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

[BlackAkuma]

Asp had to concede: this felt good.

Gaining a measure of revenge - finally - no doubt played some small part in it. Asp still remembered this visceral moment, still recalled the fear that had gone through her Safiyah descended on her. She had always hated the sensation of being smothered, even as a child, with the sensation bringing something primal out of her, and when it happened after the match she felt herself slipping into those old terrors. A small, terrified part of her had slipped into that darkness and worried that she might never come out of it, that the officials might not reach them in time to stop something truly horrible…

She would consider it a success if she could bring even a fraction of that fear into Safiyah’s mind. But, just as real, was the feeling of dominance that came over her. Here was a woman that had sought to break her, was still trying to take her apart, and she was being made humble beneath her, trapped in a position of her own making. It was satisfying in a way that Asp had never experienced before, a dominance that she had never indulged.

Most importantly, it was working. The crowd would miss it, but she could feel the tension in Safiyah’s body, as clear a warning as the shake of a rattlesnake’s tail. Rage, real rage, was starting to take hold of her opponent. Those calm waters were beginning to heat.

Good.

The notion only spurred Asp on her further, pushed her to plumb Safiyah’s depths with a greater intensity. Her fingers found their way through the maze of Safiyah’s outfit and eagerly greeted their target, slipping into her foe’s pussy and working away. Slow, at first, but with a steady, rising intensity, as she aimed to push her opponent to greater and greater heights, wanting to score the first - but certainly not last - orgasm of this match. Her thighs tightened and she rocked back, drawing Safiyah’s face even deeper between her cheeks, trying to rob her off all light, all hope.

[Lightman]

There were few things Safiyah loathed, more than being touched like this.

Not the act itself—not the slick press of fingers or the warmth pooling from unwanted friction—but what it represented. Vulnerability. A loss of narrative. A ghost from her past slipping its way between her legs. And now, with Asp atop her, rocking back with the gleeful cruelty of someone rewriting history, Safiyah was being made to relive that failure all over again.

Her breath came in short, muffled bursts against the swell of Asp’s thighs, the weight above her as smothering as the pressure sliding into her from below. She couldn’t see the crowd, couldn’t hear their rising voices over the blood rushing in her ears. What she could hear was the rhythm of Asp’s breath—measured, smug, dominant. Each thrust of her fingers dug deeper, not just into Safiyah’s body, but into her memory.

She remembered other matches—matches where she had let herself feel, let herself lean into the heat and let it drag her down. She remembered what followed. The shaking legs. The cries she’d sworn she wouldn’t make. The final, humiliating fall.

Never again.

She felt the pleasure sparking beneath her skin, rising despite herself, muscles twitching with every wet, coaxing motion of Asp’s fingers. Her thighs clenched, not from climax, but from containment, trying to hold the flood at bay. But it was coming. It was coming too close.

And that was when Safiyah snapped.

The rage didn’t explode like a volcano—it coiled…like the previous moniker she had discarded. She brought her knees up with precision, lacing her shins tight around Asp’s neck and locking them, not in lust but in vengeance. Her calves flexed, thighs compressing, and in one brutal motion, she wrenched Asp backward, rolling onto her side and dragging the woman with her. An inverted position.

Safiyah now laid on her back, legs coiled around Asp’s neck in a tight triangle choke, one foot hooked behind the opposite knee, her hips raised just enough to seal the trap with unrelenting torque. Her hands then returned the favour, slipping between the legs of Asp. It was the very move Asp had used to end their last match. Safiyah remembered it too well. Now, she would return the favour.

Her chest heaved, her face still flushed from the moment Asp had stolen from her—but her gaze was sharp again. Focused. Cold. The rage hadn’t consumed her. It had crystallised. Wasting no time or bothering with the fanfare, those digits burrowed underneath the cloth by force, seeking its target past the folds, just without the sensual flair. As long as pleasure is provided, that’s all that matters.

The message was clear: Asp doesn't control this story. Not anymore.

[BlackAkuma]

When Asp had first joined LAW, she made a few promises to herself. Chief among them was that, while she wouldn’t shy away from sexual exploits, she would prioritize the pleasure of her foes in all things, and never be the sort that crossed the lines from sensuality into barbarism. Sex was a sacred thing to her, and while she wasn’t above using it as a weapon, there was a right way to do that and a wrong. It was something to be shared, something to be enjoyed, not to demoralize, never to destroy.

Yet, here she was, using sex as a tool of psychological warfare. For revenge. To pay Safiyah back for all the indignities she’d heaped on her.

Asp would be lying if she said it wasn’t satisfying.

