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

[Malkavia]

Certain features in Madeleine's senses took longer to focus than others, and one of the last things to come sharply into focus was Angelina's face. Her vision cleared just in time to catch the signal she had placed on her forehead. Loser. Right over the Countess's own tiara.

It was, she realized, the kind of taunt one might expect on the playground, but that didn't stop it from hitting her chest like an ice-pick. It dislodged other images, other feelings, other words that had gotten caught in the sticky folds of what sex had momentarily made of her mind. The Sony camera girl, the thumb inside her anus, the noises she had made.

(bark bark)

If the entire arena had suddenly caught fire, and the people in the stands ran screaming into the aisles as their skin began to ignite, Madeleine would have felt something close to satisfaction ― if only she could have dunked some gasoline onto Angelina before tossing her over the barricade. It was a childish thought, one unworthy of her. As her face turned dark, she let the image slip out her ear while she channeled the hot edge of her rage on Angelina.

Mentally, the Countess had been preparing herself for another assault. Her body still felt bone tired, and she knew she would need to be quick and clever to counter whatever Angelina's next move was ― perhaps grab the next kick. The look on Angelina's face was worse, however, than the anticipated attack. It was rotten. It smelled. The tricky gleam in her eye, the delighted wrinkle in her grin. Punchable, except it made the Countess wish she had something heavier than her fists.

What did she see?

One of the most infuriating details was just how uncooperative Madeleine's body had become. Even once Angelina dragged her under the ropes, and they were making their way to the barricade, she was walking...and this burned deeply, nauseatingly in her gut...but she walked with wobbly, even bow-legged gait. Angelina was all too happy to tug and shove the Countess to keep her upright.

ONE!

Was she planning to use the concrete to attack her? The barricade?

It wasn't until they got to the barricade that Madeleine finally connected the line between Angelina and her target. Her heart hammered in her chest.

”―Codswaddle!”

It was a whisper, barely a breath. But it was enough. Her eyes darted to Angelina, who glanced right back. Then they both looked at the woman holding Madeleine's dear friend, fresh from her home, with big glassy eyes and a woman holding him tight while she herself sat in a slump, eyes wide with tight anticipation. A depressed fan whose slim hope is as painful to her as it is bright, who hasn't yet realized she has become part of the game.

[Monsy]

This is the buy-in that keeps shit movin. Subtle things, peeps, chokes and blips. Madeleine looked exactly where Angelina wanted her to without request. Miss Red-Skirt found them too, slowly, with focus setting in between the trio. It had to be sick as fuck, though, where you’re sitting, suspecting -- but playing it off, only to realize, as the pirate and countess near you -- the floor became yours. That special girl in a concert the singer is lookin’ at. And now, the proverbial mic was placed to them, as they had two things to decide. Madeleine’s well-being, and their own.

“Here’s what’ll happen!” Angelina said, then sucked in and hauled Madeleine another foot. She stepped on the back of their knee, pinned it to the ground and placed her weight on Madeleine’s limb. Now on Madeleine’s side, she used both hair-wielding hands to whip their forehead against the steel barricade, and from there, immediately place their throat over the top steel bar. Cold as it may be against lingering sweat.

TWO! -- The referee's voice still loomed loud.

“You’re gonna take that ugly little ottah back. Madeleine.” She lifted one foot to stand solely on Madeleine's leg, then jerked their throat with a downward thrust. “YOU’RE gonna take it. Then, hand it to me. K? Take it from them, then give it to me. And I’ll let ya go.”

And if this wasn't coercion enough... If pride was still an unbreakable barrier, she would try to make Miss Red-Skirt buckle by adding... “Or. I’ll jump this shit, and take it from ya myself. Time’s tickin’ ladies, and we got until the count of ten!”

[Malkavia]

Madeleine gasped as Angelina stepped on her knee. In the midst of...everything else, Madeleine had forgotten the way Angelina had savaged her kneecap in the first quarter of the match, but the memory came boiling back along with hot, arcing pain.

The Countess, however, kept the pain buried. As Angelina pressed her throat against the metal bar of the barricade, her eyes slid up to watch the girl she had gifted Codswaddle. The deserving audience participant. She looked worse for wear, even before Angelina called her out. Her grip on Codswaddle was tight, and her back was bent as if her clothes were lined with lead.

