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

[Malkavia]

The canvas was sticky on Madeleine's back, clinging to her skin as she fell backwards onto her shoulders.The crowd gave a whoop, which was the second sign her punch had landed home, right after the thud against her knuckles. As Angelina curled up and began to whine, Madeleine watched her out of the corner of her eyes while she caught her breath.

”No.” The Countess closed her eyes, serene as she took a deep breath. ”Actually, I think that boat is sitting snug and safe in a quiet, private little harbor."

The Countess sighed. She opened her eyes and rolled onto her side, where she sat with her knees and palms on the mat. Her knee was still prickly, and she rested it gingerly, but it withstood her weight. All the while, she kept her eyes on the vermin. ”You can pretend the sweet thing I held in my arms was a trick if you like, though. Frankly, at this point, I don't give a damn. Be a child if you want. Be a rat.”

The strap lay on the mat, its silicone tip curled upward. She could see her reflection in its gleaming edge...nothing in much detail, but the fuzzy outline of her hair. She ran her hands through the blonde mess and threw it over her shoulders. Inadequate, but—in a way, this was a case where the effort is what mattered. Once the hair was settled, she slipped her hand around the base of the strap's dildo and stood. It was a slow, creaking path to her full height. Then she stood over Angelina, wiped the sweat off her forehead, and looked down.

”Fight harder, dirtier, meaner. None of it makes a difference when I find the right button to press, because deep down, this...soft little thing is the real you.” Madeleine's eyes were hard, her head cocked to one side. She slipped her free thumb under the black leather strap Angelina had secured around her neck, tugged it loose, and tossed it at her opponent. ”Now I'm going to let you get up. And then I'll allow you to tell everyone what you are.” Madeleine bent her hip, and though it was stiff, muscle memory let her slip, dominant fist forward, back into her forward guard.

[Monsy]

She writhed like she was stuck to the floor, on some stake, where she could only wiggle and breathe. Gags mixed in, where she lurched on reflex, got more glassy in her eyes, drooled away her focus into a pool and put more conscious effort into keeping it down, and keeping herself awake than what Madeleine was up to. Her lower-lip rolled in, she sighed, veered towards tears as Madeleine went on and on about being sweet, a rat, a child. A soft little thing. The kind of reaction where being asked if you were alright after a fall suddenly brought on waterworks. It cuts. She shut her eyes and did her fuckin’ damnest to still herself. Get her shit together. Steady the fuckin’ boat.

She ate so much worse before. The fact she was still catching insults like these, reacting like this and feeling naked in a way that burned her cheeks. She hated the feeling of non-progress. It just took something extra to sedate it. A little hiccup in her now quiet voice. She peeped out with a squinted stare, tightening them at points they felt like goo, breathed out her nose, slower, forcibly, then wrinkled up something closer to a strained smile. “Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”

Angelina mumbled it, rolled onto her tummy and immediately shrivelled up so her naked hips backed up into the air, and an arm went across the naval. Her second pressed down, and she continued mumbling. “Fuck you. Fuck you so hard. Weasel. Whore. Slut. Fuckin’ dog.” A hiss came out from clenched teeth. She rose some more, onto all fours, minus one arm. Her functional knees did the rest in pushing her up, where the nigh-naked Marauder stood in front of the otherwise clothed Countess. The hair in front of her eyes was a curtain to hide. Her face had begun steaming into a pink hue, just like the lace she wore.

“Allow me? How about ya make me.” Her upper-lip stiffened, and she threw her shot. . . . Spat it, actually, aimed at Madeleine’s eye with a lurch. Then, a follow-up, quick as you like. A full-powered slap aimed at the same side she shot her saliva at.

[Malkavia]

The more Angelina shouted, the more a smile settled behind Madeleine's eyes. The Countess stayed light on her feet, bouncing on the balls of her feet while she held her hands at waist height. La Garde Basse. The low guard provided little protection for her face, but it would place her in the optimal position to intercept any kicks the Marauder chose to throw, and besides. It kept her face where others could see it. Without a strap hanging in front of it.

