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

[BlackAkuma]

Match Type: Hentai Last Woman Standing
Victory Stipulations: The wrestler who cannot stand for ten seconds after an orgasm loses the match.

***

Asp would never say she hated anyone. Her mother had always taught her that hate was a vile thing that should never be focused on another human, that to hate someone was to wish that they didn’t exist. Disliking someone was one thing. Hating the things they did or the words they spoke was understandable. But to hate, to truly hate, was a sin. Anathema.

And yet, she couldn't think of a better way to describe her feelings for Safiyah. Nothing else quite came close.

She had been debating if it was the proper term before she called the woman out, and she had been teetering in two directions, unsure how she could adequately describe her loathing, right up until the wretched woman had the gall - the sheer audacity - to answer her challenge with a headbutt. Another headbutt. She had come out to her challenge with silence, as if she was barely worth the effort it took to speak, and then she had the nerve to show her that same disrespect again.

After she had done that, Asp had expected her to attack her while she was down and thought the two would have some sort of brawl, but…no. Safiyah had simply walked off, leaving her to wallow in her pain.

Another slap in the face. Another insult. Asp would suffer no more of it. The crowd had gathered and was waiting for the bout to begin, murmuring their predictions, but tonight would defy many of their expectations. She guaranteed it.

Instead of Asp’s usual fanfare, today she was heralded by the darkening of the arena, as the lights abruptly dropped all around the audience and bathed them in shadow. Confusion took hold, but only for a moment, until their attention was drawn to the ramp. A

began to play, and two flames appeared out of the darkness at the entryway, fireballs no bigger than a head.

Fire, Come, breathe, yes, one, for, sun.
Come, fire, come, talk to me, come, go, breathe, fire, for, fire.
Fire, breathe, fear, run.

The flames began to spin about, and while it wasn’t clear what they were at first, the image grew sharper the more they spun. Each flame was connected to the end of a staff, and a familiar, lithe flame was manipulating, twirling them about her in an intricate dance. The faster the fire moved, the longer the trails they left behind, until they appeared like twin serpents weaving through the air, being of pure flames chasing each other in an endless dance.

Yes, come, for, for, fire.
Breathe, fire, kiss.
Yes, come, for, for, fire!
Breathe, yes, come, fire, run.

It had been a long while since Asp fire danced, ages in fact, and she was glad to see that she hadn't lost her touch. The dance she did wasn’t terribly intricate, and in truth, it was far less impressive than it looked to the masses, but this wasn’t about astonishing them as much as it was a catharsis. She didn’t have to dance, could’ve simply walked straight to the ring, but this was her way of relieving stress and bringing her inner thoughts into the world. It was an expression of herself and her world, and right now, there was no better way to show everyone where her mind was at.

Three, two...
Come, fire, come, talk to me.
Come, fire, two, breath, fire.
Run.

The lights came back on as she laid the flaming staff down and the lights came up, leaving the audience to gasp as her new attire was revealed. Gone where the glowing green accents that had been her trademark, replaced with pure black, a form fitting variation that accentuated her form. Her fists and feet, her deadliest weapons, wrapped up tight in the style of a true fighter, and her hair, which was typically bundled up, hung loose in a single long braid that swayed two and fro as she made her way down the ramp. Her strides were powerful, her face was focused, her demeanor was changed, and everyone in attendance could guess what that meant, even if they didn’t know specifics.

For tonight, at least the Water Serpent was gone.

[Lightman]

She could feel the weight of Asp’s hatred before she ever stepped into the arena.

It pulsed, almost like a heat haze radiating across the canvas of the night, thick and sour with expectation. It was always there, in the way Asp looked at her—like Safiyah had personally torn something out of her chest and made her watch it burn. Like her silence was a crime. Like her refusal to play the same game, to jab back with petty words or theatrical scorn, was an offense so severe it justified blood.

Experience was the best teacher in Safiyah’s corner. Her discipline had been colder. Sharper. Control is power. And silence is the sharpest edge. Hatred was messy. Wasteful. It clouded the mind, made you telegraph your strikes, made you chase what wasn’t necessary. You didn’t hate an opponent. You studied them. Broke them. Left them knowing exactly why you’d won—and why they couldn’t touch you. But Asp wanted a war. Not for a belt, not for dominance—but something personal, something raw. Something she couldn’t articulate without coming apart at the seams.

Safiyah didn’t hate her. That would have been too easy. She just didn’t fear her. And maybe that was worse.

