Safiyah Neferet vs. Aspasia El-Shenawy II - Through the Fire and Flames

[BlackAkuma]

Ever since she joined and grew more accustomed to the way wrestling worked, Asp had picked up more moves that she could make use of with her agility, things she could do better than most with her dancing background. She had Sophia to thank for most of it - the woman not only opened her world to a wide array of moves and maneuvers, but she was the perfect sparring partner for an up-and-comer such as herself, always willing to take and give helpful advice.

This was one such move - for most wrestlers, it would’ve been a foolish display, overly flashy and unhelpful. With her speed, however, she could execute it in quick fashion, with enough speed that it would’ve caught most wrestlers off guard

Safiyah Neferet was not most wrestlers.

It was impossible to tell how from her limited vantage point, but Safiyah managed to dodge the attack, slipping away at the last second and leaving Asp to come down. Unlike most, she was deft enough to land on a single knee instead of merely flopping on her backside, but it was hardly an advantageous position.

Saifyah knew it, too, and Asp spun about to see the woman heading her way at mach speed. Recognition took hold of her immediately, flashing back to their first match. She’d knew this setup, she’d seen this move. More importantly, she knew that dodging it wouldn’t be enough.

Like before, Asp ducked down as the Shining Wizard took flight, letting it pass by over her head. Unlike before, she kept her head tucked in tight, knowing that she wasn’t out of danger just yet, that another kick would be coming towards the back of her head in a moment.

[Lightman]

She had to admit—Asp had grown.

Not just in the sharpness of her form or the intensity behind her movements, but in the way she used the ring now. That Rolling Koppu had come faster than expected, crisp and fluid, the kind of thing only someone with dancer’s precision and daredevil timing could pull off. There was no wasted movement. Not anymore. She was wielding her grace as a weapon, not just a flourish. But grace meant nothing if it didn’t land.

Safiyah moved like water. Her side-step had been a breath, a whisper through the chaos, and now she moved forward—into the space Asp had left exposed, like a blade finding its sheath. She didn’t need to guess what Asp would do next.

The moment the Fire Wyrm turned, their eyes briefly met. And in that flicker—less than a heartbeat—Safiyah saw the memory unfold behind Asp’s eyes. Their last match. The same setup. The same mistake. Asp remembered the kick.

Good. Because Safiyah wasn’t here to repeat herself.

She launched into the Shining Wizard with every bit of the speed Asp had seen coming—striking high; the knee carving through air just above her opponent’s tucked-in head. But Safiyah didn’t curse the miss. She expected it. Counted on it. Asp had prepared for what was. Safiyah delivered what wasn’t.

Instead of spinning through the air to deliver the follow-up kick, she dropped her weight low when her lead foot planted. Her hand snapped out—clean, clinical—catching the length of Asp’s braid before the woman could rise fully.

It wasn’t just a grab. It was a claim. In one fluid motion, Safiyah yanked her upright, spine arching, eyes likely widening just as the realisation hit: this was not the sequel she’d been preparing for. There would be no second kick. There would be no escape into familiarity.

Safiyah’s thighs closed in around her head like twin gates and dropped to the mat. The lock came in tight, fast, decisive—a headscissors, snapping on like the jaws of something ancient, patient and precise. She squeezed, balanced on her hip, her legs draped with elegant intent.

[BlackAkuma]

Everything was so familiar and yet…not. Sure enough, Safiyah came in for the Shining Wizard, executing it with the same practiced sharpness she’d brung last time, impressing everyone present. She was, perhaps, a little crisper than last time, clear, more precise, but none of it made any difference in the end - she was still able to dodge the blow, narrowly avoiding a shot that would’ve taken her head off. A positive outcome.

But there was something wrong with the whole thing—something in Safiyah’s unfeeling eyes that sounded a warning klaxon. She had no idea what it was, however, and by the time she figured it out, it was far too late.