Faster, faster, faster still. Safiyah was trying to fight it, but the body had a mind of its own. It wanted what it wanted, and it craved her touch. She could feel the telltale signs, the twitches and the spasms, and her breath quickened in anticipation, expecting a moment she had craved for weeks… and that made what came next so much worse.

The transition from quaking helplessness to dangerous speed was intense and instantaneous, with Safiyah’s legs coming up and wrapping around Asp’s body like a steel trap. She found herself on her back, with powerful thighs wrapped around her neck, closing tight and fast. A familiar position. So familiar that she knew what was coming next, though there was little she could do to stop it.

Asp gritted her teeth and bit back a squeal as Safiyah’s fingers fond her folds and began their devilish work, plunging in with mechanical precision. Though it was a sensual act, there was no sensuality behind it. Her foe sought to stimulate, not titillate, foregoing all foreplay and forcing pleasure into her.

And it was working, too well. Asp squirmed and bucked under her ministrations, but if anything that just made her situation worse, driving her against the offending digits. ”Get…off!” She reached up and tried to pull the legs away, but she would’ve had better luck prying apart an actual bear trap, for all the good it did her.

[Lightman]

She could still feel Asp’s fingers.

Even now, with the tide turned, the triangle locked, her thighs crushing with ruthless precision, the ghost of that touch lingered. It sickened her. Infuriated her. Asp had known exactly where to reach, exactly how to press, and the tremors that had started in Safiyah’s core had not yet fully stilled. Her body still remembered, even as her mind rejected it. A cruel trick of biology.

Safiyah’s jaw clenched. She exhaled through her nose in a slow, burning stream. Her fingers found their way to Asp’s inner thighs. However, it's not to tease, not to caress, but to invade. Two digits drove into the same softness that had so arrogantly claimed her moments ago, sliding in with no ceremony, no seduction. She moved with chilling efficiency, knuckles pumping with the rhythm of a machine—not to give, but to take. There was no artistry, no softness. Only purpose.

Asp writhed beneath her, caught in the choke, her head trapped tight between Safiyah’s flexed thighs. The cries she stifled, the gasps she swallowed—it was all sound and struggle that Safiyah absorbed, feeding on the desperation. Even still…The way Asp’s touch had made her feel—even now, it whispered in the background of her mind, a flicker of heat still burning in the ashes.

Disgusting.

The words rasped out from Asp, but Safiyah didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The answer was in the ever-tightening clamp of her legs, the pulse of her hips with each new thrust, the way she pulled Asp further into a spiral of physical betrayal. She wanted this fight. She made it dirty. Now she can burn in it—

“One! Two!”

The referee’s voice pierced through the moment, clear and sharp, and Safiyah’s eyes flared. She’d been so locked in—so absorbed in reclaiming the narrative—that she’d ignored where they were. The outside. The rules. The ticking clock that now threatened to spoil her revenge.

“Three! Four!”

She cursed under her breath, lips tight with fury. The Last Mehit could’ve ended this. She should have. One more minute, even thirty seconds more, and Asp would’ve been broken at both ends. But the count pressed on.

At five, Safiyah released the choke.

The triangle snapped open, and she shoved Asp away like a ruined relic, her hands finding the wild tangle of red hair and yanking it hard, dragging her up without ceremony. She gave no warning before she turned and hurled her foe back under the bottom rope, tossing her into the ring with all the grace of someone discarding a threat—not a woman.

Safiyah followed slowly. No smile. No taunt. Only cold, coiled resolve.

[BlackAkuma]

Safiyah’s eerie silence had not gone unnoticed by Asp, a stark contrast to their last encounter in the ring. Before, she had been warm and inviting, flirtatious and vivacious, a font of come-hither quips and teasing taunts. It was hard to imagine such a personality vanishing in only the course of a few weeks, but that seemed to be the case, and it almost seemed as if an entirely different woman had slipped in Safiyah’s skin, but refused to do anything else to keep up the ruse.

Either that, or this personality was always lurking beneath the woman’s surface, and her loss to Asp had only brought it out. Maybe this was her true nature, and that beautiful, sensual welcoming face was the real mask.

Not that it mattered much at the moment - whatever the reason, it had brought her to the present moment, Safiyah’s legs crushing her throat like a great serpent and her fingers drilling deep into her core. Her own tactic used against her, with agonizing effect. Try as she might to shut out those sensations, there was no denying her arousal, no ignoring the sensation of her captor’s legs or the heat between them. As much as she wanted to loathe this woman on a surface level, there was still some deep, irritating part of her that would always find her attractive and be aroused by her, and that part was making its way to the surface whether she wanted it to or not…

Or it would have, if not for the count. Gods be good.

