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

[Malkavia]

The crook of Angelina’s neck is rich with smell. Her hair is damp with sweat, which carries a sweet, athletic something—fresh and youthful, the kind of almost-sour body odor that makes Madeleine’s legs shift, soft, tightening around Angelina’s waist. That mixes with perfume. Mmm—Strawberry, with the barest notes of something sour. Marc Jacobs Daisy, perhaps? She closes her eyes as she sinks into another kiss on the throat—and smiles all the wider when breath hitches in that throat.

”Mmmmnh.” A flush extends to the tips of the Countess’s ears. That grip on her buttocks is dangerous—the first touch sends a quiver from her throat to her navel, then the squeeze…possessive. The kind of assertion that strikes a bell and makes something inside Madeleine curl up like a snake. When she exhales, it’s a battle to keep the sweetness from curdling into a moan.

The earring, though—that makes her squeak. Her whole body goes tight. Shivers. Inside her boots, Madeleine’s toes clamp and curl, splay and squirm. It’s just a little pain, but Angelina’s breath accompanies the sharp tug, rolled down her neck and makes the soft blonde hairs stand on end. And if she had pulled hard enough, it would have ripped. Ruined the piercing. A violation that, in conjunction with our…position would have left us exposed. Pinned down, wrapped up. Exploitable.

”Of…course.” Though it required a supreme mental effort, Madeleine kept her voice steady. She loosened her thighs, not to release Angelina, but to keep her grip flexible. She had two free hands. One pressed flat against Angelina’s bare belly, sliding over first button then the faint suggestion of ribs towards the hem of her crop top. ”You have just that sort of reputation. Rabbit thief. Purloiner of skateboards. The…Scarlet Terror is a term I’ve heard tossed about. But…” In spite of the wince pinching Madeleine’s face, the last nickname curls a grin at one edge of her face, and her exhale slides out as half a laugh. So dramatic. ”I think we’re each a bit more than our reputations. Aren’t we?”

When her move comes, the first thrust is to reverse the ticklish feint across Angelina’s tummy. Instead of reaching for a breast, Madeleine’s hand would flick south. A slide down a navel slick with sweat, just enough pressure to press into the skin and under the hem of her shorts. A surprise little foray with her finger tips meant to set the pirate’s jaw loose. If only for a sweet shock of a second.

Then, a slight tug at the neck to yank the earring safe, and then up would come her one free arm to hook the kitten’s collar, to squeeze a guillotine choke, and to ensure the pirate’s fangs stayed far from any other jewelry.

[Monsy]

Lemon juice.
Nice.
Reactive. Double nice.
She can lay here for hours, and think of strawberry lemon shortcake. The texture can touch her lips like Madeleine’s own finger. She tongued the top and bottom brim, just to set a bigger example on the earlobe. Wet. Hungry as she worked up a soft purr from another kiss. It warms her more, further grabbing at Madeleine’s own heat as their navels' rubbed. Lapping it. She exhaled dramatically. Hips up, a hand brushed across her stomach -- nothing intimidating, almost like a silk with enough friction to make her stomach sink in from being ticklish.

Soon, that hand had its own guide. One hand off their rump shadowed Madeleine’s own as it breached her waistline, with the elastic making give as a second stretched it, fingers going between the gaps, making a small curl just to hold it steady, but they were already reaching the red lace. Angelina blew on their ear in a coo, then down the neck, adding a few more blows to the bite mark she planted before. We’re each a bit more than our reputations. Aren’t we?

She had a closed-mouth chuckle. “Just you.”
And then..
She gets you. Takes your head, and a second later, she has your throat inside a vice. A cough tripped out, but she keeps steady. There’s a whine slipping as she’s squeezed and something in her throat squeaks. This girl and her fuckin’ chokes… Angelina stacked up more, getting her feet down. The world became upside down, with her horns like a lever pinned against the canvas. Then she jumped, with full-force to send this shit somersaulting, swinging out her legs in hopes to catch a rope.

[Malkavia]

Just you. As the Countess had said once already—touchée. She glanced at the nape of Angelina’s neck, knowing that the fans without a doubt would be able to see that Madeleine was grinning. Not smirking. Grinning, thin as she could keep it, but alas. In all likelihood, she'd look a bit goofy.

