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

[BlackAkuma]

Asp went into panic mode as Safiyah’s arm close in her throat, tightening with all the comfort and subtlety of a noose. It was simply the power in those arms, but the way she applied the hold, closing the loop with a mechanical, inhuman precision. There was no give, no mercy, no relief. She closed her arm as much as she could, letting not a single inch slip away.

Asp’s hands came up and pulled at the grip, futily prying at her arm, but she might as well have tried bending iron. If anything, it seemed to make Safiyah’s hold even more implacable, as her legs closed around her taut waist with a possessive tightness.

Couldn't move. Couldn't fight. Could barely even struggle.

Asp found for every breath, slipping in as much as she could as her world began to grow hazy. She could feel Safiyah’s hand traveling across her body, and for a moment she thought the woman might be making some attempt at intimacy - no such thing. Instead, she turned her own garment against her, pulling it tight against her flesh, making the fabric bite at her skin.

Asp needed to get out of this, needed relief, but her options were limited…or so she thought, until she remembered the nature of this match, what had spurred it on in the first place. Until she remembered her time in the hospital, her scars. It was time she gave something back.

Asp reached down, curled her fingers, and raked her nails across the bare skin on Safiyah’s left thigh, clawing at her like a wild animal.

[Lightman]

The beauty of the Rear Naked Choke wasn’t in the violence. It was in the inevitability.

Safiyah held Asp in a coil so complete, so absolute, that it no longer felt like a hold. It was ownership. A cold, tightening promise. Her forearm pressed deep beneath Asp’s chin, her biceps sealed tight against her own wrist, and with every breath Asp failed to take, the hold cinched itself tighter—not just on her throat, but around her pride. There was nothing frantic in Safiyah’s control. No rush. No wildness. Just the serene confidence of a woman who knew she had shut the door, drawn the curtain, and locked her opponent in with her.

Asp’s attempts to pry her off were admirable—furious, clawing, human—but they were the actions of a woman who hadn’t yet accepted the shape of her defeat. The way her fingers scrambled across Safiyah’s arm, finding nothing to weaken, nothing to break. The way her waist twisted in the suffocating loop of Safiyah’s legs, the flexing thighs crushing with steady precision, not rage. And all the while, Safiyah breathed slowly. She let her weight sag just enough to remind Asp that gravity was no longer her ally. Let the warmth of her body spread like a net, denying space, stealing leverage. And then came the final twist—the cruel adjustment. She pulled the fabric of Asp’s top tighter still, contorting the garment into a cutting edge, letting it bite into sweat-slicked skin. Another theft of comfort. No moan. No whisper. Just pressure.

But then—pain. Sharp. Sudden. Real.

The nails sank into the meat of her thigh, dragging across dark skin like a rake through dry earth. It wasn’t elegant, nor was it tactical. It was raw, the kind of survival instinct from beneath thought. It stung. Badly. The pain bloomed in a hot line, nerve endings flaring with fury. A mark. A warning.

Safiyah’s eyes narrowed. A yelp that turned into a growl. Her body shifted.

The choke didn’t snap free. Not yet. Instead, she rolled her hips downward, keeping Asp crushed beneath her long enough to reclaim the breath stolen by those claws—and then, without ceremony, her heel fired up. It wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t aimed to please. It was brutal, direct, and it landed between Asp’s legs with pinpoint cruelty—a calculated violation delivered not in lust, but in retaliation.

Then—and only then—she would let go. The choke uncoiling with the grace of silk being unwrapped from a throat, and Safiyah pushed Asp away from her body, the same way one might toss aside a blade that had cut too close. Her breathing was still measured, but her gaze had sharpened, glinting now with something closer to ire.

[BlackAkuma]

No one could ever know how much willpower it took for Asp to dig her claws into Safiyah’s skin. Even with all the animosity that she had built towards the woman, she still regarded her as a true beauty, a perfect visual of sensual superiority. She had a deep, abiding love for the female form, both from her attraction to it and from her profession as a dancer, and the idea of marking it, maring it, doing anything that could give it permanent damage, almost amounted to blasphemy in her eyes. It was an act she would not have even contemplated a month ago.

And yet, here she was. The Fire Wyrm would do what the Water Serpent could not.

She took some comfort in knowing that, if the roles were reversed, Safiyah would’ve done the same, if not worse, to her. This was the woman who had cheapshotted her twice, after all, and beaten her to a bloody pulp - fair play was out of the wind, and pretending like it was would only handicap her.