Once Angelina was on her feet, Madeleine's chin lowered, her eyes narrowed. Padum badum. Her heels smacked the mat lightly as she kept her tempo mobile. Each bounce sent a low, hot ripple through her knee, but the more she stretched the joint, the less critical that felt. She was naked around her waist, but an advantage of using a dress for gear was from this vantage, no one could tell. Unless she bounced a bit too high, and she was nothing if not precise.

Angelina's gob of spit arced towards Madeleine. She shifted her weight, just slightly, and it landed on her cheek, not long before the CRACK. Angelina's hand slammed against her cheek. Her skin rippled, pain erupted, and her smile dimmed.

Although the low guard offered less direct protection for the head, it still only took a quick snap to clap her right, dominant hand around Angie's arm, securing first the wrist. Madeleine's nose felt swollen, and she knew it must have been bruised and still smeared with blood. As she held the Marauder's hand against her face, the reverberations of that slap ached in her snout. Where to go from here? An array of options dropped down in the back of her mind, locks for the wrist and for the elbow, for standing and for dropped.

Madeleine breathed and stepped back. Angelina's fingers brushed her cheek, taking with them some of the moisture of the spit. Then Madeleine leaned forward, eyes locked on Angelina's, and planted a kiss on the the back of her hand.

[Monsy]

The once visible route into Madeleine’s head mended. She closed up, somehow, and began twisting into a different avenue. They were meant to be past this phase. Past any pleasantry or kindness, mercy or even a front. Kick me, punch me, insult me, fuck me. But don’t call me soft. It was the only thing she thought about when she spat and then slapped.

She could tell herself that this was tactical, with Madeleine primed to fight like a professional, this would be the exclaiming screw you. That was a lie. Angelina was exposed, clothing and stance wise. Her knees were stiff, back was stiff and shoulders stiff. She wanted to make herself a mechanical hammer with that slap, and sacrificed almost everything else. To look strong and postured. Taller, even if no one could really see it.

What she received in return was enough to make her body twitch back. Shivers went into her arm and torso, and she gave an initial pull but found no leeway. There was a reactive squeak in her throat, and she buried it. Her face flicked on, brighter, with a nose twitch and increasing pink to a growing red. She bit her cheek, stared back, then buckled and looked down, bashful and angry at the same time, with now more hair over her eyes. Funny, she was usually one to elicit this reaction. “S...Stop that…”

Angelina turned her wrist and tried to latch onto Madeleine’s forearm. Then, she yanked again, and sprung forward, off her feet and aimed to send a knee directly into Madeleine’s stomach.

[Malkavia]

The Countess slipped her fingers around Angelina's wrist and then held tight. She made every effort to hide it, but that grip did more than open up offensive options. With her head still spinning and pulsing red, the grip helped keep her upright. It was tactical weakness—but. Poor, sweet rat. Angelina didn't seem to notice. She was too busy examining their feet. Plus ça change.

When Angelina finally lashed out with a kick, la garde basse did its job. Madeleine instinctively raised her off-hand to intercept the kick, quick and natural as breathing. Perfection, except for the strep she held. The Marauder's knee met the back of the dildo like a bullseye. The rubber was stiff, unyielding, and directed the force of the kick deep into her tummy. Her abs clenched.

Even so, it was critical to keep the nausea and the pain and the sway in her balance buried. Rather than drop the strap immediately, she paused for a beat, then tossed it, casually, to the side as she took a step backwards. Her face remained stony. She barely blinked. The whole while, she stared at Angelina, allowing all the hot bile that had accumulated to burn in her gut, motivation as strong as reinforced steel to keep her face soft and lovely.

They took one step backwards, then two, then three, and the ropes pressed cool against Madeleine's back. Her off-hand shot upwards, aiming to capture Angelina's other wrist. Her eyes were as cold as her kiss had been sweet, and they offered a challenge as they narrowed: let's see those sweet little claws, shall we?