Asp’s fire dance was nothing if not a message. A performance laced with fury and intention. Safiyah watched from behind the curtain, face unreadable, listening to the rhythm of fire and defiance ripple through the crowd. The drums of war. The serpent gone. The wyrm awakened. She could respect it, in a way. Asp had come back changed. Sharpened. Burning. She had forged herself in the aftermath of their last bout, and tonight she was here not to dance but to make a point. A declaration.

But Safiyah had changed, too.

When the firelight faded and the crowd’s breath hung in silence, the screen overhead flickered to life. Static. A low hiss.

The bass throbbed like a heartbeat, slow and predatory. As the fog machines hissed and flooded the ramp with cold mist, the audience turned their heads toward the tunnel. Expecting fury. Finding stillness.

She emerged like a shadow cut from ivory and emerald. Gone was the azure blue. Golden accents gleamed against the emerald and black fabric, her outfit a striking departure from the woman she was before. The ornate design featured intricate patterns across the bodice, teal gemstones embedded at strategic points that caught the light with every movement. The elaborate collar encircled her neck like a royal statement, and the white arm wraps added both function and flair. Her purple hair, cut in a sleek bob, framed her face perfectly, glinting under the ramp lights like wire spun from starlight. No theatrics. No fire. Just presence.

She didn’t need to announce herself. The music did it for her. Each lyric is a promise. Each step down the ramp is a reminder. The haunting lyrics whispered through the speakers as she walked, unhurried and unperturbed. Let Asp have her fire serpents and dramatic transformations. Safiyah preferred the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need to announce their threat level.

The audience’s reaction shifted noticeably as they took in her new appearance. The emerald, black and gold ensemble spoke of royalty and power—ancient and unquestionable—while her measured stride conveyed absolute certainty. Where Asp projected fury, Safiyah emanated control. Her heterochromatic gaze swept across the audience, then locked onto Asp waiting in the ring. Safiyah didn’t sneer. Didn’t smile. Just stared. Calm. Cold. In control.

Because that was the real insult. Asp had come to burn. Safiyah had come to win.

And where Asp burned to prove a point, Safiyah didn’t need to. The last time they stood here, she had left Asp crumpled on the mat; her face twisted in shock at the realisation that Safiyah wasn’t playing the same game. And when the headbutt landed—that headbutt—Safiyah hadn’t followed up. Hadn’t pummelled. She’d walked away. Left Asp to stew in the silence. Because the wound wasn’t in the strike. It was in the refusal to acknowledge her rage.

Now, Asp had come for vengeance. To force Safiyah into a fight where pain was the only language. But Safiyah didn’t come to speak Asp’s language. She came to end this.

There were no wasted movements as she slid into the ring. No taunts. No drawn-out poses. She stood across from the Fire Wyrm with the stillness of a predator who had already done the math and knew exactly how this night would go. This wasn’t about pageantry anymore. Not about lights or themes or who could make the crowd roar louder.

This was about something more final. A reckoning. Safiyah could see it in Asp’s eyes. The rawness. The burn. The desperate hunger to be acknowledged, to drag Safiyah into the mud and fire and make her feel. But Safiyah didn’t feel. She acted. And if Asp wanted to crawl through fire to prove she was stronger, then she would let her. She’d just be the one waiting on the other side—untouched, unburned, and undefeated.

However, not as the Azure Cobra.

[BlackAkuma]

The change in attire was not one that Asp had made on a whim, and while it was certainly true that this conflict with Safiyah was a key factor, it was far from the only one. She had been considering a change for months now, something to signify her change in style since she had come to LAW. While she was still the dancer she started as, she had trained more, refined her techniques, and improved in ways she hadn't thought possible in those earlier days. She was a wrestler in a truer sense these days, and she wanted an outfit that reflected that change while still acknowledging her roots.

This look fit the bill, in her eyes. A pity she couldn't show it off in better circumstances.

Asp settled into her corner and prepared for her opponent to make her entrance, but an eyebrow rose when the music began. Instead of the steady, playful bounce she recalled, something slower came from the speakers, a raw version of a reasonably familiar song. She stood, puzzled, for a moment, until her opponent appeared at the top of the ramp and gave the crowd a full view of her - Asp wasn’t the only one changing up her styles, it seemed.

Despite all the animosity, Asp could never deny that Safiyah was beautiful, and her new look suited her. Ornate, regal, and decorative. A look fit for a queen - or, at least, someone with the ego to believe she was one. It fit her demeanor well, as she strode to the ring with the same unaffected affections that she had responded to Asp days ago, seemingly unfazed by the world around, as if the crowd were nothing more than peons beneath her notice. As if this whole ordeal was beneath her.