Asp ducked under the first blow and prepared to avoid the second one. A moment passed. Two moments. An eternity with wrestlers like them, enough for her to know that something was wrong. She started to turn her head back before her braid was abruptly yanked back, forcing her to stare up at the sky while she hissed for the surprising pain.

”You-”

She spat out a single word of defiant energy before Safiyah’s legs wrapped around her neck and brought all complaints to an abrupt stop. Asp reached to try and pry them apart or even slipped her arms between the things to keep them apart, but it was too late - they were locked tight, and the pressure began, pounding at her skull.

Asp tried to fight it, but there was no resisting gravity like this. She fell to her side as Safiyah poured on the pressure, and she found herself thrashing about in the woman grasping, vainly pulling at the thighs and fighting for every single breath.

[Lightman]

It was always the same with Asp. Even when the moves changed, even when the sequences varied, she still clung to the idea that knowing the past could somehow protect her from the present. As if wrestling were a puzzle to be solved through pattern recognition. As if Safiyah was still writing the same script.

She wasn’t.

This was no echo of their last match. It only wore the shape of one. The moment she felt the full weight of her legs clamp around Asp’s neck, she knew she had her. Not just in body, but in mind. The gasp, the hiss, the single, clipped syllable spoken like a woman, only just realising the depth of her miscalculation.

Safiyah didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. Her thighs did the speaking now.

The initial lock had been fast and flawless, a clean coil of muscle and intention, but now she poured herself into it, slowly, methodically ratcheting up the pressure. It wasn’t a sudden burst. It was a tightening, a sinuous constriction. A python’s patience. Safiyah adjusted her weight, easing them both down to the mat with a grace that bordered on casual, even as Asp writhed, clawing at her legs, grasping for space, leverage, air. But Safiyah’s grip didn’t break. It didn’t even tremble. Her legs remained solid—coiled marble beneath honeyed skin—every muscle engaged in perfect synchronicity. Her hips lifted slightly, squeezing again, and the response was immediate: Asp’s body jolted in reaction, her hands tearing at the seam of the hold with increasing desperation.

Still, Safiyah remained centred. Back braced against the canvas, one arm behind her head like she was reclining in a lounge, the other planted beside her for balance, fingertips splayed. Her eyes didn’t flinch. She didn’t even glance down at Asp. She stared toward the ceiling with a composed detachment, as if lost in thought—like she wasn’t compressing someone’s skull between her thighs, like she hadn’t just stolen their momentum and control in a single, seamless pivot.

Because that’s what this was: control.

Asp could kick, spin, leap, roll—but none of it mattered here. In this hold, the storm had stopped. The fire had been forced to slow down. And now, in the crucible of stillness, Safiyah was asking a question Asp had never prepared to answer: What do you do when speed fails you?

She shifted again, a small motion, almost imperceptible—crossing one ankle over the other now, deepening the angle of pressure, her inner thighs cutting in closer against Asp’s temples. The kind of adjustment that made escape exponentially harder. The crowd roared. Not just for the hold—but for the ease of it. For the terrifying serenity on Safiyah’s face as she wielded her body like a blade.

Asp had come for fire. But all she’d found was steel.

[BlackAkuma]

This wasn’t the first time Asp had gotten a taste of Safiyah’s thighs. She distinctly remembered the point in their first match, early on, where the woman had wrapped them around her waist and pulled her in for a sensual hold, constricting her stomach while her feet stimulated her lap. It had been an intimate, lustful moment, but she hadn't overlooked the power in her foe’s legs, the damage they could do with more than just kicking.

This, however, was as far from that first engagement as possible. Where there had been some warmth before, even as they struggled to win the match, Safiyah’s coils wrapped now wrapped around her with an unrelenting, cold force. One they were down and settled, she could feel the full force of them bearing down on her skull, pounding away at her with a merciless pressure.

All the while, Safiyah said nothing. No taunt. No jeers. Not even a cry of exertion. It was like fighting a robot dressed in human skin, and it was growing unsettling.