[Monsy]

Good, but not great. They needed to wheeze, melt, mewl, scream -- every reaction she imagined herself if she took that blow, times by ten. So when she hit the ground, she grabbed their shoulder, shoved it back like a piece of revolting worn clothing, then brought herself in to knee again. Their stomach. Their guard. The fuckin’ dick for all she cared. She went for it, making an OOSH for every blow.

Whether she felt tired was irrelevant. She just kept coming and coming, invigorated by their unmoving face, and the growing heat on her own. But exhaustion would creep through her bones and muscles. It filled her up like water, from the toes and up the legs, making them hard to lift. Her breathing grew more unsteady, until she couldn’t keep the panting down.

They were on the ropes by then. Angelina leaned against them, and smothered them against the ropes with her almost-naked body, from chest to abdomen to pelvis, pressed together as the ropes curved around Madeleine’s back. Her arm was loose and jiggly. Her forehead was against their collar, where she padded them in warm, quick breaths.

Push. Fuckin’ push. Seeing them still looking like that, directly into her, was twisting up her neck into something too stiff and it felt utterly demeaning. There’s an empty feeling in her chest, a particular rush in her heart. The kind that strikes when jumpscared. Her face buckled under that, with shock prying her eyes wide and her mouth to hang slightly open. She inhaled sharply through her nose, which wrinkled, and she growled. And after she latched onto Madeleine’s second forearm, she jumped, fell to her back, pressed her feet against their hips and then pushed with all the wind in her sails.

[Malkavia]

The tactical advantages of defensive play were twofold: One, it gave the Countess time to soak up some fuel, to get used to putting weight on her knee, to shake the red haze from her head. Two, if her opponent decided to wail on the guard, it would drain her just as quick.

From a strategic standpoint, that brought all kinds of benefits. A sluggish opponent, weaker strikes, looser defenses—but the biggest thing was the slip. After all that thundering on the Countess's guard, hard enough to make her arm and hands numb, here came the Marauder's cheek on Madeleine's collar. Her breath was hot and wet on Madeleine's back, her naked body damp. Madeleine could feel her shake with every breath. Then their eyes met, and Madeleine's cheerful expression said all there was to say.

The fun part was tracing the emotion as it traveled through the vermin. First came the flush in her face, then her lips, which were already open, widened. If only our sweet could see the way her eyes pop when she's angry. It should have been hard to top, but then she gave that little anger-purr in her throat. The part of Madeleine that wanted to melt twisted in its cage.

Angelina's heels dug into the Countess's hips, and now the two of them had become one extremely top-heavy tower, rolling forward. Angelina's back hit the mat first, becoming a pivot around which Madeleine would continue to roll. As she arced in the air, her hair sailed in the wind, caught the light, gleamed, and her instincts told her this was just like a somersault—just roll into it. So she did, landed on her heels, and found herself tearing across the mat towards the ropes at the opposite end of the ring.

[Monsy]

She figured, at some point, they’d rebut. Say something. That little venomous blip of sugary degradation, coated in nicknames of some kind. Whatever made her puny. It was her line of thought that the pressure could keep it corked. It did, until she was spent, caught staring and glimpsed that smile, turning her sour.

New plan: get free. Easy enough, she told herself, thinking of her caught wrists. The twin capture didn’t go unnoticed. It just took her two moments to decide what to do about it. The answer: do what she did best. Air time, from using a move she’d only used once before in practice, to the explosive kip-up that tried to replicate her early, clothed, undesperate self.

A hand nursed her cranium, and she peeped out one eye, looking at the corner without a second thought. She ran, charged, sprinted and jumped. The way she hit the second turnbuckle pad jarred her knee and hip into a huge nerve pinch. In a way that tried smashing them all together, tibia, femur and pelvis. Discipline carried her the final step, with her back already arched, she stepped to the top on its forward face, then jumped into a moonsault form.

Her arms self-enveloped and she twisted, flipped and had her heel primed into the air, soared from the east to west coast, zoned into moonkicking Madeleine on her crownless crown. Queen Ann’s Mortar.