But she was here, as Asp had wished, and as the woman made her way into the ring, she found herself caring less and less that her opponent wore the veneer of neutrality. By the end of this match, she would make her care. She would make her submit. She would make her feel all the pain she had inflicted and more on top of it. That much, she could promise.

She stared across the ring, gripping the ropes as she leaned forward. When the bell rang, there was no slow start, no seductive strut towards the center of the ring, none of the preamble that the audience had grown accustomed to from her - Asp came charging forward at full stride, dashing across the ring. There was nothing subtle in her approach, and the moment she was close enough, she gave Safiyah something she’d been aching to deliver for a weeks - a punch, going straight towards her face. No elegance, all brutality.

[Lightman]

The moment Asp charged, everything else faded.

The crowd, the lights, the ache of heat rising from the mat—none of it mattered. Not in that instant. Not when the space between them shrank with each pounding step. The bell had barely finished ringing, still echoing in the rafters, and already the Fire Wyrm had forsaken any ceremony, erupting into a sprint with the kind of unguarded fury that most fighters only tapped into when they’d already lost control.

The Last Mehit had expected passion. Rage. Even desperation. But this—this was something more visceral. A release long in the making.

She didn’t flinch.

Even as the punch tore through the air between them, all sharp angles and coiled intent, Safiyah remained steady. Her mismatched eyes never left Asp’s. She read it—shoulder tension, hip rotation, the flattening of her palm just before the swing—like sheet music. This wasn’t just a strike; it was a statement. And it was loud.

But Safiyah’s answer was quieter. A shift of the foot. A turn of the waist. She caught the punch at the wrist, one hand raised in a clean, minimal arc. There was no flourish in it—only precision. Not the kind you broadcast, but the kind that makes itself known in the pause it creates. Asp’s knuckles were inches from her cheek, frozen there, trembling with unused violence.

The crowd roared, but Safiyah didn’t soak it in.

Her heterochromatic gaze narrowed—not triumphant, not cruel, but focused. Calculating. Like she was studying the weight behind the strike, not just blocking it. Like she wanted to understand what Asp had turned herself into since they last stood here. This wasn’t the dancer she’d once toyed with. This was someone new. Someone forged.

Safiyah twisted. Not a full spin. Not a wild counter. Just a single, clean rotation of her hips, the motion guiding her opposite leg into a sharp, controlled side kick—low, deliberate, right at the solar plexus; aimed not to devastate, but to check. The strike didn’t need to drop Asp to her knees. It only needed to send her a message: You do not dictate the rhythm.

[BlackAkuma]

It was odd to realize, but even with all of this fire and noise, Asp still hadn't been given an answer as to exactly why Safiyah had snapped. She could guess, she had her suspicions - the woman hadn't exactly been on a hotstreak in LAW, and there was only so much of that anyone could take before things boiled over. But it was speculation at best, and she suspected that was all she would ever have. Safiyah wasn’t exactly forthcoming.

She had thought, hoped, that she might see some flicker of the warm woman she had met in their first bout and some flicker of their passion. But now, as she neared her foe, she couldn't detect a single hint of that. Only a cold, callous stare. Something darker. Something harder.

Focused.

Asp read it as she moved in, saw her unflinching gaze, and that should’ve been a warning of what to come. But she was already on her attack plan and fully committed to, there was no turning back, wrath or ruin.

Sure enough, the blow was blocked with a far crisper, tighter motion than Asp was expecting. The last time she’d encountered Safiyah, there was a poetry to her motions. They had served a purpose, yes, but it felt like her every move was designed to entice and allure.

There was none of that, here. A simple block, effective and efficient, which likely meant that…

Yes. There was the follow-up.

Asp was already throwing herself back when the low kick came in, which was the only reason she managed to avoid it. It whizzed by her stomach, so close she could feel the wind against her skin as it passed by, and the message it sent was clearly understood…and ignored. Asp would dictate the pace, whether Safiyah liked it or not.

Not wanting to lose ground, Asp was quick to move in again, this time with her arms, throwing herself against the violent violet and trying to force her into a collar-and-elbow tie-up. A more traditional move than either of them typically engaged with, trying to catch the woman off guard and hopefully overpower her.

[Lightman]

Asp still didn’t understand.