The referee came to Safiyah’s rescue, starting a count, and Asp could not have been more thankful for it. Of course, her opponent made sure to milk her time for all it was worth, as she would have very well done if the roles had been reversed, but the Fire Wyrm gritted her teeth tight and held on. One second passed, then another, and another, and-

Free. Asp gasped as she was shoved away, then gasped again as her hair was unceremoniously yanked and she was forced to stand, hauled to her feet by the vengeful Safiyah. She put up some token resistance, struggled, but she could scarcely find the oxygen to fill her lung, much less muster any sort of a comeback. She was going where her foe wanted her, and she wanted her back in the ring.

In she came, tumbling under the ropes. She came to a stop a few feet away, then rolled over to her chest and began the arduous task of pushing back to her feet, as she saw Safiyah approaching her. Slow. Cool. Measured steps. The woman was coming after her, but taking her time, not rushing and giving any chance for a mistake. Asp couldn't shake the feeling that she was being dissected.

Whatever the case, it was a fate she didn’t want to meet lying down. She struggled, forcing her way up to a knee, then threw a sluggish, sloppy punch at Safiyah as she neared, desperate to deal some damage or at least make her wary of the approach.

[Lightman]

The warmth had left her long ago.

In truth, Safiyah had felt it drain from her slowly, match by match, moment by moment. With every loss she suffered, each one more brutal than the last, it bled away. The flirtatious glances, the inviting smirks. The velvet purrs that once turned matches into masquerades of seduction and control. All of it had dulled under the weight of failure, unmet expectations and humiliation. With each time she’d fallen short, each time she’d left the ring with her pride cracked and her body aching, something in her cooled. Hardened.

By the time she's now face to face against Asp again, there was nothing left of that woman. Layers of silence and surgical precision buried that Safiyah, the one who teased with her hips and toyed with hearts. In her place stood someone colder, sharper. Someone who didn’t dance, didn’t flirt, didn’t ask for permission to hurt. That woman had died somewhere between the last bell and the mounting defeats that followed it.

The hold had been released. The count had been obeyed. And Safiyah had done what she was required to—no more, no less. But in the way she’d dragged Asp up by her hair, in the way she discarded her into the ring like meat prepared for sacrifice, there was no mistaking her intent. She wasn’t here to perform anymore.

Asp rolled, gasping, her limbs trembling under the strain of pleasure and pain. The damage was cumulative now—slowing her, pulling at the corners of her breath, turning every motion into a struggle. But still she rose. Still, she fought. One knee found the canvas. Then the other. Her spine wavered but straightened. And as Safiyah closed in, methodical and wordless, Asp did the one thing that still mattered:

She struck. A punch. Sloppy, desperate, wide. The form was gone, but the fire remained, buried under bruised skin and laboured breath. It would’ve been easy for Safiyah to lean away, to dodge the blow and punish the opening. But instead, she let it come. Let it strike. Let it land.

Right into an open palm. Like a baseball hitting a mitt.

Safiyah looked down at her opponent as her fingers tightly gripped that fist, really looked. Asp’s hair, wildly ablaze. The sweat, slicking her brow. The fire in her eyes, still smouldering despite everything. Admirable, at best.

Her hand lashed out with the speed of a striking asp, her fingers curling into the roots of Asp’s long, red hair again and yanking her close. Then her knee came up. A sharp, punishing shot aimed straight for Asp’s reconstructed face.

[BlackAkuma]

There was something methodical and haunting about the way Safiyah moved after her, something alarming in her form. Asp prided herself on being able to read body language, a skill she had picked up from her profession as a dancer and her hobby as a people watcher. Yet, she could read absolutely nothing from the woman approaching her. There was only a cold malice to her movements, a mechanical focus bordering on inhumanity.

Asp couldn't shake the feeling that there was something deeply wrong with her, and in spite of herself, she felt a tinge of pity. The softness hadn't burned away entirely, it seemed, but Safiyah had no such difficulties.

Even in her hazed state, Asp had no delusions that her hastily made punch would land. It was pure desperation, a warning flair to try and cover herself, and she would’ve called it successful if Safiyah even flinched. All she craved right now was space.

She wouldn’t get it.

Instead, Safiyah caught her punch and trapped her hand, holding her in place like an unruly child at the store. A poor position, and Asp knew she needed to get out of it. She drew back her arm, prepared to strike-

The knee came flying without preamble, landing in the center of her Asp’s face and shooting her head back at an obscene angle. She let out a wordless cry and fell to knees with her hand still trapped in her foe’s grasp, while her other hand went to her features and massaged them, suffering under the repeated abuse. ”You…you...”