[Malkavia]

Madeleine was running towards the ropes, Angelina at her back. It's a lightning glance at the audience. She can still pick out now-familiar familiar faces, whose expressions are wide-eyed and tight-jawed. They're springs, wound up and ready to jump when the climax drops.

Then the Countess spun around. Her back pressed into the ropes, which sent her hurtling in the opposite direction...just in time to see Angelina kip to her feet. Madeleine's eyes narrowed when Angelina reached the turnbuckle, leaped to the second rope, and spun. Madeleine had been told stories about Angelina, stories about magical feats festooned with glittering violet jewels and crimson flames ― all of which she took with a grain of salgt. But when she watched the pirate's naked body twist high in the air, reflecting the ring-lights' diamond glow, she couldn't suppress a bitter, envious taste.

For all that, however, Madeleine had been prey to this game once already ― the pirate's mid-air reversal on a turnbuckle, flipped into a kick. She saw it an instant before it happened and accelerated. She caught Angelina just as jumped off the turnbuckle, blonde head crashing into the naked tummy. The kick unfolded over her shoulder and slammed into her back. The impact shook her, and her breath caught in her lungs as she bit down on the pain. Next, she shot up her hands to grip Angelina's waist, as the weight of her opponent settled onto her shoulders and Angelina's groin pressed against Madeleine's face, redolent with her bittersweet smell.

As the pirate settled on Madeleine's shoulders, she felt pain in her knee. It was a sharp piece of gravel in the join. Red, not yet white, a warning from her body not to push that grew hotter each instant. Her face turned red. Another fresh sheen of sweat beaded on her forehead.

But her knee held firm, and for a lightning bolt of an instant, every hair on Madeleine's arms stood straight as needles. She felt the the stadium settle on her shoulders. Her knee shook. The gravel in the join turned to glass, and a tremor went through her body, but still she heaved into the motion, wrenching Angelina out of the corner. She stumbled towards center ring, and aimed to lift Angelina off her shoulders and as high into the air as she could manage.

It's alright sweet, she'd think, though sweet was no longer the right moniker. Instead, in the instant before she tried to drop into a sit-out powerbomb, she'd say simply and with a cool if sweat-drenched smile, "It was a good try."

[Monsy]

Moonkicks are hard to nail on standing opponents. Oftentimes, getting the right amount of air and having your leg land on the optimal point made it stupid on neutral ground. The solution: take to the skies. Fuckin’ soar. And so they caught a glimpse, with gunpowder ignited beneath her feet, and the tops, gallants, royals and studs unfurled, the jolly roger blew. The mortar crystalized in a picture-perfect arc. It should’ve been that. A surprise snapped at the right point, where the effort marked at a two became eleven.

It fell on Madeleine’s shoulder. Over, crashed into the back. Angelina mounted their shoulders, pussy to their mouth, though she didn’t internalize that. Sheer abject lip-shivers gripped her. She felt hollow inside her chest, with big-pupils and flushed cheeks. Her heart dangled in that empty rib space, swayed, hit both sides, skipped, stopped, then raced until she was breathing stones. “w-wait…” Her voice had a small squeaky crack, and rendered her inaudible.

The silent wall moved. Angelina had curled into a little ball on their shoulders. Her hands went around Madeleine’s head and held it for leverage, kicking. “madeleine... d-don’t...” Her cat-eyes pleaded. Sure, pull at the heartstrings. Get her talking. Whatever let her worm inside. Truthfully, she didn’t expect them to be capable of doing what she did next. But when she came off the shoulders, she felt her soul curl into the fetal position, then eject when she struck the mat. Air emptied instantly and sputtered out in a high-pitch, sudden and short-lived puff.

Angelina bounced an inch, landed, head snapped back, legs spread over Madeleine’s shoulders. Her arms had flailed above her head, folded into a mess of red hair. In the centre of that mess was Madeleine’s tiara, which had popped off, rolled in a singular circle then crowned the mat. Angelina had closed eye, peeping out the bottom. Her head turned to one side, cheek laying gingerly on the mat. During her long-gone state, her legs and hip gave mini spasms. She moaned in the lowest decibels, and her chest weaved like a desolate shore.