Angelina Tarrant vs Shimmerlace Snuggleblossom - Gibbet Match

[Monsy]

Lights. Fairy Staff. Swing. First one is stiff. Felt like candy. Second one ate the belly like a fat steak. Third? Well, that is somethin’ else. Stuck. Didn’t think much of it. Her feelings buried on the island ten miles away. It is better that way. She didn’t need anything holding her back. They weren’t worth a dime. Only to stop and ponder. Cockup somewhere. We can all do with kindness, but when it came to win or lose, there is only one answer. Or was there? That question exploded when she saw that rip. It was gross.

Her face goes pale the moment it’s seen. Her foot remains, yet, she stares. Empty, cold, the smile dripping into something neutral. Her guts churn. Yet she doesn’t move. She tries to smile, and laughs weakly, “Whoops!” Whoops indeed. Whoops in-fucking-deed. Her sweat-licked fingers held the staff in her hand. She sees everything wrong. Images that makes her flinch. She shakes her head. “W-Whoops.” The edge between her index and thumb goes over her eyes. “Whoops.”

Then she throws the staff away. “Fuck. Fuck fuck-fuck.” Rachel lifts her foot and steps away, looking down at her own hand that turned her world black. Every image after is one that punched her gut. Laying on cold and stabbing asphalt. Being so pained and wet, you wanted to drown and strangle yourself. Whatever came first to escape.

Sure, Shimmer did something similar. And she lived.
But being on the other end…

“Ok… Ok…” She ran short of breath, puffing it out too fast. She peeled off her black shirt. Those sobs and heavy heaves. It echoed something deep she didn't want to see or hear. Her tongue dries, throat sore and everything moving against her until she caves. “O-OK.” Those red pools did her in. Rachel came to Shimmer’s side, put her black shirt on the ground to soak any excess then onto their side. Her knees came to their whacked ribs. It’s a logic, where, even if it’s a hurt spot, getting the wound elevated is the best course. Her black shirt left her in a pink bra. Worst day to wear such, she knows, especially to any Marauders who thought her purely punk. Yet she pressed down nibbling on her bottom lip. It chattered. She remained pale.

“Stop cryin’. It’s fine. Just a flesh wound. The pain isn’t so bad, right? Just panic. Ya dealt with worse. Ya can get through this. Like every other thing. Fuckin’ SHUT UP ALREADY. Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP, YA BIG BABY! Nothin’ is out of reach. Except for whinahs. Whinahs’ don’t get theasurah’, right? Whinahs don’t get treasurah’” And that phrase repeated into her whispers.

[Malkavia]

Charlotte let Angelina do what she pleased. She’d let out some tears today—pain water, pepper-spray moisture, a drop or two of liquid panic. But this was heave from the core. Some came snorted through her nose, and thick, clear fluid mixed with the blood and made sticky spiderweb strands dribbling down to her chin.

She wanted to apologize, but she couldn’t string the words together—what good does I’m sorry ever really do? Does I’m sorry earn you a spot next to the fire, a shoulder in the bedroom? It seemed so easy with a rabbit. Just feed ‘em, clean ‘em, hold ‘em, love ‘em. But it’s never that simple, and if you don’t deserve someone, you’ll find out.

The pain isn’t so bad, right? Pressure on the wound makes Charlotte cringe back to reality. Body’s still shaking, but tear ducts are about spent. And something in Angelina’s voice keeps her hooked in the spotlight. Big sniff, suck up some of that snot, swallow and clear the eyes. Fuckin’ SHUT UP ALREADY. Big baby. Big fuckin’ darkroom baby. Why didn’t Madeleine ever say that? Because Madeleine felt sorry for you. And didn’t get the rest.

Whinahs. Whinah whinahs whining. A mantra to soak up any sobs left. And there are a couple to be wrangled as Charlotte sits and breathes. Then one last hiccup and all that crying cleared so much fog. She concentrates, leans on Angie’s voice, finds her own. And what, sweet wain, do we bloody well do with a wee whiner? Give ‘em ears and paint ‘em up. Pink. Violet. Scarlet. Until the paint becomes skin becomes wings and they fly.