Precise emotional control from this point forward was as critical as it had been at any moment in the match. Even though her throat was three-quarters closed, Madeleine controlled her breathing.

The moment Angelina had mentioned the blonde in the audience, her lips had parted. She glanced at Madeleine, then at Angelina. Are you serious? Even from this distance, Madeleine could see her turn pale.

THREE!

The blonde with the otter was looking everywhere now ― and everyone was looking at her. It was easy enough to read her thoughts. This couldn't be for real. And even if it was... LAW wouldn't allow an audience member to get hurt, right? A rustle passed through the audience as the pause dragged on. The enthusiasm with which the audience had been cheering Angelina on grew quiet. Madeleine's pulse thundered in her head as she choked against the barricade. In, rasssssp, out three four...

Finally, the woman, staring at Angelina with wide eyes, stood up. Her knees were shaking, and Madeleine could see her lift Codswaddle at the same time that her grip was going loose.

PUSH!

Madeleine heaved on the barricade and pushed her free foot into the concrete, lifting Angelina and her head off the barricade.

”No, sweet.”

Madeleine slammed back down into the barricade, but she had shifted her weight and her shoulders so that instead of her throat hitting the top steel bar, her face slammed the barricade. She barely winced and kept her eyes locked on the blonde. She felt, for the first time in a while, absolute confidence. Madeleine had chosen this girl ― her intuition had picked her out at the start of this match. Her voice, though ragged from being slammed against the steel, carried that same commanding calm.

”I gave him to you. He's yours. Your gift from Madeleine. You're going to take him home, and...”

Angelina would not be taking this resistance lightly. Madeleine would have to struggle, squirming to deflect any strikes, heaving to keep her throat off the barricade. She pushed again and got an arm under her chin. In spite of this, she kept her eyes glued to the woman in the stands.

FOUR!

”...and I am going to remember you as a woman of impeccable bravery, who didn't fold when Angelina Tarrant threw her worst, whose...nngf..." The twinge of a wince broke through Madeleine as the struggle jostled her knee. She swallowed the pain quickly. ”...whose belief in me kept me fighting, to the last bell. Now, my sweet. My precious. Sit down.”

[Monsy]

This sort of grit gives you a good shake. Just where had she seen it?
Choking, struggling, lifting Angelina’s weight and talking at the same time, only for a desperate adjustment and switch tactic to send Madeleine back where she began. It seemed so temporary. Madeleine kept trying. She kept talking. The script Angelina played in her head was thoroughly trashed.

The crowd soured against her. They started looking at Angelina with mean mugs. A semi-circle around the blonde and the two competitors, with the barricade being the end points.

For fuck sake -- she was BARKING a moment ago. So why. WHY. Was she giving this sort of kick? Could’ve been so much easier for them to comply, plot, play it back at their moment, then throw it in the pirate’s face. That was how Angelina did it. And look where it got her? Right here. So. Why?

Some fuckin’ Hoodini spell was what it was. Poison in the ear that acted like a sedative to this dumb fucking blonde. The encouragement echoed throughout the nearest ranks. They chanted, ‘Sit down. Sit down. Sit down.’ with a growing rally. From the other crowd sections, it was smug, adding onto the flames -- seemingly just to piss her off. And having been encouraged by those around her, and even Madeleine herself, the originator of this whole mini-movement, the blonde sat down much to everyone’s cheering afterward.

Angelina sighed, playing it calm, not taking it hard at first. She said, “Nice speech dick wad. Changes nothin’, though.” And so she threw Madeleine back, then lunged at the barricade, her waist as the fulcrum to catch herself, reach and snatch Codswaddle. But the crowd stopped her, hands on her shoulder, one rank deep and quickly forming two, then three. All that, when they only needed one to shove her back, hard, and send her crashing onto her shoulders and backrolling, landing on all fours. “What… the fuck…”

FIVE!

Her heart-beat spiked to racing levels. They had concentrated at that one spot, and were pushing the barricade to levels that made the non-fixed poles slide on the concrete. Angelina’s face went pale as they started to shout, and for a moment, she pictured them busting the barrier into a full-blown mob. But they didn’t. They were just there, angry, boo-ing, throwing profanities. Loudly.