Her rebellion earned her a yelp from Safiyah. Not much, but a sound she was happy to hear, even as the grip around her throat held strong.

She knew there would be some payback for her pound of flesh, though even she was surprised by how immediate it was. Safiyah’s foot struck between her legs and drove home like a lightning bolt, sending shocks throughout her entire body - if Asp had the air to scream, she would’ve.

For better or worse, her clawing was enough to earn her freedom, as Safiyah tossed Asp away a moment later and sent her rolling off. She wasn’t left in any position to enjoy it, however, as she was far too busy reaching between her legs and hissing, nursing the battered area. Nothing permanent - she hoped - but it would sting for the rest of the match, and likely the rest of the week.

Push past the pain. Ignore it. She gripped the ropes with one and pulled her way up, rising as fast as she could manage. Safiyah would be on her soon, and she didn't intend to be lying down when she arrived, at the least.

[Lightman]

Safiyah could feel the sting where Asp’s nails had raked across her thigh, thin lines burning like fresh sigils in the flesh. They weren’t deep. They wouldn’t scar. But they marked her all the same. Not just physically, but symbolically. Asp had crossed a line that even Safiyah had never quite expected her to breach—not because she doubted the woman’s ruthlessness, but because she knew how much reverence Asp held for the beauty of the body. Especially hers.

That told Safiyah everything she needed to know about who she was fighting now. This wasn’t the same woman she’d tangled with weeks ago. This wasn’t the playful, sultry serpent who stole kisses mid-hold and danced on the knife’s edge of pain and pleasure. That version of Asp had burned away in the fire of their fallout. The woman before her now was willing to sin to survive.

Good. Because Safiyah wasn’t here for mercy.

She rose gracefully, one hand brushing the tender lines on her leg with a featherlight touch. Her expression never changed. No hiss. No wince. Just a cold, assessing gaze as she watched Asp retreat across the mat, wounded but upright, dragging herself toward the ropes like a soldier crawling from a crater.

Safiyah stalked. Measured. Quiet. Deadly. She didn’t charge in recklessly. That wasn’t her style. But she closed in, giving Asp just enough space to rise, just enough time to think she could re-centre herself. Let her find the ropes. Let her lean on them. It made her easier to strike.

And Safiyah was already in motion.

She dashed forward with surgical speed, one hand catching the middle rope, the other snapping out to guide her pivot. Her body curved around it, swinging with sinuous grace as her legs snapped into motion—one after another, a blur of gold and white and fury. All to aim right at the fact of the Fire Wyrm with the Tiger Feint Kick.

[BlackAkuma]

Getting used to pain had been one of the biggest hurdles Asp faced in her genesis as a wrestler, and it still was in so many ways. For years, the most excruciating experience she had ever gone through a small car accident that had resulted in a dislocated shoulder. At the time, she had thought it was as painful an experience as a human being could ever endure, but her time in law taught her differently. There were so many different kinds of pain, so many ways to experience it, and it felt like she learned more about her ability to endure every time she stepped between the ropes.

More importantly, she was learning how to push past it. Pain was ephemeral, passing, all in the mind. She could force it out and continue to function, but it wasn’t a skill that came easily to her. Yet, as she wallowed on the floor, she needed it more than ever - Safiyah was already coming.

Asp eyed the woman approaching her from the side. Her movements were slow, but measured. Calm. Collected. Even mechanical. She doubted they would say that way, however. The woman reminded her of viper poised to strike, measuring her, waiting as she rose, waiting for the right moment.

There.

Asp was almost standing when Safiyah moved in, dashing towards her with rushing steps - or, more accurately, rushing to her side, going through the rops. A tiger feint kick, she recognized the move, but knowing what was coming and doing anything about it were two wildly different things. She was too slow to dodge it just now, which meant there was no way around the inevitable - she was taking it.

But she would do so on her terms. Asp pushed on the ropes and rose up, enough for her to take the kick on her chest instead of her face. Not pleasant, it drove all the wind out of her, but she remained standing and had enough energy to wrap her arms around her opponent’s legs, holding her horizontally between the ropes for an awkward moment. It wouldn’t be elegant, it wasn’t going to be pretty, but she put her all into taking advantage of the moment - she lashed out, throwing a quick jab at Safiyah’s face with her free hand, then pushed forward and tried to shove her out of the ring, hoping to dump her out of the ring for a nasty fall.

