Tiaras and Tricorns: Angelina Tarrant vs Madeleine Citronelle (Apex Qualifier)

[Malkavia]

What did Madeleine expect? The lumpy, red asymmetry of the bad knee distinguished it from pale, slender partner, and even tightening the guard shot sparks through its ligaments. When crisis hit, when the leg tried to extend, to flick with the deadly force that had been honed into its muscle, it was like trying to touch a hot stove. Shew cringed, flailed, was caught.

The almost gentle tug that pried Madeleine’s thighs apart, that hinged her body at the hips, made her tummy curl. The split second where Angelina jumped allowed Madeleine time to feel her thieving eyes, to smolder, to clamp her throat shut.

The automatic reaction to impact was contraction, a sea anemone yanked into its shell. Her neck arched, her back bent, and her tummy squeezed so tight and sick and fast it made her wheeze. Her feet yanked free, in spite of the way it made her swollen knee yelp, and then pulled to her gut and squeezed her arms, which had already darted to curl and burrow between her legs.

She was on her side. Her cheek on the mat radiated heat that reflected back onto her face. Her eyes, half-lidded, rolled into her head as she bit her tongue and pressed her whole focused will on holding back that scream.

In a meadow green…where flowers sway, A picnic was…held…one sunny…day. The nursery rhyme was like a mental strap of leather. Focus on biting that, and the rest becomes background.

The burn became nausea, and Madeleine’s hold on herself heaved desperate, almost clawing herself. The hosts were…mice, dainty and small, Inviting creatures……one and all.

Her breath came in heaves and waves, and her ears burned in the spotlight. As she breathed out, a squeak caught in her throat. The table was set…with…with leaves for plates, And acorn caps served as…as…assssss…

The feeling that welled up in Madeleine’s throat had red ache at its edge, but the core was something more violet and pink, something sickly sweet and tender and bitter like the bruised rind of an orange dropped on the ground. A moan that was hungry, that became wracked, a groan, a tree shifting then toppling, loud enough to register on any and all recording devices.

As defeat washed over her, Madeleine’s eyes rolled towards Angelina’s. Words slipped into the moan between clenched teeth. ”I’lllllll make you…” she sucked in breath. Swallowed. ”Kiss. My. Boot. S-s…sssweet.”

[Monsy]

Sweet Anne Bonny with a fever, this… Phew.
It’s like watching a movie. You start subtle, the opening hymn. The opening is bombastic, but subtle at once. You can see something is wrong. But there wasn’t enough answer to make you dive into your phone. Sit your butt down, look at the big blonde screen, and watch her throe through the five stages of grief. Her cheeks burned bright. Her head tilted, and her smile was contained, and those eyes were bigger, just a little past their natural state to watch with an almost perverted six-sense as she watched their eyes, mouth, how they curled, stretched and flexed.

The skin. Delicate. A red knee and golden bangs meet the eyes, stumbling to Angelina who was on her knees, never too far. Should’ve brought a phone for this. The pay off to this movie was too sweet to record. Her ears kissed by a moan, and a groan that added bittersweetness to this sugar-cube. “Atta girl.” Angelina went down on all fours, then crawled over them from the legs, pushing it down so she can straddle the stomach, knees into their waist, curled over. Her hand went for the throat, squeezed on the sides with a thumb and index. Gently at first. She leaned in. Their noses came within a couple inches. Her pupils dilated slightly, and the lids draped halfway down.

“What else?”

Angelina laid down, belly onto theirs, chests onto chest, flat, with her legs going for Madeleine’s ankles, to hook on the inside, then spread just slightly. Her elbow went across Madeleine’s shoulder, and leaned on it to keep her upper body propped up, looming. Long streams of shiny scarlet curtained around their heads. Few gaps were in this little pocket realm of ruby and gold. “I'm right here, s-s-sweet.” Clung to the S sound, a ginger hiss that coo'd a gentle blow on Madeleine's ear.

Everyone was watching.
And so was the referee. There to make the count on this sneaky-sneaky pirate pinfall.

[Malkavia]

A rustle shifted through the crowd. They were quiet enough that you could hear when they leaned in, the collective intake of breath. Madeleine’s gasp became a part of that sound when Angelina crawled between her knees and made the Countess part of her audience.

”ONE…!”

Madeleine’s legs squeeze against Angelina’s grapevine—not resistance. Nothing so conscious. There's a pinch between her legs, a heat in her navel that tightens and expands when the referee’s hand hits the mat.

”TWO…!”