And maybe that was the part that twisted most strangely in Safiyah’s chest—not guilt, not pity, but a quiet acknowledgment of how thoroughly the distance between them had grown. The fiery, reactive and desperate woman charging her now was still looking for answers, still chasing meaning, still hoping, foolishly, to touch something that no longer existed.

There was nothing to explain. Whatever warmth had sparked in their first encounter had long since burned to ash. That version of Safiyah—the Azure Cobra, the one who teased and tested, who let herself get close enough to feel and enjoyed it—was gone. She’d snuffed it out herself, smothered it in the silence, in the mounting frustration of empty efforts and unmet expectations. LAW had a way of grinding softness into stone, and Safiyah had let herself be shaped by it. Willingly.

So when Asp came in again, this time not with fire, but with familiarity—a collar-and-elbow tie-up, of all things—it caught her attention for a different reason. It wasn’t just a move. It was an appeal.

There was nothing flashy, no acrobatics, no elegance. It was wrestling in its rawest form, a test of strength and leverage. The Last Mehit knew this wasn’t a tactic Asp usually favoured, but desperation had a way of rewriting the playbook. In her mind, Asp wanted to drag her into a test of will, strength, and contact. Something raw and close. Something that implied history. That meant something.

Safiyah met her there—not because she wanted to but because it was the cleanest path forward. Their bodies clashed and locked, muscle on muscle, arms threading into tension. The mismatched eyes, which already looked like there was nothing but the cold abyss, stared right into the redhead’s. She didn’t resist with brute force. That was never her game, either. Instead, she gave just enough—allowed Asp to believe, for a breath, that she might win the engagement.

Then she shifted her weight. Just as the tension tipped too far forward, Safiyah dipped. Her right leg shifted back, body turning with practiced speed as she tucked her hips, placing a foot on those taut abs, and dropped into a controlled pull. Her hands gripped harder, guiding Asp’s momentum in a fluid arc.

And then there would be the release. In a blink, the momentum that Asp had built up would be used against her. There was no flourish, no scream of exertion—just timing, balance, and execution. Because that was the actual difference now. Asp came seeking catharsis. Safiyah came to win.

[BlackAkuma]

As the two clashes, Asp was reminded again of the feel of their bodies, the familiarity between them. While Safiyah was far from the only athletic woman she’d come across, she was easily the most similar to herself, possessing a form mirrored her own. It was impossible to guess who was heavier between them and who was stronger - she was willing to bet those questions would get different answers depending on what day of the week you ask, or even which hour of the day.

Anything Asp could do, Safiyah could do. Anything Safiyah could, so, too, could Asp.

This battle, then, would come down to will. Whoever wanted it more would tip the scales, and right now, Asp couldn't imagine her foe matching her desire.

She planted her feet and surged forward, tapping into a raw strength she rarely indulged in as she tried to push Safiyah back. More than try, really - it was happening. Too easily. They should’ve been stalemating, but her opponent was falling back, almost like…

Asp realized what Safiyah’s goal was the moment it happened, as her momentum was swiftly turned against her. She was going flying, tumbling head over heels, a path that would inevitably end with her on her back. If she had been more weary, she could’ve turned the move into a flip, but it was too late for that. Gravity would have its way.

The best she could do not was turned it into a roll, tumbling forward with the momentum and springing up a few feet away. Not wanting to leave too much of a window for Safiyah to slip through, she spun around and lashed out at her foe, leaping her way and bringing her leg around for a high roundhouse kick, one that would knock Safiyah for a loop - if it connected.

[Lightman]

She felt the push in Asp’s muscles before she saw it in her eyes.

The tie-up had been even—balanced, almost eerily so, like grappling with a reflection—but something shifted when Asp dug in her heels. There was a change in her grip, the tightening of her shoulders, the quiet click of resolve falling into place. She wasn’t just holding ground anymore. She was trying to take it.

Safiyah didn’t fight the surge. That had never been her way. She let the momentum swell like a wave. Let Asp believe, just for a moment, that she was breaking through. That her desire alone could bulldoze anything in her path. But strength without control was as useful as shouting into the wind. And Safiyah had no interest in shouting.

She stepped back and let the storm pass through her. The monkey flip unfolded precisely as intended, and she felt Asp’s weight lift off her arms, inertia carrying her up and over. A clean execution—less about flash, more about message. She didn’t expect it to keep Asp down. That wasn’t the point. The real point was how easily it happened. How simply Asp had given her what she needed.

But Safiyah wasn’t the only one evolving. She tracked the landing, already shifting low into a grounded stance as Asp rolled through, springing up with a fluidity that reminded her why this match wasn’t about strength or speed. Not really. It was about intention. Asp came out of the roll with fire still burning, already rotating into a strike before she’d fully settled her weight. No hesitation. No delay.