[Lightman]

Safiyah’s heel struck with surgical precision, folding into the echo of flesh against flesh, but it lacked the satisfying recoil she’d anticipated. She could feel it immediately—not in the impact, but in what followed. The resistance wasn’t right. Too firm. Too grounded. Asp had absorbed the blow, taken it on her own terms, as if bracing herself against the worst and surviving just to spite it. That was new.

In their last encounter, Asp would have flinched. She would’ve faltered, crumpled like smoke under pressure. But this new form, this Fire Wyrm, had learned something vital in her evolution: how to let pain in without letting it take over.

Safiyah felt the shift before she saw it. The arms around her thighs. The lift. The stutter of balance vanishing beneath her feet. She hadn’t expected to be caught.

It was a precarious hold—clumsy, lopsided, not quite a slam setup, not quite a full lift—but it was control. For a breath, the ropes suspended Safiyah horizontally, her legs trapped and spine awkwardly curved in mid-air.

Then came the strike. The jab hit sharply across her cheek—glancing, not crushing, but enough to flash white across her vision. Her head jerked to the side, and the momentum that followed was instinctive: the shove, sudden and full-bodied, launched her backward.

The ropes did little to soften it. One moment she was straddling them, the next she was airborne, her legs flailing into open space as gravity claimed her. There was no time for grace. No perfect landing. Just the mat outside rushing up to meet her.

Safiyah twisted mid-air, trying to protect her spine, to take the brunt across her shoulder—but it would still hurt. The fall would shake through every nerve, and the crowd would gasp as her body collided with the floor in an unceremonious sprawl.

Not elegant. Not controlled. But it happened.

And now, for the first time in the match, Safiyah found herself outside the ring. The pain bloomed across her shoulder, a sharp flare dulling into a throb, and her teeth clenched as she pushed a palm to the floor. She wasn’t dazed—but she was rattled. Asp had taken a moment of offense and turned it—not just defensively, but aggressively.

[BlackAkuma]

There would be an ice bag in Asp’s future, she was sure of. While she might’ve been going with the moniker of fiery dragon, she was still very much human, and her very much human body would be in small amount of pain after this match. Once the adrenaline ran out and her heart slowed to a normal pace, she expected that all sorts of injuries would make themselves known, and she wouldn’t be able to move without hurting herself for a while.

But so would Safiyah. Whatever she suffered today, it would be worth it if she could make her suffer just that much more. It was a small, petty, hateful thought, but it drove Asp forward, and she drew on it for strength when she lashed out and threw that punch across her foe’s face.

While Asp specialized in kicking, she had to admit, there was something far more satisfying about landing that punch, even if it didn’t connect as flush as she would’ve liked it. Seeing Safiyah’s reaction definitely played a part, along with the recoil that shot through her arm.

More than anything, though, was what this meant: a turnaround. Safiyah had largely dictated the pace of this match, and this was Asp’s best chance to bring things under her terms.

As much as her body ached for a moment of rest, she knew it wasn’t a luxury she could afford, as she slipped through the ropes and made her way out on the apron. Her first instinct was to follow Safiyah to the floor, but a better idea occurred to her on the way out.

Asp backed up on the apron with her opponent down and reeling, creating some distance between them. The moment Safiyah began to rise, Asp took off like a shot, sprinting along the edge of the ring and jumping off with her knees shooting out, attempting to drive them into her foe’s chest with a Meteora from on high.

[Lightman]

Pain, as a teacher, had few rivals.

Safiyah had known it intimately, long before LAW, long before Asp, long before the bright lights and roaring crowds. But even now, as she lay outside the ring, one palm pressed to the cold mat, shoulder throbbing with the dull echo of her landing, the cold, instructive clarity reminded her of it again. It simplified everything. Removed distraction. Sharpened the world to a single point: get up.

So she did.

Slowly, deliberately, her long frame unfolded from the floor. Her expression remained a mask, impassive as ever, but beneath it, her mind tracked data: breathing pattern, limb response, spinal rotation. All intact. Sore, but intact.

Asp’s punch had landed. It hadn’t been perfect—but it had meant something. The power behind it wasn’t just in the impact. It was in the momentum it carried. For the first time in the match, Safiyah had not only fallen, but stayed down long enough to be followed. Long enough for Asp to press the advantage. The taste of the shift lingered on her tongue like copper.

She lifted her eyes...and saw fire flying.

Asp was already midair. There was no wasted movement in the flight. She was graceful and brutal in equal measure, a streak of power and poise leaping from the apron with both knees pointed straight down. A Meteora. Not just a high-impact manoeuvre, but one designed for devastation.