It’s like a punch in the tummy, except the aftertaste is less nauseous, more sweet. It's slick thigh pressed to Angelina's thigh-high stocking, breath on breath, knee in the gut. Eyes and eyes and eyes—eyes in the cameras, in the bowl, in the sky. And what do they see? Angelina has torn out Madeleine’s stinger, has put on her tiara, and her eyes have already claimed what she’ll take next. Her lips hover just over Madeleine’s own, ready to lap up her prize.

”TH—!”

It starts as a kiss—shoulder up, lips press to lips, her tongue slides between teeth. One savors the taste. The stir through the audience, the reaction in Angelina’s violet look—it all adds to the upward swell in Madeleine’s chest that gives her the confidence, after a half second pause, finally, to sink her teeth into Angelina's lip and bite. Hard.

Roll her. But the creature in Madeleine’s gut doesn't need directions from on high. At the first taste of the Marauder’s spit, it wanted on top. It pushed. It pushed, hand to shoulder, scrambling, yes, but with instincts ironed in place as a trained grappler. From there, it’s pure primate. Curl a fist. Lock, eye to eye. And yes, her face will make you hesitate, sweet, a kitten, but she needs to submit. So pummel her.

[Monsy]

Weight slowly dispelled. Angelina melted into them. They had a frame of flower-petals. Soft. The sweat on their streamlined skin made them slide, shuffle and kiss on the hips and brush on the naval. Like a pearl, with all its elusive edges, soaking up a ginger sensation. You know what the best part was? It was winning. Fucking winning. The official is right there; strikes the canvas. Hard to tell where the dear Countess was at. Hit in the groyne. Gotta suck.

And just when you thought the surprises were corked for this round. Madeleine takes her mouth. Right on the money like a soft magnet. At first, she squeaks. Her face gets hotter, and she pushes back, tilts the head -- but is still grinning. Sweet success. The elbows slide and go beside Madeleine’s head, right on the blonde hair, with a hand slowly reaching to lock into the scalp. Her tongue wrestled with the tip, laying hers over Madeleine’s and she sucked a small gasp. She was an inch away from snickering.

“H-HK!” Both eyes go wide. Her lip feels impaled. It was small, reserved and noticeably pink. Swelling happens instantly and she curls up, ready to spring away like a spooked alley cat. Then she turns you over. Her back is spread across the mat, sweaty and twitching from just the breathing. “S-Stop-STOP! O-Ow!”

Wide mirror eyes peer at Madeleine, still burning that blush like wildfire that was beginning to hit her loins, frowning, teeth together as her swelling bottom lip now bled down her chin and onto that small pale neck. Her hands calm up, palms up -- but her defence is threaded. Yelps sound each smack off the cheek bone. The sound of a salt cracker being snapped in two. Her face tosses, and she reels in gasps, whines and squirms pitifully with her legs kicking. This wasn’t her zone.

But she had half a mind for logic. She pushed down with her heels, slid. Then she covered up, squeezed her eyes shut, breathed in deep and calmed. “Heh.” A fist passed her when she leaned, curled at the ribs, then sunk a grip on Madeleine’s elbow pocket. She sat up, quickly, then snatched the other by sheer proximity. Now, as the smaller one in this position, there opened an amazing opportunity. That sweet collar, windpipe, throat was all unclaimed. She took her two sets, then dove towards it, sinking them both on the crux, biting her so the bruise could last for a weekend.

[Malkavia]

Executive function is a powerful toolset that allows us to manage personal deficits and maximize advantages—but it doesn't have to dominate every facet of life. Sometimes one strikes on a rich vein of feeling. Madeleine has kissed many lips, but these are soft, velvet—the best kind, and they return her touch eagerly, until they don’t, until Angelina’s slitted eyes go brittle and thin, and there's pleasure in that too. Pleasure in cracking knuckles on thin pale face and the feeling of another, smaller girl squirming under Madeleine’s legs. If the sweetness in her chin, the tenderness in her thin throat tempted The Countess to hesitate, she needed only to feel the twinge in her knee, and her grimace set.

—Angelina yanked one arm, looped the other, pulled her in. At first it's a flash of red outrage in the stream (we are NOT finished, my sweet) but then—neck. Throat. Angelina’s teeth sink into smooth and white.

”Nyah—aaah…!” The pirate may have expected a scream—or who knows. Maybe she knew better. Maybe she knew the way Madeleine’s fingers would press into the mat and squeeze the same way her toes curled, and that she would sigh. High pitched. Trembly.

”Let go—” Push. The vein Madeleine was riding was confused, violet, yellow, red. It stings, it’s cold, it’s hot. Her eyes clamp shut and now she's scrambling to push this woman away, to rip free from what is becoming acute overstimulation. ”Let go-let go-LET. GO.”

