown their pain out with laughter, but -- there just wasn’t that itch to work it up. Still, she looked over, smug as a cat with pearly white teeth.

“And that’s how it's done, Snugglebutts. Lets see ya try somethin’ top rope now, fuckin’ los--AAAAH--!!”

Angelina let out the most girlish squeal, paired with spherical eyes and a wide mouth as her womanhood was smashed into her body. She hopped on impact, like her legs were springs and that was the button to release. Both legs came together, whimpering like a puppy through tight teeth as she collapsed to her knees. She was pale, though that quickly became more red. A deep breath in, and she went down, knees to elbows, putting one hand down and trying to crawl to the ropes. Her hips felt a wave of overstimulation. Her legs wobbled and she whined, “F-FUCK-in…” An attempt to move forward hit the soap and she slipped onto her face, still on her knees. Now knocked a little dizzy. She caved for a minute to hold herself, huffing and puffing. “--cunt-punch-poser.”

[Malkavia]

“Yours fuckin’ truly.”

The girl’s groin gave until it didn’t, like squeezing a squash ball. Violet-Eyes half-moaned, half-hollered, lovely and stiff. Pop! Up she shot, then wobbled down all whimpers. If you squinted, forgot who it was, focused on those saucer eyes and that wee pout with her lips—cute. As. A. Bunny.

As Angelina curled like a pillbug, Shimmer tried to find her feet—except her knee rotated like there was sand gritting up the joint. But no time for ease. She shoved, got stiffly to one knee, groaned and stood. Pink dust in the face, dripping pepper chemicals, but. Standing. The knee ached.Fiddlysticks. Let it whine. The pain could—would get a whole lot worse if the wind weren't kept breezing her way. She hopped on the bottom rope. She winced, her legs shook and buckled, but she grabbed the middle rope, grit her teeth, and nabbed her balance.

Come on.

Plenty of rose arcs suggested themselves from this rope—dives, stomps, slams. But first rope wasn't anyone's vision of lightning.

Let’s see ya try somethin’ top rope now, fuckin’ loser...

Second rope—getting there normal one leg at a time meant putting weight on the glass knee, but not if she hopped and pushed with her arms and landed two-feet on. Turned out, though, it wasn’t her knee but her back that cringed and jerked when she hit the rope and bounced. Staying up—bounce—meant balance, and balance was in the back, and that stomp—

Shimmer flipped around, top rope to her navel. A glance behind showed Angelina still ass up in the air, face to the mat.

“Ya watchin this wee bubble, Ange?”

Press, and bounce, and up, and bounce. Springiness in the rope, the up and down sailing, almost made her joints feel loose. Then she buckled down, compressed—pain knifed her back, electric and sharp enough to make her groan, but she sprung—Sprite become artillery, arse-first at Angelina.

[Monsy]

Sore beyond belief and it’s not even Thursday.
Blegh.
She felt that punch all the way into her mouth. It was this sickening, churning feeling, like going for a rollercoaster ride that steadily grew faster and faster. Twists, bumps and inversions. All inside her loins, gut and chest. Heaving was always caught half-way, and she tensed up with every pinch and surprise spasm, whining and digging her forehead in. Beyond all -- she had this thought. Fair fuckin’ play.

Having gone high was descerned by peeping and sighting the shadow. She was rigid in posture, though sunk, so her back was this ramp that humped over her skirted butt, down a straight-down slope of her thigh-highs and fishnets, then off her black leather boots. She kicked and pinched her hands there. Thank god for her skirt. And her face-down ear, flat to the canvas to hear every nook, strain and rattle. When Shimmer went high -- Angelina knew. That rope that only gave so much and the mat that gave a small shiver. Angelina rolled to her backside, allowing the wee bubble to crash.

She was ill-fitted to get up just yet, but she laid in her pool of hair, her tucked up knees that made her almost this lightweight ball, reached out and poked them wherever she could. “Pop.”

[Malkavia]

Worse than anything, it put Eleanor in the right about the artillery. You could see her twitching eyebrow, fingers on the nosebridge.

Shimmerlace hit the mat arse-first. She bounced, twice, like a stone skipping on water. Two smacks on the rump stung and made her tense up all electric and catlike. Her hands clasped her backside, her mouth started running (“ow ow ow...”), then she slid while the duller but deeper lowerside ache from compacted back muscles and bonked bone set in and her back arched and her nose wrinkled.