Angelina threw her arms up. After a nose sigh, she pulled her cheeks into a neutral smiling state, one clearly disingenuous, furious beyond the skin, but knowing exactly what they were going to do about it. She stood and walked to Madeleine, kicking her in the knee, then bent over, grabbed a wrist -- and the other. She bent them back, dangled their upper-body on an incline, face-down, then turned to face the crowd. “You dorkfucks did this to her.”

She raised a boot and stomped it into the back of their skull. “Just LOOK at what ya done, yo!” And again, she stomped the back of their head, and laughed at it. “All ya had to do -- was give me the fuckin’ ottah. Then I wouldn’t have to do this!” STOMP.

SIX!

[Malkavia]

Sit down! Sit down!

The chant started low, then doubled in volume on each iteration, until it becomes a pulse running through the seats. Madeleine breathed, and for the first time since her panties had slipped off her hips and her thighs had gone chill in the open air, that breathing glittered in her chest.

...That didn't mean her body was ready to cooperate. Angelina tossed her off the barricade and sent her rolling onto her hands and knees. The concrete was cold and scraped her skin, and when she tried to scramble to her feet, her knee wobbled, popped, and collapsed.

Did the crowd notice, though? Of course not. They were busy erupting as the girl in the red skirt...sat. Madeleine didn't see the moment, but she could feel the ground shake. What was even sweeter, though, were the jeers. The boos. Rolling her eyes around to see the crowd close ranks and toss the bitch back on her heels. She wavered on the concrete. What the fuck.

FIVE!

The Countess turned her eyes back on the ring. If she had been just a bit faster, she might have gotten to her feet—might have hobbled to the mat and collected herself. Instead, she missed her beat and let Angelina stomp her knee.

...It was another crack in the glass, a fissuring stained-glass sunroof that felt damn near collapse. Madeleine clutched her knee and had to bite her lip hard enough to crunch through some of the skin to avoid screaming. A long, thin muscle in her thigh tightened like a fist and ached from ass to knee. Then—CLUNK.

Stars swam in Madeleine's vision. It took her an instant to realize Angelina's boot had slammed the back of her head, and by then the second CLUNK was half a second away. Her eyes lolled down to cracks in the concrete floor, but black swam where her vision focused, and nausea clenched in her gut.

SIX!

And yet—through all her half-frazzled, fragmented awareness, she could hear a rumble. The boos. The bass pedal from the audience, sweet fuzz that stretched a skeletal grin on the Countess' pale face as blood slunk through her hair through a gash in her scalp.

[Monsy]

It became more than making the crowd jeer, but creating a mob. Everyone, positively, everyone worth a brain cell knew the dangers of rabbit strikes. Where spine meets skull. It's like punching plywood. It shakes, echoes, vibrates through and it gives a sense of anxiety that procures more anger in the aftermath. But these weren’t punches. These were fuckin’ stomps with hard leather boots. She knew exactly where to strike and purposefully aimed to inflict maximum discomfort. The crowd can only watch the dull guillotine as it went up, released, slammed onto the vertebrae, yielded nothing but forced a slew of cringed faces.

If only Madeleine can see them push on the barricade.

Popcorn bits, junk, empty cups, mostly empty cups, popcorn bags and other indistinguishable plastics tossed at the Marauder and hit Madeleine by proxy. Personalized profanity dropped like fifty-two pick-up, slurred between blips of encouragement in this angered mood. Bless ringside security.

Angelina yanked Madeleine to her swollen knees after one more rabbit kick, kneeled behind them and grabbed her face from both sides, then leaned in. “Now crawl back so I can end ya.” Or be counted out. Bitch-out, really.

Her tongue flicked their earlobe, then she threw their head towards the anti-pirate mob and rolled away, beneath the ring apron.

SEVEN!

When Angelina emerged, she had a curious something behind her back. Strap on. Red as the purest scarlet, with black straps tailored by the finest gunpowder. She hopped up, laid on the apron and rolled under the bottom rope. After two rolls, she stretched on her side. An elbow jutted down and a fist propped up her head. The straps sat on her index finger and she made it her hula hoop. Waiting.