Shimmerlace slid into Angelina. Whinahs don’t get treasurah. “I know. Fuck sake Angie.” There’s still an ounce of dizzy in Shimmer’s head, and she sways a touch, but her arms find their way around the pale muttering girl at her side. “Sssh. I hear ya.” Then her nails found the twin to the wound in Shimmer’s side, swollen and still wet. She found the hole, sank her fingers as deep as they’d sink, and ripped.

[Monsy]

Shit moved without deliberation. Shirt off. Her voice. All sort of blurted out. It was intentional, yes. Every bit. Something lingered in her head through nursing the wound. Wasn’t sure what. It wasn’t mud or any sort of illusion. Shit is real. She’s seeing atoms for fuck sake. It twisted her up. She’s darting between colours. Pink. Red. Pink. Red. Red. Red, red, red. Black.

The initial heart race came down. Now, plugged, it felt easier. ‘I know. Fuck sake Angie.’ Good, she thought. At least the nonsense is punching through. A laugh popped afterward. Weak and dry. Mostly to mock herself. Being called that name is sobering. She isn’t the kind to do this. Didn’t like doing it. But alas, she seemed to do it right. ‘I hear ya’ Good, she thought again. Then. She burned.

Her nerves chug a pitcher of salt and vinegar. Those finger-tips found a flap of skin. Rachel’s eyes of glass gape, watch, then twist up tight. Her mouth opens, contorts, and she bites her lower lip. Both hands gingerly latch onto the assailing forearm, one down by the wrist, another near the elbow. She leaned to one side. It’s pure command and instinct. Just let me fuckin’ scream. RIIIIIPP.

Aye, it was a hell of a scream. Eating her own throat with it. Her spine curls like a finger traced it. Her hands touch the re-opened wound, no, touch around it. Shit blazes cherry, leaked to her skirt again in seconds. Nausea racked her head, almost as bad as the cut. “FUCKIN’--” Racheal collapses. Pale face-first -- forehead digging, boot kicking. One breath sucks in and comes out a whimper. Over and over. She pants like a dehydrated dog. “Sucks. THIS FUCKIN’ SUCKS…” Her yell came with dragging her horns along the deck, then slumping onto her side, the good one. She’s a picture of biting her own lip, red on both cheeks, hair over her closed eyes, snot, glimmering in old and new tears, and breaking a sweat on her forehead. That’s your urbancore pirate, “fuckin’ sucks.”

[Malkavia]

Thistlebro. Thistle-whistle-mistle…Bro. Eck. Still pretty weak, if she was honest. It made your girl want to snap something pricey. But time yet remained to talk nomenclature. For now The Seelie Scion put her hands on her knees, sucked in a big gulp of air, and pushed.

Had to sway for a tick, and that bite below her ribs kept her spine permanently millimeters off center. But. Yeah, sure, your girl was held together by bloody duct tape, but she. Was. Up. Which was more than you could say for the wee dragon girl.

Wee. You use that word so much, you tend to forget what it means. But somehow, against all fuckin’ sense, it managed to be appropriate in this moment.

“Oi, Angie. That wouldn’t be whinin’ ticklin' my ear, now, would it?” Beneath the newfound frog in the fairy voice, there was a laugh there. At first. Aye, hole in the side fuckin’ sucks indeed. She got that too well. But then Angelina just kept…going. Snot-nosed. Fuckin' drizzly.

That irked just a touch. “Hey cunt.” She gave a kick into Drizzly’s side. The bad one. “Come on now. Treasure, yeah? Magic and colour and light! Like. Your wee rabbit.” Thump. She was so light. You didn’t expect kicking Angelina Tarrant, scarlet terror of the sky, to be such a pastry punt. And yet.

And yet.