Ride the full mount up over the rib cage, pull with the core, push with one hand and snap the other free. Instincts intervened. She burst free, clutching her throat, blushing scarlet. She could feel Angelina smirking, as well as she could feel the audience on her back. A thrill shot through Madeleine, a last white-hot impulse: a back-handed slap across her kitten’s face.

[Monsy]

Punches ache the cheekbone. Someone was jamming a dull thumbtack into it, and kept pushing and pushing and pushing. Hits on the jaw didn’t particularly hurt there for long. It’s the damn skull. How the head violently turns, where sometimes you fall and sometimes it’s just a massive fuckin’ headache. The brain is stew. The entire head catches it. And she was carrying a motley of pure poison in her nerves. And she drove that into biting. Teeth laying claim to what it's entitled to.

The thief always collects their share. And she stayed until her jaw was tired. A warm tongue washed across the inflaming skin. She clung like a koala, brought up her knees behind them and waited to evaluate the options. They seemed so beautifully paralyzed now. Maybe she can bring this into closed guard. Fuck. Just pulling her down and rolling might be good enough. Just needed to lay back, hold, slink the arms higher towards the shoulder.

While she’s yelling at you fuckin’ hilariously, of course. Angelina curdled a laugh against their skin, then suddenly, as they got higher, and her back was flatter from Madeleine riding up her short body, she suddenly came into the big wide world again, staring at her handiwork. “Aaw. Muffin--”

SMACK.
Her head veers. It gets fuckin’ white hot. A nail clips her eye and she freezes. Suddenly, it's a goddamn Sunday, 6 am in a white bed with tarp-like bedsheets. No one there and you lost your page number. Pitiful little shit. Her face gets red around the eyes. “A-Ah..” She wiped the corner of her eyes. “Did ya have to fuckin’ slap me…” So melodramatic. Both eyes clamped shut, then blink rapidly, and she sniffled. Her heart races. A fist beats the mat once “WHY. IN THE FLIP-FLAP FUCK--” And the water breaks, with a clear stream at the eye corners now dripping down her cheekbone to the mat. She begins to wipe them furiously before covering her eyes behind the palms, still jittering a bottom lip with a shuddered sigh. “DID THAT MAKE ME CRY?!”

[Malkavia]

The back of Madeleine’s hand stung, almost numb, as she felt herself slide, solid, onto a full mount. The tears rolled down Angelina’s cheek. The Countess crossed her left hand to Angelina’s right collar, grabbed a handle on her shoulder strap, and pressed her fist to the mat, arm flush with pirate neck. Her face flat, Madeleine considered the moist droplets under her opponent’s eyelashes, breathed deeply, and crossed right hand to left shoulder strap, forming an X pressed against Angelina’s throat.

Angelina’s ribs and sternum were firm but…pliable. They sagged under Madeleine’s weight, which, one imagined, would feel less than comfortable. Madeleine released some of her weight, pressing her shoulders down, leaning forward until the weight of her back came down squarely on her fists, driving the crook of her arms deeper into her sweet’s trachea, while her nose tip grazed her opponent’s. A cross collar choke.

”You’re alright, kitten.” The bare ghost of a smile played at the edges of Madeleine’s face as her breath breezed over Angelina’s face and hair and tiara. ”It’s perfectly alright to express yourself.”

[Monsy]

Sneaky little snake is all that summed up in her head. It’s the kind of cruelty she expected to play on others. See them wilt, then pounce. Go for the throat, always when it’s exposed and don’t apologise. Being on the other end of it… Two arms across her windpipe to put a gasp and scratchy sound when she exhaled, like grabbing a handful of gravel and shoving it down her throat. Her hands fell, holding the canvas.

She had a beet red look about her. Like all the blood was trapped in her cheeks, ears and now her neck too. Her eyes still leaked and they went puffy, along with her nose. Just a bit. The corners still had a bit of spit, and the lips shined, opened to a small O as she repeatedly gasped.

Her heart had a jab from a magic button. Fluttered. She felt softer, and put her hands on Madeleine’s waist. Serene, and looked at them with a small surprise that was evaluating their sheer fuckin’ audacity. Then she started to sweat. Her legs shuffled about, stomped, and she tried to work up the growl and bared teeth. But that failed, and she almost made a little meep. “F-Fuck ya just…..ghk! c-call!” Her voice moved like croaks, pushing out in moments where she had a millimetre to breathe. She whined. Her throat hurt and her post-tears face looked like a minor wreck, moving her head around, jerking shoulders and moving her midsection like waves. Her heart pounded more. “Mm…pegh….”