Just as Madeleine began to feel as if her hand had finally gripped the reins to this match, Angelina threw another curveball on a path directly en route to Madeleine’s snout. From a combat perspective, there were few points where one could fault the pirate. Perhaps one expected strength to be a rare minus on the combatant profile, but just try to pin this one down and watch what happens. Watch her stack up, bridge, heave, and then your head over shoulders, tumble forward, somersault—and her boot’s headed towards the ropes.

Except Madeleine’s boot lands first, catches the pirate’s before it can touch, twists, slides her off the rope and to the mat. Then her toes grip the mat, along with a hand, and she heaved and pushes them each towards the ring-center. Alright—now maybe that grin had become a smirk. With one arm, she craned into the choke, biting her lip until she could swallow the offending twist of her lips and settle her face somewhere friendly. Downgrade to a smile.

When Madeleine released the choke, she had one hand at Angelina’s belt, unlooping the black leather through silver buckle. That left her one hand free—to cup her chin, then her cheek, then to brush a mess of red hair out of her purpled face. ”Don’t sell yourself short, sweet.”

Madeleine’s own hair frizzed where her tiara had sat, and the bruise from the match’s opening firework of a kick had become a by-now bright purple lump on her jaw, but none of that diminished the sunniness of her smile as she wrenched her neck backwards and aimed with a precise and fluid movement to crack her skull against Angelina’s.

[Monsy]

Chuck yourself six feet deep, spin ya shit around and then turn the lights off. Find your way up. That’s what being on the ground felt like. The water was our Madeleine. Force of nature, encompassing and drowning. She choked you slowly, ever-slowly but inevitably. Some fuckin’ fruity-scented terminator. But there was one trick to finding which way was up. Blow some bubbles, feel where they go, see if you can. Catch them on your cheek as they fly up. Then follow with your feet, posture them down, charge up and push.

Angelina saw the lights. But Madeleine weighed even heavier now. Pain bit her neck. She sank lower into these depths. “Gh…hn…” And the water began to breach. Red was blushing on her face, and not just her cheeks. It was growing everywhere. Her throat pinched, windpipe swelled and her eyes were starting to pressurise against her sockets. After another crane, Angelina had resembled something between bug-eyed and half-asleep. One eyelid at half-mast, and the other at quarter. Her mouth burst with a hiss as her last breath was squeezed out, with a modicum of drool now wetting her mouth-corners.

Purple. Suddenly, she was above water. “...GAHUHHHHH--!” Her chest filled up immediately, then caught a hitch, and she coughed. Both hands came to her own neck, held it. It hurt worse with nothing there now. An entire arm mark made the whole thing turn red too. She whimpered, hunched, wet in her eye-corners from the earlier feeling like they were gonna pop. A hand to her chin and cheek. Angelina leaned into it subconsciously, strategizing. Or just.. Self-comforting. Then she laughed, dryly. Through stubborn red hair that always came back to cover portions of her face. No matter how much you moved it. “I am short.”

Then. Her nose is cracked. Right between the eyes, with a little red gush out her nose. Dark spots over her vision. Madeleine fading. She ended up bobble-heading once back, then forward, and had a short girlish squeak before crashing flat on her back, on a slight curve to one side with her upper-body. Arms folded into her neck, and Angelina peered up til mostly sclera remained. She moaned out her stress, which had her head feeling like it was going to explode. Axe-kick, now this. She only had so much brain left. And one less belt, which gave her shorts a substantial slack around the waist.

“O-ow-wee..”

[Malkavia]

Madeleine squinted, biting her lip as the pain in her own forehead receded. Some of the blood from Angelina’s snout had left her brow feeling damp, and as she wiped it on her wrist, she cocked her head and considered the woman underneath her. Angelina’s eyes wandered, following a lazy diagonal line, while her lips parted and hung open. She squirmed, groaned, but without purpose. Almost imperceptibly, Madeleine shook her head before slipping to her rival’s side.

She turned Angelina over gently, picking her up by the shoulder, cradling her neck, and finally soundlessly setting her slim, light body face-down. She rested her knee on Angelina’s spine, between her shoulder blades, as she looped her fingers around the hem of her shorts. It took one tug to get them loose, and then a second to get them sliding in one smooth motion down to her knees. Next came the belts on the crop-top, unhinged and slipped free, tossed to the side, with the top itself soon to follow.