Shimmerlace lowered herself to the wee drake's level, then slid on top of her, side-mount style. A hand buried itself in Angie's hair and pulled her face round. All that screaming had told a story, but what really awed Shimmerlace was this up close look at the details. Your girl found real tears there. Real furrows under those beautiful, deep violet eyes. You could smell the sweet edge of her breath when it came out in hot trembles. “Thistlebro...” Shimmer's voice caught. She was done cryin', but somehow her vision went a hint blurred anyway. Funny. She pushed the wee girl on her back. Took a breath. “Thistlebro deserves better 'n this shit.”

What did Thistlebro deserve? A fuckin' comet. From the sprite held together with bloody duct tape. Well, maybe the fairy didn't deserve a comet or a rabbit. She grit her teeth, glanced down at the gleaming ruby target. Aight. Like, we practiced, then. She placed one hand on the red wain's hip, the other just under the drizzly kid's rose-bug bra. Shimmer sucked in a breath, tightened her core, forged the stardust at her center. And PUSHED her whole body. Up. Straight. Handstand. Boots in the fuckin' sky. Trembly, red-faced, and the bite in her own side tearing deep while sweat rivuleted cool and slippery down her arms. “ANNCH...”

One... Fairy on the top rope, dust bunny in the face. Two... That was her. That was always her. But not this once. Please not this once.

Down she'd come crashing, her knee arcing towards the laceration.

[Monsy]

Just when ya thought it couldn’t get any worse. Coping with the initial punch sucks balls. Aye. For a moment your nerves eat themselves. Hell, even ten moments. Its a spot of just wanting your nerve endings to just fucking explode in one catastrophe of feeling before it finally shuts up. Can be pretty like fireworks, with all the colour, sensations, the screams, and liquid snot. The convulsions and that wicked P for Pain face you make when mister fear meets a good punch in the belly.

Low and behold. Her wish.
Her eyes grow until it looked like they could simply roll out from the socket. Her mouth gapes and she spits, tongue and all slip out as the scream is gravelly and pathetic. “BLEGHH!!” She ended up rolling like a tossed tin-can. Her weight the main culprit. Even wind pushed this girl. Blunt force? This shell was only so thick. “G-Gehh--!!” The follow-up came while she was choking on her sob. A fucking pig squeal. No, more doggish than that. The sound of stepping on a puppy’s tail and just keeping it there. It kept for a few seconds, then she rolled a few more times. Her side now visibly swollen. You can almost see a bulging purple-black valley and its red river down the middle, dripping into the larger red skirt.

She became more pants than anything coherent. More ghost-white than blushing. You can hear her try to babble something. Cussing, probably. Something that started with cu. Sometimes ending in it. Never ‘stop’. Aye, even then, it was but a backwater thought. The one thing more disgusting than the nausea. But did that even read when she was face-to-face? Rachel avoided eye-contact, dipping low onto herself. They still leaked like a faulty faucet. Hell, they were puffballs. They glistened under the sun and just peering into them can fetch a nice reflection. Her mouth and nose all shriveled up. She chewed on her bottom lip. Sniffling was rampant. Girl trembled like she just came in from a winter storm. Both arms down, legs immobile. And what did she have to say? Absolutely nothing in return. Can’t even pull her hand up to guard the key.

Fairy spared her just enough conscious to see her go high with those knees. It arched under the summer blue and yellow. It was some goddamn magic with that cut side. Could almost get her smile. She wanted to. But between Shimmer’s hand on her ribs keeping her from getting some wind and the fact that almighty axe was coming down onto her side, what can she do? -- But cry the good cry.