[Malkavia]

The first two collisions between Angelina's boot and the back of Madeleine's head had been fireworks. Then something in her head went pop, and the teeth that had sunk into her lips slipped loose as her jaw went slack. A strange taste forked down the middle of her tongue. It was metallic, medicinal, and made her think of smells she associated with strong detergents. The world spun.

By the time Angelina ripped Madeleine to her feet, the kicks had become flashes of light, like lightning throwing the world into high contrast. The Countess stumbled like a drunkard as the Marauder held her upright. The wet feeling of the pirate's tongue on her ear made Madeleine nearly swallow her tongue.

”Gyuh...”

Drool dripped a line from Madeleine's open lips down to her chin. Somewhere behind that skull, Madeleine was still yanking at the reins, but one or three rabbit kicks too many had momentarily fried the controls. When pushed, she went stumbling back-first into the barricade, hitting the steel between two security guards, where she fell on her tailbone. As soon as she was down, she choked, grabbed the barricade, and tried to push up—but her foot slipped.

SEVEN!

Count to...count...count to ten. Simple thoughts were slow to form. No don't count! You only have three left!! The world wasn't just spinning, like a top; it was tilting like a gyroscope. Her hair, mussed without a tiara to hold it in place, fell like a frayed rug in her face.

She felt pressure under her armpits, a hard jab on the right, then a rough tug on the left.

She rose, in spite of her knee, found herself on her feet, swayed hard to the left, was going to fall—but something caught her and pulled her back. Madeleine blinked and realized there bodies on either side of her. On the left, there was a black man with a shaved head wearing thin glasses and a shirt advertising what she assumed from its gothic logo was probably a metal band. On the right—codswaddle, and the blonde woman with the red skirt. Somehow she'd made it to the barricade. Even in her loopy state, she felt an urge to meet their eyes, to try and capture their image in her mind. Remember them—remember me.

EIGHT!

With the steel barrier between them and Madeleine, their hands were on their shoulder, and behind them waited the weight of a larger crowd. She grabbed Codswaddle's head, squeezed him for comfort, then rested her hand on the barricade.

”P-push me on three, one-two...” She forced her vision, bleery as it was, to focus on the bottom rope. ”Thnng—Three!” As the guard heaved back on the crowd, the fans gave a shove, and she sprinted wildly from barricade to ring. She went full gallop.

NINE!

The upper half of her body exploded, then shrunk to a pin, and her legs pumped, and she swayed clumsily enough to make the crowd hold its breath and wait for her to tumble, but she caught the rope, leapt, rolled, and dived into the agony that would be her knee—just in time to roll onto the mat before TEN could count her out.

[Monsy]

What exactly happens at ten? Only Pirate Jesus knew that. Girl looked half broken from this distance. Her small frame only peeked over the apron lip near the end, where she saw arms reach and a general rally of concern, prying away from the Marauder to the Countess. She puckered her lips. Doubts were rampant. There was still no damn way they’d be able to walk if that’s what they needed to stand. Help.

She got a glimpse of that focus. It didn’t seem like it was on her. But, Angelina’s attention was. At all times, from looking at those swollen knees to the almost death-defying sprint, likely stabbing her own swollen tendon with bone and aggravated nerve. Into the ring they went. Angelina’s head dipped and suddenly sighed. It was partially a laugh, seen when she flipped her hair back, smiled duplicitously and looked at them sprawl. The referee called the match to continue. Her arm went up and slapped her naked thigh.

Her eyes rolled. "I didn't think rich girls could be so damn stubborn. Don't ya just wanna run home to whoevah mommy and daddy is? Get me fired, suspended or whatevah? What's even in it for ya. Fuck. Actually, don't answer that. Doesn't mattah."

Angelina had twirled the strap to her content, gave it one more spin, then hooked the waist strap with an index. Then she crawled, slowed by dwindling steam, with laboured movements in her shoulders and dragged knees. She went up from Madeleine's legs, hair down one side into a red waterfall. One hand postured by Madeleine’s head, right at ear level and on top of blonde strands. The other dangled the red dick over Madeleine's face, with small rotations back and forth. Its shadow loomed large. “Now take a good look. A very, very good look. Because when this bell rings, it's disappearin' inside ya.”