Asp did her best to push those thoughts away and focus on escape. While Safiyah couldn't win the match with this move, she could certainly set the stage for an orgasm, one that would put the pace away from her. She needed out of this, soon, but she had no good ideas on how to do it.

So a bad one would have to do.

Speed and agility wouldn’t help her now, but she did have one thing she could use: Strength. Asp’s legs were powerful, too, and she called on them as she rolled to her knees and began to rise up, planting one foot on the canvas, then another. The crowd rallied behind her as she surged, standing up with Safiyah draped over her back like a cape. It might not have seemed like much of a feat, but pulling this off with a woman her own size would’ve been unthinkable even a year ago.

Thankfully, she didn’t intend to hold it for long - in the next moment, she jerked forward, threw her body into a flip, and attempted to send Safiyah flying headlong into the nearest turnbuckle.

[Lightman]

The silence had begun to speak louder than any hold could. Safiyah knew it in the tightness of the crowd, in the nervous fidgeting of voices that couldn’t decide whether to cheer or gasp. Her thighs held fast around Asp’s skull, the pressure unrelenting, clinical. There was no seduction this time. No breathy tension laced between their bodies. The intimacy they once shared—if it could even be called that—was gone.

There had been a moment in their first bout, fleeting but real, where closeness had been a weapon of another kind. Her legs had wrapped Asp in something heated, even playful—every squeeze a promise wrapped in suggestion. But now, there was no softness in the embrace. No mischief. Only function. The Last Mehit didn’t speak. She didn’t even breathe hard. Every ounce of her body spoke for her, every contraction of her thighs an assertion of dominance. This wasn’t about crushing the fight out of Asp—not yet. This was about dismantling confidence. Piece by piece.

And yet… Asp wasn’t cracking. She was climbing. Safiyah felt the shift as it began: a subtle tension in her own core, the ground beneath her tilting as Asp rolled to her knees. She adjusted, braced herself to deepen the lock, to keep control. But then came the second foot, and with it, the realisation.

She was being lifted.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. There was no panic—just calculation, quiet and exacting. Asp’s muscles were engaged now in ways they hadn’t been moments before, and Safiyah could feel the effort it took. There was grit in the motion, a surge of raw power, and for the first time in the match, Safiyah found herself caught in someone else’s momentum. By the time her body arched backward over Asp’s shoulders, it was already too late to adjust. The scissor hold broke as instinct overtook form, and she uncoiled just enough to protect herself mid-air. But the landing was unforgiving.

Safiyah struck the corner with a sharp thud, her spine and shoulders colliding with the turnbuckles in a tight whip. Not enough to knock the wind clean out of her, but enough to jolt her—enough to leave a nasty sting. Her hands gripped the ropes behind her as she steadied, the cold steel biting into her palms. The hold was broken. The pace—finally—disrupted. Asp had landed a hit.

Safiyah didn’t curse. Didn’t stumble. She absorbed. As the ringing in her shoulders dulled to a pulse, she took a breath—not from exhaustion, but focus. Her gaze snapped toward Asp, who had created the first crack in the match’s rhythm.

“Tch.”

Safiyah straightened, brushing a single loose strand of hair from her face, her body sore but upright, her breath steady. The hold was gone, but the match was not.

[BlackAkuma]

Asp made a mental note to thank Sophia profusely for helping out with her training in recent months, because, without her tutelage, she wasn’t sure she could’ve pulled off such a feat. While she always had strong, powerful legs, she hadn't been accustomed to using them for such feats of strength, with her body being better suited to explosive bursts of destructive power, not heavy lifting. Sophia had helped to change that, and while she doubted suplexes and slams would ever be a staple of repertoire, they were still handy to pull out now and again - in particular, with opponents her own size.

The results spoke for themselves. While she couldn't see the look on Safiyah’s face as she rose up, she could feel how her legs tensed and how her body reacted to the sudden change. She was trying to adjust as she realized what was about to happen, but it was far too late for that. She was going for a ride, and one that end with a bumpy landing.