She did exactly that. The knee crash-landed, but payload and clumsy weight nuked. It sinks in and the whole area ripples. The top of her tummy ripples. She felt it on the other side too. Her innards felt inside-out. They might even bruise. Her spine arched into it. Aye, if the crowd couldn’t hear them talk, then they damn sure heard that knee thud. And -- its partner in agony, the thunder to the knee’s lightning, Rachel screams as she should. Its one that cut short by tearing her voice, turning raspy. Her body convulses violently. Her fingers curl into the deck until she was chipping nails. Her toes shriveled, soles slammed down and pushed. Her lower-half came off the ground, elbows down as Angelina’s eyes sowed shut. She managed to turn over. After that -- well -- her body was just -- tired. Tired of agonising this intensely so quick. Tired of getting knee’d, kicked, and punted. Getting talked down to all the while. Resemble anyone? Aye. Still, it reached a point where she couldn’t make hands from feet. Crawling became her new walking and it was like learning it all over again. Put a hand down, shuffle, move the other hand, shuffle, knee, shuffle, knee, shuffle. Sometimes it was just about dragging your thigh along the deck. And it was more elbows than hands. Sometimes it's just clawing and dragging your whole shoulder against the deck. Worst part? She kept sucking in. Just, sniffling and inhaling. Never out. Her eyelids grew heavy by the second. She can drop her face down and it would be like falling into a king-sized bed. The knockout would be instant.

[Malkavia]

To fuckin’ comets!

It connected—actually connected. A moment of sloppy paint coalescing and becoming flesh. Ground split open and a dragon whimpered beneath Seelie mist. Fuck, it shone sweet enough to make a Pixie’s heart break. Though the real danger was the slimy red mouth puckering in her side. Ow.

As she lay on the mat, eyes half-lidded in the sun, she could hear the bleachers moving again. All cheers and shouts to contrast the dragon's whimpering. So the beast with a thousand feet was of a rosy temper again, now, was it? Where had that been when her ears were coming undone? If she ever met in-person a lad in pink-and-ears, she’d take his lunch money. And make him eat it.

But. Now was not the time. There remained downs to be reclaimed, cages to be shut, magic to be spun…and a fuckin’ nap to be had.

One, two, heave and—back to her feet she rolled. Heavy breath in, forced harsh exhale, clap the hands, and there it is. She found the Court’s staff, still glittering gold in the sun in spite of the two alchemies of blood coating, like its maître’s hands, its tip and handle.

“I’ll grant ya this, cunt. You know magic when you see it, and fight like a white-hot demon to have it.” The round-eared fairy trotted alongside her opponent. Leering but, as of yet, waiting. “But, my worry is—are ya one to remember whatcha took?” Keeping her grip firm, Shimmerlace used the staff to prod the downed drake’s shoulder. Poke. “‘Cause, my gut? It says you’re one to remember what’s stolen from ya a Hell of a lot better. Nothing like a hole in the horde, whisked off to Seelie stores, to scorch pink into a purply retina, ey?”

Come on you lovely cunt. Shimmer’s hands wrung round the staff’s base. Whiners don’t get treasure. One last flash? “If you wanna keep a fuckin’ scrap on you. Stand. Your sorry arse. Up.”

The Pixie would wait, staff at the ready. But the instant Angelina stood, Shimmerlace would come in swinging for the head. Once. Twice. Crack crack on the skull. Whatever it took to lay the dragon on the ground for good.

[Monsy]

Just poke the corpse why don’t you. Someone call this animal abuse. It’s cruel, unusual, hot, but did she mention cruel? She’s wearing her brain backwards. Didn’t quite know where she was going. Just know it was somewhere. Towards voices. A solid wall of colour was afoot. Probably a barricade. Aye, maybe it’s a bar where a handsome dude in a bowtie served up the meanest long island tea. Shit -- that would be lovely. She’d take her haul of the day, use cash from stranger’s pockets, have a grand ol’ time laughing and watching sea waves and sunlight. Just needed to survive a little longer. Just a little. One more push.

Through all the hissing, whining, heaving, and hawing. She heard it. White-hot demon. Magic. Remembah what is stolen. Rough shit comin’ from a fairy with a heart of a witch. That poke hurts more than it should. It makes her entire crawl cease as if a mighty weight crushed her flat. She shrivels up and tightens her face, expecting a whack. Then she moves again.