Safiyah braced, but the human body could only prepare for so much.

The knees slammed into her chest, full force. It was a car crash in slow motion—the air blasted from her lungs, her ribs folding under the pressure, her back snapping against the floor with a percussive crack that rang through the arena. Her world compressed into a single burst of white. No poetry. No elegance. Just impact.

Her body twitched, recoiled, folded—arms instinctively wrapping around her torso as she curled onto her side, drawing in short, ragged breaths. Her jaw clenched, brows pinched, and her legs kicked out once on instinct before falling still, spread across the thin layer of ringside padding.

[BlackAkuma]

There was an element of risk to a move like this, one that Asp was acutely aware of. Despite having a frame and body that would lend itself to ‘high-flying’, Asp rarely indulged in such things. She had heard horror stories of wrestlers who did such things regularly, and while she could respect such acts of daring, they were never anything she would dare to try. She valued her body too much to put it through such an unnecessary test, especially when she had plenty of moves that could accomplish such things without issue.

Moves like that were something she would only go to for special occasions, and she could hardly imagine a more special occasion than this. With Safiyah down and vulnerable, this was a rare opportunity, one that Asp needed to make the most of. A chance like this might not come again for a good while, and so she needed to hit her with something strong. Impactful.

The Meteora fit the bill. Asp flew through the air, knees extended, and the look on Safiyah’s face would’ve made the effort worth it, even if she had managed to dodge. Which she didn’t, thankfully. Her weight came crashing down on her opponent’s ample chest, flattening her and driving all the air out of her body. For her part, she rolled away from the impact and narrowly avoided clipping her legs on the steel steps, as the crowd voiced their raucous approval.

Asp pushed her way up to her feet, using the apron for support, and turned about to see Safiyah laid out and stunned. Her first instinct was to mount the woman and rain down punches, as she had done during that hellacious beating, some manner of penance for the atrocity. She might very well get to do that…later. For now, she had a match to win, and she needed to focus on doing that.

That wasn’t to say she couldn't get some small manner of revenge, but she needed to do so in a way that brought her closer to winning.

The idea struck her like lightning. She moved in and descended on her fallen foe, straddling Safiyah’s face as the woman had done to her in their last encounter, mounting it and letting her full weight spread over her while her legs closed around her skull. At the same time, she reached down and tried to slide two fingers into the woman’s new outfit, searching for the best angle to begin her plunder.

Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, orgasm for an orgasm. It was a start.

[Lightman]

Impact wasn’t supposed to linger.

She had conditioned herself for it—trained her mind to flatten pain into nothing more than a passing disruption, just another input to process, adjust, and move forward from. But as she lay there, ribs aching, chest still compressed from Asp’s falling weight, Safiyah felt something unfamiliar settling in the pit of her gut: not just pain… but inertia.

The Meteora had landed flush. A perfect connection. Her lungs refused to cooperate. Her limbs were slow to answer. She knew, rationally, that this would pass—but the moment stretched longer than it should have. Her body didn’t move when she asked it to. Not yet. And Asp knew it.

Safiyah sensed the shift before she saw it—the ripple in the crowd, the sudden rush of air as Asp repositioned herself. She knew the story that was being rewritten here. It was in the way Asp approached, in the way she descended, the rhythm reversed from the memory that still lived behind her eyes.

And then Asp mounted her face.

The heat from her thighs enveloped Safiyah’s head, her hips pressing down with deliberate weight, her presence commanding. The pressure wasn’t just physical—it was symbolic. Safiyah had done this to her. She remembered the way Asp had moaned beneath her, how she’d struggled not to enjoy it, how power had slid between their bodies like oil and flame.

Now, the wyrm was on top. Safiyah’s breathing shortened beneath the smother, the softness of Asp’s form an almost cruel contrast to the sharpness of her intent. Then she felt it—fingers, deft and exploring, seeking an entrance not born of desire but retribution. They ghosted across the front of her new attire, hunting for the vulnerable edge, the soft spot where leverage turned to surrender.

And in that flicker of contact, that subtle invasion, Safiyah felt something else rise through the haze.

Rage. Not loud. Not explosive. Not even visible to the crowd yet. But boiling.

Her legs twitched beneath Asp’s weight. Her hands, pinned between her own body and the floor, curled into slow fists. She didn’t scream. Didn’t buck wildly. Not yet. But there was a promise in the way her body began to tighten—muscle by muscle, breath by breath. A snake gathering tension, not to strike blindly, but to crush.

The indignity. The reversal. It was personal now.