The sound of the impact told the whole story, as Safiya was sent crashing into the pads, creating a bigger noise than you would’ve expected from two women who didn’t collectively weigh more than some full grown men. While her opponent stiil refused to make a single sound, she had to imagine the impact caused her no small amount of pain - if that hadn't been the case, she would’ve likely come at her by now.

Instead, she was leaning in the corner. Not seriously hurt, from the looks of things, but staggered enough to give Asp a small window. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in the best position to make use of it. After launching Safiyah forward and freeing herself, she dropped to her knees and gasped, her body reeling from the lack of oxygen. Not the best position from which to stage a comeback.

That didn't mean she was without options, of course. Good options? Well…

Knowing her time was short, Asp pushed up and drove herself forward, trying to ram her shoulder into Safiyah’s stomach and pin her against the pads. It was a desperate move, one meant to keep her in place more than anything - at least, that was the way she wanted to be perceived. Instead of merely pushing her back, though, she decided to dip into her repertoire with a move they both knew so well.

Staying low, Asp raised her leg from behind and attempted to hit Safiyah in the face with their shared signature - the Scorpion Kick.

[Lightman]

The slam still echoed through her body. She could feel it resonating beneath the skin, in the base of her spine, in the way her shoulder throbbed where it had kissed padded steel. She hadn’t cried out—not when the turnbuckle took her, not when the ropes rattled from the force of the impact—but silence did little to soften the aftermath.

Pain bloomed in tight pulses, deep and dull. Not enough to cripple her, but enough to anchor her there for a moment longer than she would’ve liked. Braced in the corner, one arm hooked lazily over the middle rope. Her body hummed with kinetic memory, nerves still catching up to what had just happened. The scissor hold, her control—gone. Not unravelled. Overturned. Asp had lifted her. And she hadn’t seen it coming.

Safiyah’s breath slowed, controlled but shallow, and her eyes lifted just in time to catch Asp crawling forward, dragging herself upright from her knees. They were both paying a toll—Safiyah in impact, Asp in oxygen. She could see the fire dimming in her for a moment, the strain flickering along her shoulders as she sucked in breath, each inhale buying her only seconds. But seconds were all she needed.

Safiyah braced as she saw her foe coming, low and fast, shoulder-first—a spear, perhaps, or just raw momentum meant to trap her in the corner. She shifted her weight slightly, grounding herself, ready to absorb the impact or twist away if necessary—a risky gambit from Asp, especially in her state. But Safiyah made one mistake. She assumed that was all it was.

The shoulder never landed with real force. Instead, it served its purpose perfectly: misdirection. Her eyes flicked downward—too late. She *felt* the shift in energy before she could adjust, a coiled tension in Asp’s frame, the faint tug of a leg rising behind the press of her hips.

Then—snap. Crack.

The Scorpion Kick whipped back and connected flush against Safiyah’s cheek, the sharp clap of heel to face echoing out into the crowd like a rifle shot. Her head snapped to the side from the impact, hair whipping across her face in a blur of violet. Her body sagged for a second into the corner, her hands shooting to the ropes out of instinct rather than strategy, needing something to hold her upright.

It wasn’t just the pain—though there was pain, lancing across her jaw like a bolt of ice—it was the sting of recognition. Their move. A signature they’d once both worn like a mirrored badge, delivered now with purpose, venom, and perfect timing.

Safiyah didn’t fall, but she stayed in the corner, stunned, shoulders slouched, head slightly turned, as if still registering the force of the blow. Her silence remained—but not out of control this time. It was shock. It was calculation—delayed. Resetting the board.

[BlackAkuma]

It was one attack. Just one attack. In Asp’s mind, she knew that she shouldn’t feel too happy about escaping that hold and finally dealing some pain back to Safiyah. The woman had exerted an impressive amount of control from the onset of this mat, fighting her with a crushing focus, picking her apart from the moment the bell rang. While she was far from defeated, she would need much before saying that this match was heading in a positive direction.