Angelina’s underwear and bra were lacy, pink designer items, which Madeleine found less surprising than the way she felt peering over the smooth bare thighs and gentle slope of her opponent’s back. She licked her lips, then slid her hands around the woman’s shoulders and lifted her to her knees.

Madeleine kneeled behind Angelina. She rested on her good knee, which she placed between her opponent’s legs, while her other foot pressed to the mat. Her thigh cupped Angelina’s side. Wrapping her arm around Angelina’s throat, she took a sleeper hold, bending Angelina’s back over the fulcrum of Madeleine’s thigh. A part of Madeleine expected a fight—that the hellcat would shake awake and hiss and elbow her in the eye.

But no such fight erupted, and before long Madeleine found herself with the hold locked in. As her hand slid down the pale, smooth navel, and found the edge of Angelina’s underwear, the Countess felt her heart accelerate. Her ears burned. Her fingertips tingled. She became uncomfortably aware of her own outfit--of the tight, silky pressure the dress placed on her waist and chest. Angelina’s back over Madeleine's bad knee, her throat under her arm, the skin pressed to skin, felt sweet in spite of the pain. The crowd had gone quiet. Leaning in. Waiting to hear what delicate kinds of noises the pirate might be about to utter.

”I like your lingerie, kitten.” Madeleine’s breath grew thick as she slipped her hand below the silky hem and explored the space between Angelina’s legs. She was smooth. Peach fuzz bordered delicate, sensitive lips. ”I said that leather and urban look good on you. Mmm…” Madeleine lowered her neck, kissed the space where Angelina’s throat became chest, all while she traced her middle finger along the delicate, uppermost edge of her opponent’s labia. ”Pink lace is a nice contrast, though, isn't it? A surprise for your intimate partner—or maybe not, if they've been paying attention. Perhaps they wanted to find you like this. Soft. Sweet.” Kiss. “Vulnerable.”

[Monsy]

Angelina spilled into a laid-out pillow princess, breathing through lungs made of old leather. A picture of five in the morning. She glistened under bright lights, from the black leather to the warm-wet slick over her navel, legs, back and face. An arm folded across her face as she turned over, flat, and sent her sights motion sick. “Fughhhh… Take five.” Angelina babbled in a low voice, lips mushed against the canvas. One eye took to twitching half open. Her hands reached and pawed the mat. She arched. The knee made her hitch.

“O-ow..” It didn’t actually hurt. But she expected it to. Some sort of punishment to lead this towards a bitch-out. She noted the hands, smaller than expected, and reflexed her eyes shut till she felt the shorts rub past her hip bone. It tickled, a lot, and she writhed. It continued over her round buttocks, a cream-like satin, down to her knees where her feet still laid side-by-side. The arena’s breeze made her arch more.

Then more when Madeleine picked her up. “Ow..ow. Hurt-. Hurt-.” Angelina spoke dull, arms down and dangling, another around her throat, making her gurgle, wheeze silently and palpitate. Stretched into her most defined physique, where lines from her waist subtly crossed down towards her pelvis, with a small layer of squish making it faint, from hips to the smooth groyne -- where Madeleine’s hand slipped underneath. “A-Aha…” Kitten again. Bless her racing heart. Her thighs squeezed the hand. Another breath sucked in, slow, into her chest and held. Kissed on her little notch, and she broke. “F-Fuck--” Quiet but with a deflating chest. Out came another breath, this time through an O-shaped mouth, long and slow. Twice.

Greater heat built inside her chest, and a flutter was inside her spine, travelled down into her legs that had a mini-spasm, hugged on Madeleine’s finger that rocked her back and forth. A small touch of wet tried inviting her in. Then listening.. And more listening… Until she felt starved for a kiss, and got one, dazed and sloppy from the choke hitting her like four jagerbombs. She whimpered, “One more kiss? Please?” Angelina pleaded with big eyes. And when the moment was hers. When they got close, eyes-to-eyes -- she would smirk, lop-sided, with a sudden squint and lunge up; arms to Madeleine’s sleeper-grip, and chomp their lips. Bottom, top or the tongue. They were all hers anyway.

[Malkavia]

Their breathing synched. Slow, heaving breaths had them lift, then fall together as one body wrapped around another.

It took an effort to catch Angelina’s eyes. Her neck was arched at a painful hundred and twenty degree angle under Madeleine’s armpit, and the Countess had to crane her neck to see over the silky black fabric covering her shoulder. But it was worth the effort to see that adoring face—and to think. A whole stadium saw the same. Of course she would kiss her again.