On her back she went, clutching her spine, groaning, and there they lay, Marauder and Feychild, while pool water lapped against the ring. Said red-headed cunt started running her mouth. Stuck a needle in her arm. Shimmerlace looked at her. Gave a stomach-scraper of a sigh. Then she went for the staff between them. Seated and adjacent was not an ideal position for beating, but if she hit, a bonk upside the head was a bonk upside the head.

“Hush up, quiver-cunt.”

[Monsy]

Some fuckers just never get past that point in sucking. Bad luck, maybe. An excuse for sucking all the same. Angelina reaped quite the kick seeing them tumble. Two bounces that gave her a little shake too. It took her mind off things, with a wee poke, she laughed. Sweet little feychild. This was going to be a case of bullying, wasn’t it? She hadn’t forgotten about that staff, nor was she blind. Missing was nigh-impossible -- but a swift move of her hand she caught the end into her palm. It stung, rattled down to her wrist bone and swelled like a brain freeze. Nothing a cool face couldn’t hide. “I wouldn’t be talkin if ya weren’t such a laughin' stock, two-trick snore.”

Angelina rolled her hips, swinging a leg over across their lap and sitting up inside it, knees on either side of their legs as she peered up just a tad to catch their eyes. A helluva lot of pink and diamond. Chick even had sharp ears. The things ya notice when you get just a moment up close. Details stick out like needles in smooth floors. She still kept her hand on the staff. Didn’t need to be knocked loose, just yet…

“When do I meet the chick that wants her rabbit back?” Her head snapped forward, aimed to take a bite out of their nose bridge. Headbutts are lethal things. She leaned forward too, shoving her weight against them, standing on her knees for a little leverage. If she got them down, she’d reach for the staff, yank and try to put it over their throat. Then, it was just a matter of putting all her weight down, tightening up the shoulders and seeing how that pale complexion becomes ruby, then amethyst. She bore a wicked grin, full show of teeth and a bulging eye, intently watching like a microscope. “I’m a real BIG FAN of that chick. I don’t even know who this is. A fuckin' faker is what ya are.”

[Malkavia]

Up to two whole tricks are we? Well well well, how the pebble-pile does grow. Give it another minute and—

The bite registered before the concept. Snout bends, crumples, cracks. Eyes go blurry, and it’s about the time that the fingers come away from the nose blood-red that your girl realizes what hit her. Though, thanks to the dry-clean bill last week, her brain does one of its skeltered bottom-half rattles and it’s not the pain that hits first:

"Not the fuckin’ blouse again—” By design, sap cleaned a Hell of a lot easier than blood.

Still, the sting crossed Shimmer’s eyes for the half-second it took the smaller Marauder to get an angle.

Wait.

There was a topple. A BANG. She found herself with her staff to her throat.

Wait wait wait.

A lot of girls bullied the wee child of the Hedge. Some, like Nico, liked to tease her breasts; others, like Kanon, just tossed her out of their shining path. But Angelina brought sweet pain: embers in the knee, splinters in the nosebone. Pain to make your girl wake up and snort the pepper spray.

But this wasn’t pain—this was Numb. This was blood welling behind the eyes, lungs heaving against a passage squeezed tight as a lockbox. Fingers tingle, eyes pop wide, mouth gapes like a fish. Blood made twin streams down both cheeks but your girl had already forgotten all about linen-ruining blood. Bucking and heaving occupied her focus. Pain seeps behind a graying, blackening curtain, Numb to make your girl sleep and wake in a gibbet.

And there really would be no Thistledown, would there? The marauder as much as said it—words that brought a snarl to your girl's lips. She wore a look under the bar like something rabid shoving against its cage, wearing skin away to bone against the bars. Scarlet from bottom to surface—except for her eyes, where you could see the wait wait please—

A wrist thrust at Angie’s face, and fingers grasped at a hidden lever. Rose spread and stained her sleeve. Fuckin’ FUCK fuck. She clawed at the lace (it just needs a wee adjustment) but ripped the sleeve by mistake. Another piece of her collapsed as the tear revealed pale forearm and a plastic tube taped thereupon. But survival dominated thinking. Another flick at the lever launched eye-raking pink and wet at the gleaming violet sneering from overhead.

[Monsy]

This match was missing a little sauce. The red kind. It wasn’t really the blood at all, just the need to see what a feychild looked like when it got wound up. That started to look like fool’s gold. Maybe. But the sun was still high, the water, still full of fucking chlorine. A cut and a dunk would suit them well. So would a pipe to their throat.