Her fingertips clasps the bottom bar of a barricade. It’s cold and almost slips her hand. Sure, its likely here to keep the fans from spilling and interfering so willy nilly before security guards tore into them, phalanx style. But this was top of her fuckin’ mountain. Ain’t nothin’ comes down to luck. She just needed to pull, and Shimmer to watch. Watch her corral and slowly climb to get her knees underneath. Watch her hold the bars, slowly slide up. Watch her shoulders quiver and shrivel, choke, hold her breath and turn herself into a plum planting a boot down, push once, fall to her knees, then try again. The second time -- success. Stand. Your sorry ass. Up. Be a damn good bombastic lie to say this power came from losing the horde. Pain and grit, spit and talked shit. Straight movie shit.

Aye, but nah. She just didn’t know what else to do.
“This… what ya wanted?…”

Would’ve been a yell. But that rough-scruff and top-of-the-lungs stuff is blown out. Her voice is hush, almost casual conversation volume laced with breathiness as she stood like a skeleton glued and stapled together.

CRACK--!! Well that nearly sent her head rolling. Too bad its attached. “FUUUU..aoo…” Angelina’s scrambled neurons saw the strawberry ice-cream gates and its frozen banana yogurt spires with blueberry dollops. She bumbled back, her spine slamming against the barricade. She rebounds off, all jiggly and weaving from shoulders to hips, stepping over her wildly swinging feet, left and right, swinging her arms, low. A blood trickle comes down her forehead. She looks wide-eyed like seeing God herself, smiling all fidgety and giggly for thee lord and milky saviour. “SHIIMaaaah… When did ya get… sooo many… treatzzz… not fair..”

All her little dairy angels flew around her warping vision. They had waffle cone wings and colourful sprinkles on their naked bodies. Cherry Popsy demons, long and lubricated, cackling and heckling turned the blue water into fruit punch with a wave of their stick. They started dancing on every surface she can muster. Stupid twirling and groovy nightclub jigs ya did on the spot. The ring. The sun. Clouds. Bleachers. Every reflection. Even Shimmer’s shoulder. Top of the Seelie Scion was a tiny Thistlebro doing wee hops on her wet pink head. He had a skull shirt on, big black beard and naval hat. Went YARR. “Heeeyyyy… Pirate Jesus. I finally met yo--” CRACK!! “--begghhh…” Shit spun her around in a full rotation. Girl went on her heel, nearly hit her back like a slinky. But like all good comebacks, they came back around -- except this time, “woof…” It was to fall flat on her face at Shimmer’s feet. Drool started oozing out double-time. Arms straight down. Her maw is open, cheek mushed. It’s a marvel she didn’t crush her nose. Cheekbone? Different story. Her eyes still cluttered half-open. She didn’t look at anything. Shit is blank. Her world is nothin’ but flashin’ black.

[Malkavia]

Well, the Seelie Scion came seeking color and—let’s be honest. Were the roseate crown upon her head, Shimmer’d have had a hard time topping the Hindenburg she just witnessed. The Pixie would have had a sight more props to slip over, maybe could’ve caught herself on fire before going down. But on the other hand. Pirate Jesus. Pirate Jesus had some…je ne sais quoi, as Charlotte might have put it. Tsk. Upstaging the master, and with such limited practice. Talented wee cunt.

“Fuck sake. Just won’t let me stay mad, will ya?” Shimmerlace gave it a healthy kick to see if Pirate St. Magdalene over here had any mind to come sputtering up onto Easter Sunday. But, black stayed inky, so Shimmerlace made like it was leg day and popped Angelina up bridal-style.

Or tried to. Princess wasn’t that light, and that wee gaper in the feychild's side still gaped, so. Bit of a collapse and a spill. Whoopsie, as Angie liked to say. Eleanor really did have the right of it with that fundamentals shite. Right, though. Take two. Two hands on the horns, and draaaaaag her back. To the gibbet. Which was unfortunately on a bit of a platform, so Shimmer had to give her a bit of a shove and lift and roll, but. Well, they settled her in comfortably in the end.

One last touch, though. Religious beliefs of those departing must be respected. Shimmerlace dipped her thumb inside her staff to catch a wee bit of the burning sap. “In the name o’ Long John Silver…” She smeared the sign of the upside down cross on the wee forehead. “Kevin Mitnick…” She stroked the left, then the right cheeks. ”And Patchy himself.” She slipped her pink-coated thumb into the girl’s mouth. What else to add? Mmm. Best not to get too fancy. ”May Pirate Jesus keep your horde safe.”