It was once again the eyes that signaled the change, a shift in the brow from a convex arc to a grinning, pointed v. A dragon surfacing suddenly from a cold lake. Her teeth locked on Madeleine’s lower lip and clamped.

The foresight from Angelina’s eyes had not come in time to save Madeleine’s lips—but it did hold in the scream. In a meadow green, where flowers sway, A picnic was held one sunny day. The pain is a blaring bee sting, a swelling at the lips, red needle and crimson itch. The Countess shook as she glared down at Angelina but kept it under the skin, sparks of anger flitting across her red eyes.

She released the sleeper holder under her shoulder and slipped her hand over Angelina’s throat. The trachea was hard cartilage, almost like bone. She could feel it's rings as bumps under her fingertips and the skin was sticky and hot. Angelina’s heartbeat pulsed quietly under her grip.

Then Madeleine would heave from her shoulder and push the throat. She'd pull with her back and yank her lips. She’d aim to bend Angelina like a bow over her knee, until her belly button stretched.

Breath heaved out of Madeleine. She slipped her tongue over her lips, cleaned the blood dribbling down her chin, and then looked down at her target. A bellybutton. Stretched as they were, Angelina’s abs had a hard, athletic profile, right agains the skin…but even like this, the sloping skin around the bellybutton looked soft. Madeleine raised her free fist, clenched, over her head—ground and pound— and dropped it like a hammer. Her whole body went into the strike, like she wanted to pound a railway spike through Angelina’s gut.

The sound of her fist against belly is a deep, dull thud. Her wrist sinks deep into soft skin and hard muscle, hard enough to feel the kick in her elbows, but her jaw sets tight and brow creases. If she had concealed her anger earlier, she let it out here, heaving down on her grip on Angelina’s jaw until her shoulder shook from the exertion, then slung her fist around again for strike two. The effort grinds in her shoulder, and her eyes, smoldering, turn from bellybutton to Angelina’s face as the impact hits.

[Monsy]

Always so fuckin’ gullible when they get something sweet. A sliver of what appears to be a straightaway. Some naked road, where its pure black, white lines and yellow in the middle. You can press the throttle all you want, go for miles and find nothing stopping you. The world’s most vulnerable fuckin’ road, all yours. Then. Fuckin’ pothole. Right on the chassis and that shit begins to bleed. Angelina donned something furious and joyful in her eyes. She clamped harder after the catch, and laughed like she couldn’t hold in her feeling of minor victory.

Then the rain hits. The breathing hits a drought as her throat is clutched, pushed in until she felt it tickle her spine. A fitting thing that was snug in her hand, soft with all the little parts flexing, and her pulse starting to rise. Then pushed. Angelina gagged and came free, stretched like playdough. Five-three turned to five-five it seemed. Cat-eyes and now this feline stretch, with a cat name to sprinkle on. She thought about laughing, with red-spritzed teeth after putting her teeth into Madeleine’s lips.

But she looked up, squeaked from fright. Suddenly, this was a lot less funny. “PFFFSH--..” A boulder dropped on a pond. The small layer of soft vibrated to her hips, ribs and made her legs suddenly spasm. Caught with tight teeth, she hissed out loudly and sprayed spit. Her voice creaked from a laugh, to that loud hiss and then a puppy getting its tail stepped on. Both hands went to Madeleine’s throat-clutching arm, and looked up to play the same trick, quickly. Soft eyes of broken glass, a drizzling-wet evening by her purple hue. It hurt. The dull sound looked like it rang straight from her bones.

And again. “GEK!!” This time, she croaked. She tried to heave up, but was shoved back down and stretched further. A human U-turn. It felt warm and entirely fuzzy. That kinda full-body exhaustion and feeling pale, but actually being entirely flushed red, and can feel every sweat drop. Her breath was pushed out shakily. She didn’t have the wind to make much noise, and she looked to be trying way too hard. Her hands shook, and held Madeleine’s arm. One leg went straight as a board, and the other folded. The knee craned into the air and stayed there, with her bruising belly beginning to flex faster and faster…

[Malkavia]

The belly had looked like a soft target, but when Madeleine pulled her fist from the second strike, she had to shake the sting out of her knuckles. Keeping her palm pressed on Angelina’s jaw, she looked the woman over. Blood from her lip dripped from her chin and made splattered blots on her opponent’s bruised belly.