[Lightman]

Like a shadow unmoored from flesh, Safiyah moved with no hesitation or flourish. It felt hollow, as if someone had drained her of the part that once cared about appearances. No heat. No passion. Just the haunting rhythm of a woman who had turned pain into process. She had filed down the sharp edges of her former self into surgical points. And those points did damage to Asp.

The knee came with mechanical precision, snapping upward without warning, crashing into Asp’s face in a sickening, whiplash-inducing arc. Asp dropped. But Safiyah didn’t let go.

The redhead collapsed to her knees, one hand still ensnared, the other clawing at her aching face. She tried to speak, but whatever words followed were drowned in the blow's aftermath. Safiyah heard them, but she didn’t wait for more.

Instead, she stepped forward. Her foot planted harshly against Asp’s face—less a stomp, more a reminder. The sole of her foot pressed against bruised cheek and jaw, firm and humiliating, as she loomed above her rival and finally broke her silence with a single, flat utterance:

“Your flame is smouldering.”

There was no venom in her voice. No rise, no anger. The words, etched in marble and dropped onto a tombstone, conveyed a frigid finality.

Then, without flourish, she pulled Asp up by her arm—slowly, deliberately—until the woman stood before her, barely upright, her breath ragged, her balance thin. Safiyah released her hand only after she gave her one simple command: “Rise.”

And when Asp did, swaying on unsteady legs, Safiyah pushed her away—not violently, but with the dismissive force of someone moving a chess piece back into play.

It wasn’t over. Not yet. But it would be.

[BlackAkuma]

A human could only take so much damage to the head, only so many shots before a toll was taken, and Asp could sense that she was coming achingly close to her breaking point. A concussion? Not that bad, not yet, but she was flirting with one. After the beating she had taken in their last match, LAW’s doctors had warned her of such things, and while she wanted to pay them little heed, the issue was being forced on her.

Whatever the case, she needed to push past it, needed to stand. She wasn’t done with this fight, refused to let them be the end. She only needed to push herself up, and-

Asp had begun to rise when Safiyah’s foot shot out and pressed against her face. Not a pleasant sensation, but not as harsh and damaging as it could’ve been, nowhere close to the damage her legs were capable of. No, this was a show of dominance and control, and if there were any doubts on that, then her opponent’s words - the first she had spoken all match - confirmed.

‘Smouldering’? An insulting word for a dragoness, but not inaccurate, she had to concede. This was far from the best look for her, and while she wanted nothing more than to surge up and make her eat those words, she didn’t have the wherewithal for such an action. Not even close.

Instead, she was being jerked around, forced to stand up only to be dismissively pushed away, her opponent treating her as far less than a threat. She stumbled away, nearly backing all the way up into the corner, before she found her footing and brought her arms up in a haphazard defense. She had to fight back, had to strike out.

Asp gritted her teeth and surged forward, desperate to take the offense before her opponent had the chance to. She waited until she was close, then dipped down and tried to ram her shoulder into Safiyah’s stomach, a mad attempt to drive her back across the ring and put her on the backfoot.

[Lightman]

There was something familiar about this version of Asp—this scrambling, half-broken thing, who fought not with poise, but with sheer refusal. Safiyah had seen her before. Months ago. In another ring. Another silence.

That time, Asp had clawed her way back with an inverted triangle choke, twisting the entire match on its head in the space of a single, desperate hold. It hadn’t just been a win—it had been a message. One that still echoed under Safiyah’s skin like a bruise never fully healed.

And now here she was again, trying to repeat the story.

But Safiyah had read that script. Word for word. And she would not play her part the same way twice.

She watched Asp rise through the haze, wobbling, swaying, yet still ignited by sheer defiance. A dragon on failing wings. Her posture collapsed; a shimmer from too many headshots glazed her eyes, and she breathed in short, urgent bursts. Yet there she stood, fists trembling upward, jaw set.

And then she charged. There was no finesse. No dance. Asp hurled herself forward like a spear, shoulder dipped, arms tucked, aiming straight for Safiyah’s midsection with raw, panicked momentum. It was instinctive. Primal. An animal’s last lunge before the slaughter. And in that chaos, Safiyah saw opportunity.

This moment, too, had happened once before. Though the circumstances differed and the roles were reversed. There was a lot to learn from history, and The Last Mehit sought to showcase such knowledge.

As soon as Asp reached the Violette, Safiyah reached and seized her head, pulling it tight under her shoulder with a facelock, needing some steps to contain the beast’s charge. With her secure, she stood on one leg and brought her other foot up to smack Asp in the face, before that leg swung the other way like a pendulum, pistoning just underneath the ribs.