The roundhouse was coming fast—snapped from the hip, lifted with practiced precision. Safiyah knew the sound of a serious kick before it even landed. The air cracked with it. She didn’t try to catch it. There was no time.

Instead, her back foot pivoted, her posture rotating with it, just enough to let the kick sail past—close enough that she could feel the wind whip across her cheek. A brush with fire. She let the motion carry her into a quarter-turn, one arm instinctively rising to cover her head in case Asp adjusted mid-air.

The Last Mehit didn’t retaliate. Not yet. She let the dodge speak for her. This wasn’t hesitation. It was patience. A reminder.

[BlackAkuma]

This was confusing.

Not the match itself, that much Asp had a good grasp on. She had played this conflict out a dozen times in her head, and on paper, she had a solid understanding of what she needed to do to win. Neither of them could’ve changed that much physically in less than a month. The basics would remain the same as their first encounter.

No, what confused Asp increasingly as the match went on was Safiyah - namely, everything about her. What had happened to her, in the time that had passed, to change her whole demeanor in such a way? She was so taciturn, distanced from the fight. Where was the woman who nearly ripped her apart in a screaming rage?

If she was doing this to taunt Asp, it was working, and Fire Wyrm knowing it wasn’t going to make the tactic any less effective. It wouldn’t work, in the end - Asp was determined to see this through, all the way. She was going to catch her, one way or another.

Her kick would’ve accomplished that feat if it hit, but her foe proved to be one step ahead of her - literally, in this case, as she could avoid the strike narrowly. Not a problem, Asp was able to bring her foot back and…

”Tch.”

Asp grunted out her annoyance as Safiyah blocked her follow-up, showing some impressive foresight, even as she retreated. A measured, thoughtful approach, she would give her that much, but this evasive style was only going to get her so far. She couldn't stay ahead of Asp forever, and all she needed was one good hit to seize momentum. It behooved her to keep the pressure up.

If something traditional wouldn’t work, then she needed to dip into her more unorthodox repertoire. She dropped down after the kicks and pursued, but instead of taking Safiyah head on, she ducked down, planted her hands on the canvas, and threw herself forward with a fast flip, her feet soaring through the air in an arch as she attempted to hit her foe with a Rolling Koppu Kick.

[Lightman]

Safiyah had seen the confusion blooming behind those eyes, with aggression giving way. She saw it in flashes—in the narrowed eyes that lingered a half-second too long, in the breath caught shortly after a missed strike, in the way her body hesitated just before throwing the next. Asp was second-guessing. However, it’s not her own tactics but her understanding of Safiyah. Or rather, the expectations of Safiyah.

Which was confusing to Safiyah. Why is it this woman kept searching for the version of her that had once burned with emotion too quickly, a woman who had previously used anger like a second skin? Why is she expecting the same rage and bravado? Something fiery and reckless to match her own heat.

That Safiyah had been smoke and ash long before their first encounter. This one? Silence and loss had carved her into place. The woman Asp wanted answers from no longer existed. What stood before her now didn’t scream. Didn’t tremble. Didn’t offer explanations or excuses. She endured.

The kick had missed—barely. Safiyah’s shoulder still tingled where the air cut close. The follow-up had come fast, mechanical, and for a moment, it looked like Asp might hammer her way through by sheer persistence. But the rhythm shifted again.

Safiyah caught the motion—a drop of the shoulders, a pivot into hands, and there it was: Asp flipping into motion, launching her body forward like a human whip. The Rolling Koppu Kick was flashy, fast, and unexpected. But not unfamiliar. Safiyah had used it before. She knew its rhythm. The arch of Asp’s body carved across her line of vision, the legs slicing through the air with deceptive elegance. Safiyah didn’t have time to counter conventionally—not with force, not with speed. So, instead, she shifted angles. No retreat this time. No block. She moved inward.

As Asp’s heel came swinging around, Safiyah ducked under the arch, gliding low and tight beneath the rotation with inches to spare. Her weight dropped into her hips, shoulders rolled forward, and her arms came up—tight guard, no flourish. The kick passed overhead, close enough to send a gust against her scalp as Asp rotated through.

Once it sailed by, the Last Mehit rose again, pushing off her feet and rushing towards the ropes. Once she ricocheted off them, Safiyah came at the Fire Wyrm hard and fast, attempting to cut down the beast with a Shining Wizzard.