Count to four. Breathe in. Breathe out. Objectively, the sensations pulsing through Madeleine’s body—the swelling in her lip, the broken-chalk feeling in her knee, the constant buzz at the back of her brain—should have been negative, but as Madeleine looked over her kitten’s prostrate body, she felt something sweet infuse all the screeching nerve endings in her body.

She wiped the blood specks clean with her thumb, then lifted her hand and inserted her middle and ring fingers into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around them down to the last knuckle, glanced at Angelina’s face, and winked. Among our pirate’s most potent charms is how quickly she can spike and valley—the flames of her cruelty and the softness of her contrition.

As Madeleine slipped her fingers between Angelina’s legs, she cupped Angelina’s cheeks and lifted her jaw slightly so that their eyes could more easily meet. She took her time, sliding fingertips over the lips’ uneven, loose skin, all the while listening and watching. Angelina had such expressive eyes; they would be excellent guides, she thought, to what made the pirate tic.

Her thumb uncurled, sliding between layers of Angelina’s labia, until it found slick, hard skin that rose to her clitoris. She pressed, biting her tongue as she did, and leaned almost unconsciously in. A smile flicked at the corners of her mouth, pink flushed up her throat, and her eyes glowed with unbreaking affection. Poor thing. What I wouldn't do to dress you up and make you safe. Finally, she inserted her middle and index fingers inside Angelina, and the audience would get to see Madeleine pump beneath her panties.

She anticipated noises, squirming—and she was ready to take it in. Savor it. Bask in the faces Angelina would make. Only, there was a fly in the milk. Something not quite perfect. That collar. It covered Angelina’s beautiful, sexy throat. Madeleine wanted to see her whole neck heave and clench. So, she gripped the collar in the hand pressing down, rotated the collar until she found the zipper. Quick bit of cleverness with the thumb and…off it comes.

[Monsy]

M-Meep… went her brain.
Madeleine had a way of poisoning you with guilt. The way she stared. Glare. Then she bites where it counts, and gets her squeals until she seems… Satisfied. Was it wrong to feel just a little sting in her eyes again-- Motherfuckin’ slap from earlier was still taking her for a spin. “N-No third--” Angelina had pleaded, now grabbed on her jaw, she could peep out the words through that rattled tone. “h-hey--…” Her eyes closed. The thumb is a feather compared to the earlier hammer. She flinched like a cat that was just spooked. Her body retracted an inch towards a ball, but eased, and she bit on her lower lip to ease a muffle the pending sob knotting her throat.

Fucker. Now she preferred a fist.
Switching on her like that on a dime. Each thing was a pillow, filled with nails or feathers, and you didn’t know which one until you laid your head down. And what’s the next pillow? Caramel. Sweet and a little savoury. A guilty pleasure that had its way of being intimate on small pastries, and her cat-eyes dilated watching. She wanted both to herself.

Still holding Madeleine’s arm, her back was locked. She felt a splash of cold-warmth between her legs, calm yet powerful. Like a nibble on the neck. Her legs feel lighter. The knees kissed. Pretty pink folds stirring for Madeleine’s hand, and painted the tips sparkly. Angelina breathed in deep, open-mouthed, meeting Madeleine’e glance before she let it out. A sigh. Her head rolled back, along with her eyes staring into the upside-down world. Her windpipe was full of choking bumps, and they came untied with a high-octave but quiet moan. Touched on her pearl to make the ship rock. Then the feelings of before doubled, and her warm-wet walls hugged their pair of fingers. Her stiff leg slowly loosened up, raised, and now both thighs trembling with the friction. When she touched the deepest parts, they shook and squeezed the hand, gingerly, then released. Every time. There’s a little slick sound as Angelina holds her voice to laboured breathing. You can see it on her stomach. Feel it on her chest. Then just watch her slack-jawed mouth, with bared blood-speckled teeth, a little saliva on the lips, embarrassingly flushed, and having this semi-vacant stare that was looking into the distance. She moaned again. Quiet like the last.

It all felt so fuzzy that she didn’t notice her neck. The collar dropped. Her throat is small like expected, but with a notable feature. A thick streak of delicate skin from the crook that stretched over the throat and across a full two-thirds towards the other side, shrivelled and far more pinkish than her normal complexion. A scar.