But it was a good start. A damned good start, and satisfying in a way that words couldn't convey.

While she couldn’t view Safiyah’s face at the moment, she could guess how it looked when that kick, of all kicks, landed on her stoic face. She hoped it was enough to break the facade, if only by a few cracks, and that she would register the meaning that came along with it. She wasn’t the only one learning new ways to play the same tune.

More important than sending a message, however, was creating the opening Asp needed, the best one she’d gotten all match. With her body grasped tight, she could feel Safiyah’s body locking up, stunned from the strike, open to all sorts of moves. She only had one thing in mind, however, as she hadn't forgotten the stipulations of this match. There would be plenty of pain, but there was to be pleasure, as well. She had lost the chance to be the first one doling out the former, but the latter was very much within her grasp.

Asp stood up straight, letting her chest slide along Safiyah’s body as she rose, their curves kissing along the way. Her hands came up and reached out to grip her opponent’s wrists, holding her in place, while her leg slid along the woman’s lap and forced its way between her thighs, starting a rough, rude grind.

There was no gentleness here, no teasing, only a dominant press to force pleasure into her foe, and she delivered the final touch with the same ferocity. Asp brought their lips together for a kiss that was worthy of her new nickname, pressing their mouths together and letting her tongue slither about, as if she were trying to claim Safiyah’s mouth as her own.

[Lightman]

It wasn’t the pain that shook her—it was the symbolism. That kick had landed with more than just impact. It carried intent, memory, meaning. Their move, thrown back at her not as homage but as defiance. A reclamation. And though her jaw ached and her vision swam for the briefest moment, it was the knowledge—Asp is catching up—that truly left a mark.

Safiyah didn’t need to see Asp to know she was savouring it. The air shifted. The crowd’s tone turned. Her body, still slumped in the corner, told her everything her opponent likely wished to hear. That she’d been rattled. That an opening had been made. That Safiyah—ice-blooded, impassive, unbending—could be rocked.

She didn’t have the luxury of correcting that perception before Asp made her next move.

She felt the contact before she saw it—Asp’s body pressing in, rising flush against her own, the press of curves a frictional blur as the dancer stood tall, reclaiming the moment with the kind of brashness only Asp could embody. Safiyah’s wrists were gripped before she could reset her stance, and the intrusion between her thighs came quick and forceful, a coarse, unrelenting grind that made her spine jolt instinctively. A sharp, unwanted rush bloomed in her stomach. Her hips betrayed her with a twitch. Her lips parted—not from surprise, but from spark.

And then—the kiss. It hit her like a wave. Hot. Insistent. Possessive.

Asp’s tongue moved like it had something to prove, pushing past lips in a claiming motion that was all hunger and no hesitation. It was dominance disguised as seduction—something primal. Tactile. Asp wasn’t playing anymore. She was taking. And it was working.

For a half-second, Safiyah’s mind spun in the undertow, her senses swimming in salt and fire and the memory of how quickly Asp could unravel someone when she took control like this. Her body betrayed her in flickers—heartbeat racing, pulse quickening, heat pooling low. That familiar, maddening allure clawing its way back.

And she remembered. The first match. The moment she let Asp take control. The moment it all started slipping away.

Not again.

With a sharp twist, Safiyah pulled one of her arms free—not with grace, but with desperation. Her hand clenched and drove forward, not to strike but to maul, pushing her palm against Asp’s face, her nails clawing at those precious emeralds. Raw, brute refusal, and a sudden surge of energy to break the kiss. It was messy. Harsh. Far beneath her usual poise. But it was necessary.

Once she peeled those lips away from her, Safiyah’s other arm would rise before she would unload a brutal elbow straight towards that pretty, reconstructed face. Not unlike the times she had head-butted that face a handful of times. Now, instinct, not calculation, drove her silence. Focused. Tethered to one singular thought: Never give Asp the rhythm.