Isa Armstrong vs. Esther Gates: An Aim to Squeeze

[HotWheels]

Standard Match

A normal, everyday wrestling match! They did exist here!

Esther didn't mean to feel bitter, but she felt a little bitter. Ever since arriving, the bold southerner had been thrown into every sort of match imaginable, and not a single one had attempted to offer her a chance to strut her stuff as an out-and-out wrestler rather than some pretty doll dressed up for wrestling (or dressed down, in one case). She had arrived with an open mind, sure, and of course the Aster liked a wild time here and there. But she wanted to wrestle someone, no frills, like her mom did once upon a time: a match that would make the old lady proud and reminisce on the old days. The Gates name carried some weight here, and Esther wanted to hoist that weight high by showing off what she could do.

The lavender southerner popped onto the stage to the sound of Separate Ways, a pep in her step. Hell, this was the first time she got to go through her old routine, too. A quick clap of her hands on her thighs, then her abs, ending in a flex of both arms and proper fitness model's pose. A cockiness played across her face, but it broke in favor of a beaming smile as she made her way to the ramp. The first part was more her mom...but the woman strolling down the ramp was all Esther, plucking the purple flower that had provided her nickname from her waistband to pass it to a preteen cheering in the front row.

Spoiler

As she reached the stairs and marched up, again stopping to flex once at the turnbuckle, Esther's head rushed back to her business for the night. She had tried to scout Isa Armstrong, but there wasn't a ton to find. That was becoming a trend with her opponents, too, but that one could tolerate. About all she had tracked down were a few pictures, and her entire reaction had been good God, legs. That was it. That was about all she had been able to scout; that the woman seemed to have some hella thick legs. Esther thought she was thick. She looked like a Swedish model compared to this woman.

Wasn't much to base anything on, and they could have been old pics, too. Esther didn't know, so she wasn't going to spend her time in too much worry. Climbing a turnbuckle, she posed there with her foot on the top rope, lording over the crowd with her fine form (but breaking the aura of intimidation with the warm way she grinned). Only once her music died did she hop back down. No staring at the stage this time, she reminded herself. The Aster started getting ready, bouncing into her stretching routine as the spotlight left her.

She had some things to prove to the people in charge tonight.

[Liesmith]

Isa couldn’t believe how much she’d missed this.

Stood backstage, her head rocking unconsciously in tune to the pulsing beat of her opponent’s theme, she felt like the anticipation was killing her. Some losers talked about butterflies in their tummies at moments like this, like they were afraid to go out there in front of the fans.

Isa felt like she lived for it. Stepping out there, onto the big stage, hearing the roar of the crowd… It had been too long.

But her wait was finally over. This time, she was going to show LAW’s audience exactly what she could do in the ring to whoever they’d put her up against. Sure, they’d told her who she was fighting – Esther something, right? – but the idea of research interested Isa far, far less than dancing.

She’d find out in the ring. Much more fun.

In the quiet following Esther’s entrance, wisps of smoke began to cover the stage, blanketing it in a low fog at ankle height. A low drone filled the air before a chorus of Irish voices joined it, then the music proper of Celtic Woman's Tir Na Nog swelled up out of the dark.

Isa herself spun onto the stage a moment later as the song hit its second verse. With her timing perfectly matching the beat of the drum (and in unknowing mirror of her opponent’s entrance), the Temptress clapped her hands once above her head, again at chest height, slapped them against her hips and finally her curvy, fishnet-clad thighs.

And then she was in motion.

Arms working in an intricate serpentine rhythm, hips rolling as she swayed and twirled her way to the ring without missing a beat, Isa lost herself in the dance. More than one fan reached out to her, lured by her smile and her outstretched hands beckoning them on, but none came closer than the very tips of her fingers before Isa had swept past them.

Lithely, she leapt up to a kneeling position on the ring apron, pausing only to blow a kiss to a blushing young woman in the crowd before rising to her feet. Then Isa was through the ropes, almost flowing (the benefit of years of pole dancing) on her way to the centre of the ring where she struck a sultry pose – hipshot, glancing over her shoulder with a wink while oh-so-casually adjusting the strap of her top.

Only then, as her music faded away, did she turn herself and her attention to the woman she was sharing the ring with.

“Well hi there,” Isa purred, taking in the other fighter at a glance and settling a hand on the bold curve of her hip, “Love the hair.”

It was a gorgeous shade of violet, matching her opponent’s gear exactly.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, splaying her fingers out across her flank as she proffered her other hand with a coy smirk.

“How’s it go with red?”