Angelina talked while she opened her legs, lowered her hips and took a naked seat on Madeleine’s stomach. A hand coursed up their midriff, between her breasts to the collarbone and clutched the neck. She squeezed the sides and pushed down. "Like magic."

The referee slid in. They knew what to do, and the crowd now hated it. “ONE!”

[Malkavia]

Angelina's face hung not far from Madeleine's. In spite of the match's wear and tear, she was still a beautiful young woman with healthy, thick hair and smooth skin. Her weight was firm on Madeleine's chest but belied a delicate body. Madeleine's eyes turned, exhausted, towards the small, nearly naked human on top of her and swept over her. They paused briefly on the strap-on before turning to Angelina.

"ONE!

The Countess opened her mouth a moment before she began to speak. Something in Madeleine hardened, focusing from the fragmented distractions on speaking with clear, clipped lightness. ”You're what's in it for me, my lovely pet.”

"TWO!"

As Madeleine kicked, then rolled, a poisonous expression passed over Countess's face ― not anger, not fear. Disgust. ”I'm sure you'd like for me to say that.” Pain arced. Her knee felt like the twisted hook on a barbed wire line was being drawn on a fishing line through a curved path underneath her kneecap. She cringed and clenched her fists.

Throughout her cringing, Madeleine held an eye on the grip the vermin held on the strapon. Angelina seemed to thrive on degradation, and the silicone cock was both a reminder and a threat. However, it also meant Angelina's hand was occupied. Out of position, off-guard. Madeleine fired a single, piston-like punch. The target was the right side of her pale, pretty tummy, the bit of skin that formed a few inches of protection over her liver. If Madeleine hit fast enough, the muscle would be loose, leaving little protection for one of the body's most delicate essential organs. It would be agony, deliciously painful, and as clean as a handshake.

[Monsy]

The purple lump on Madeleine’s jaw looked like a challenge. Squeeze that shit, see how much it takes for it to pop. It would be a submission of its own, and an experiment to see what tapped first. Loss by bruise squeeze would be a helluva way to go.

Beating Madeleine as they are was much better, though. Too many cuts, bumps and bruises would hurt the fun.. Whereas keeping that clear skin, shape and emotion slick across that contemptuous face would make tonight, with how she envisioned it in her head, that much bettah. And by the count of three, it would be all hers. To blindfold, gag, pinch, kiss, squeeze and bite. A whole person to herself.

Kickout. That was fine. Tots fine. What annoyed her more was the honey she tossed on before doing so. My lovely pet. In an instant, squeezing their bruises now became much more appealing. The thought of coddling down after coming this far: wouldn’t dream of it.

Angelina had a small buck, with her hips moved by Madeleine’s force, rolled forward, then slid back to their naval. Her palm on the ground became a standing index, pressed for light balance until she sat up and had to comb her hair back again. “That ship has sunk.” She replied coldly, then prepped to shove the whole dick down her throat.

First, she’d press the tip right against her cheek bone, push and twist. It wouldn’t hurt, but it made her feel good. Same with grabbing their hair and squeezing it. “Listen--” Her next syllable became a spit babble and melted into a short, breath-taken squeal. Her eyes reflexed wide, mouth gasped, and the skin rippled. Her body shook from the the sudden force. Her body curved to one side and she held it with crossed forearms. Instead of rolling off, Angelina more-so deactivated and slumped. She hit the canvas awkwardly with her shoulder, then the far leg dragged and retracted, piled on her near leg.

Her lower-rip shivered as she felt sick. Light. The type where her consciousness was strings and she was shutting down. Just like how Huan finished her off.

But she remained in this half-stupor. The burning feeling spread up and down her whole side, across her gut and down her leg. She babbled out spit when she made a gasp. Her face remained scrunched up, with wrinkly eyelids and twitching cheeks. Her legs doggy paddled on the ground, toes curling, flexing. Her hands came into her chest, folded fingers like a palm-strike form, with an elbow against her liver, guarded, while the second tucked across her bruised belly. She mouthed the words ow over and over, whined in a high octave and sucked in deep, then released.