But she had one thing. Her arms came up Madeleine’s side, with finger tips gliding skin to scan, explore, to the spine and its many points, chasing that blonde hair to its home. She grabbed the pigtails with fists, let the hand slide down then used the slack to cross-loop them around Madeleine’s throat. Then she made a lurch with her head, mouth open to bite them on the cheek -- hoping for a flinch so she could roll them, landing with her hips between Madeleine’s legs but now pulling the pig-tail knot tight. Her own cross-collar choke, with a glare stinging in her eyes.

[Malkavia]

Madeleine could feel Angelina’s heart beat against her wrists, warm pressure that grew and fluttered faster when the Countess said the magic words. She cocked her head to one side and took in the violent shifts and twitches working across the pirate’s face. Then she leaned her hips forward, pressuring tighter into the choke, forehead pressed to forehead.

”I could call you that again. As many times as you like.” For an instant, Madeleine’s ruby eyes peered straight into Angelina’s dilated crocodile pupils, and a shiver of something pleasant arced up the Countess’s back and shot a shade of pink through her pale lips. ”All you have to do, sweet, is be nice. Show some more of that vulnerability.”

The pirate’s hands crept up her waist, gentle for a change, but—worryingly free. The tactical part of Madeleine’s mind started spinning on solutions. Then the pirate closed her mouth on Madeleine’s cheek. She expected pain, teeth meant to cut, and though the pain never came, a flurry of moves did. Strike and counterstrike. The pirate heaved, Madeleine rolled, her back smacked the mat, her legs locked in a guard behind Angelina’s back, a choke closed in on Madeleine’s throat, and she weaved a hand under to catch and disarm it.

So vicious. Madeleine’s breathing heavy, and the hint of a smile has grown, stretched to a full smirk, with her tongue in her cheek. It's a different kind of vicious than the knee-cracking pirate—this is like a cat with a collar, twisting its spin, flattening its ears, digging its paws up to that annoying strap of leather. Off, off, off! Soon, one imagines, it will start yowling. Vicious, yes. Heart-meltingly so.

And how does one keep the collar from slipping off? She’ll have to move quickly, whatever she does, to hold the momentum. A handle suggests itself, thorny and sharp and silhouetted black overhead. Madeleine’s thighs clench around Angelina's waist as she settled on her target. She gives a push! to break the choke, slips her fingers around a pirate’s proud horn, and tugs her down to Madeleine’s level—down where the Countess can access the lovely, soft curve of her neck, push past scarlet hair, and let her lips caress her pale skin, touch with the tip of her tongue, and plant — one, two, three — a row of kisses on her sweet.

[Monsy]

That fuckin’ mouth was a cut from an evil cake.
Too goddamn sweet. It makes her heart sick. Hard to hide the sweat and the skipping breath when she’s touching your forehead, and now it becomes a loopity loop, throwing herself for shivers to get a damn grip. She started thinking in reverse. Get in the fuckin’ game, said her pirate half. And she seemed to nail it, marking their cheek, then coming on top. “How’s this for vulnerable, huh?” Angelina tried to yell it, but the strain caught her tongue and throat. It came out silky but determined, and she was biting the inside of cheek to miserably restrain her flushed face.

The choke was a bust. Madeleine had her hand there, and she didn’t have the arms to make that work. Not in a million damn years. She knew that. Yet she kept pulling like she was releasing stress all the while. Pulling til her arms were shaking with the effort and were growing tired. She frowned, bit her bottom lip, hoping for that hand to slip out. And then the Countess has her thin waist. And she didn’t mind that either. Her back can fuckin’ arch and bridge into a semi-circle. This changed nothing for the pirate.

Her grip slipped. She squeezed her eyes shut for some fuckin’ punch or for the hairs to scream against her scalp. Instead, she’s pulled down, head slanted towards the hand’s draw, her neck barren and exposed, a black dog collar covering something special. Still, a touch there is felt everywhere. It got her back to sweeten into a sudden, but ginger-sweet convulsion. Her breath hitched. Arms pulled in closer, close to a hug but with her forearms against their ribs. “...I’m not vulnerable.” Angelina whispered, taking it in stride, letting her fingers stretch then paint down Madeleine’s side, grabbing the waist, then dragging it down to the rump. Squeeze. “I’m the best thief you’ll evah see..”

Angelina laid her weight on them, trying to stack Mads up with her feet while her head buried into the crook of their neck, padding it with warm irregular breath. She rolled her hips against them to slide herself further up, then took her teeth and pinched the earlobe. The earring as her target. Her tongue flicked, and she nipped the jewel.