The Marauder need only sink, align her hands over their shoulders. Dip and arch that spine. Put every ounce and grit those teeth, lean forward until your thighs can almost align to the mat, then scoot forward to multiply. Let them see those teeth as a curtain of red draped around them. Laughter sung in short bursts of held breath, amusing herself and enamoured by her own strength in the moment. Sweet, longing moments. Moments she wished a camera was inserted in her eyes, with her hands, on this bar, to their neck, sighting those eyes. It felt almost similar to that magic show, that call to action, yet still falling. Poor, poor, someone.

“If ya even THINK about fadin’ out, I’ll take this beyond the bell, yah hear that, fuckwad?!”

Her head flinched up after. Smushed, but not dissuaded. She still had the advantage, and pressed every second onto the windpipe. Claws was an upgrade. Finger-scratches with those nails earned a growl as she pushed again, one last time, revved up and shoved down. “GGHH-” She chirped, spooked by her eyes suddenly being overflowed with this liquid. It had this sopping feel, burning like soap. Yet, it clung almost like an oil. Stuck, trickling down, scorched and ate. “gggh--” It hurts. It hurts. It fuckin’ hurts. She didn’t close her eyes. They just went wide, almost full circles. The irritated veins formed valleys and it resembled two cherries in shade. “A-Aa-ghh…- FUCK!!”

She retreated from the staff, but sniped their wrist with two hands, rolling onto her back where she wrapped one leg over their shoulder, another under to form a locked triangle. That goop-shitting wrist was held, clawed, then her teeth dove and sought to take a bite of their palm, between the thumb and index.

[Malkavia]

Faker.

As pink pepper slathered Angie’s face, a croak managed to squeeze through the throat impaction. Her body went a fraction of a millimeter loose. She hit; relief rested seconds away. But the bar didn’t budge. Shimmer’s head still screamed for lack of blood, swimming and burning with an ache like glass down the middle.

No permanent damage read the comforting advisory over chemicals meant to fry soft tissue like egg. Angelina stared through the pepper. Wet, red lattice erupted over her unblinking whites. And then—relief. Her throat opened. Her insides tried to come up with it so hard her stomach clenched and she tasted acid; blood flowed out one side of her neck and up the other with speed that made her ears pop. Shimmerlace breathed as fast as her heart raced. That eye, dripping sap and still withering her in a glare, wouldn’t budge from her mind.

Then she had to watch. Angelina set it up right in front of her: She locked Shimmerlace's head under a leg, then caught her arm, then heaved the meat deep into her mouth. A tiny part of Shimmerlace knew: Keep the mask. But that shard couldn’t stop her face from curling like a whine.

For diagnostic purposes, doctors rate pain from 1 to 10. Wee likert scale, they call it. 5-6, that’s you slamming hand on mat until your shoulder aches. That’s you puffing through Santa Clause cheeks. Anything to hold back a shout, until you’re shouting to drown out the ache. 7-8—now it’s becoming something real, something with legs that lives in your head, spine and fang in the amygdala as much as your hand. You have to get away from it, so you tug, rip at your hair, make animal snarls and gasps. By now blood is draining freely down your arm. Look, there's a three-drop, now four-drop puddle forming under your elbow—but doc’s asking for pain, not terror, and that pain’s making your arm spasm. In fact your whole body is shaking, like you’re hovering in icy water. You do anything and everything to get away, slam your fist into her side, claw her face. But she stays sunk in.

9-10. Now you have to ask—is Thistledown worth this?

Thistledown could hang.

Someone could tell her Thistledown was chewing lettuce home safe with Madeleine. She still wouldn’t let Angie take a fucking crumb off her roseate meteor when it glowed with light this face-melting.

She wrapped her shaky fingers round staff again. (Heart and angel-wing capped weren’t it she’d never really thought of it but aluminum ornament cut that thin is pretty sharp—oi good thing too she hadn’t thought of it or she’d have removed the damn bleeder)

Pointed metal of an angel wing slammed into the soft flesh of Angie’s side. And she meant to do it again, and again, twisting, slicing, until she got blood of her own.

"I CARRY...” Everything went into the bellow, breath and blood and the wrench of her arm. Salty wet dripped from her chin, which was trembling, on to Angie’s chest. "...THE PULP…” Slam it again. And again. Twist it. Metal into the same fuckin’ period-sized dot on a rib. Eye swollen with rabbit-bomb powder met eye dripping with sap. Her face was purple. Her throat shook. But she rode the adrenaline. ”...OF ANOTHER FUCKIN’ WORLD.”