And then—there was what once was and one day would again be the scarlet terror. Serene and tucked in. Neither scarlet nor drizzly, for now, but. Pink. It was painful for a fairy such as Shimmer to touch the cold iron, but, needs must. She put her hand on the gate. ”On the off chance you can hear me, sweet. Want you to know, I’ll be coming by later. Hate for you to be lonely, and we got loads to talk about, you and I.”

And with that, she slammed the gate shut.

[Monsy]

Dooodeedaaddooooo…
Life in KO land is such a majestic purgatory. Your eyes are spinning around. Things are strips of colour or black. Didn’t really hear. There’s a vague prick on you that turns you belly-up, where you babble trying to say your own name, deeply buried underneath the groans and heaving breath. You get the idea that you’re moving. Vaguely. Really it’s just the violent ocean. Feeling the spritz on your nape. Raging over the rogue fruit punch waves. The ocean tyrants with glucose monsters clinging beneath your water line, O’Great Cap’n. First Mate Pirate Jesus wasn’t scared when stowed on her shoulder. Even as the bow rears up and the stern goes down. Midshipmen, Quartermaster, Popsy Demons, and Ice Cream angels cling to the mast, Pirate Jesus and his fluffy free tail stays put. You order the sails to grip the wind. Tops! Gallants! Royals! Studs! Aye, but when your bow comes down like the executioner axe, you’re taken back by its force, slip and go beneath the depths. You swim higher, drinking up the delicious Punch, which was spicier and soapier than expected until SPLOOSH--! You’re above. Only this time. This new sky has a cage. Its grey bars split the blue into triangles. The sun was hiding behind the top point. Cowardly little shit. Perhaps for the best.

Her head felt like it was about to pop. Pressure was in her eyes. It’s painful to blink, almost like there are shards of glass underneath the lids. Numbing became sharp as her sweaty, spent body was adrenaline crashing. Her glassy eyes slipped over to the Seelie Scion’s boots. Still wet. It made her smile. You can hear that boot-squeak like a rubber chicken and she’s suddenly playing the sound in her head at max volume. But as she looks higher, she sees a hand on the gate. Sure -- Shimmer’s mouth moves. She hears. Listens. But that hand. That HAND. Angelina looks to her shoulder, finds what’s wrong and has a gasp. Really, it was a cough. Her mouth ignites in an aggravating burn. Something wants to come up and it makes her cough consistently. Both hands grip the bar to her gibbet and eats that fucking slam right on the apex of her knuckles. Eight are smashed and grow two sizes. Swear you can almost hear a crunch.

Her first loud sound of life is that pitiful-volumed choke-squeal. She coughs more.
First thing she wanted to ask: The hell you put in my mouth?!
Though, with her voice rather torn at this moment, she’s swayed to something else.

“T-Thistle--bro.”

Angelina’s knees shuffle together, legs folded in and slowly getting beneath her. Her head is against the cage, and so is her shoulder, thus, most of her weight. The only saving grace is the confined space. You can shove against it, and have yourself rise with leverage and wedges by putting your leg into the corner and sliding up. That’s exactly what she did. Her posture was ribbons, tied twigs, and twine -- yet her hands are welded and sliding up. At one point she’s on her knees like prayer, using the same grip to pull up once she finally twisted her hips into alignment.

“Thistle--bro-- Thistle--*cough* for *hic* fuck *cough* sake…--bro.”
HICCUP. “I still have his key.” HICCUP.

Aye, she dipped her chin and picked up the thin light it’s hooked onto. She feeds it through until the metal sits between her teeth. Just the end. She grins, as if about to belt an evil guffaw, both rows on display with those tired, empty eyes seemingly catching a crumb of focus again through needling scarlet hair.

“Come and get it.”

[Malkavia]

Slam, gong. Church bell is struck, deep and reverberating, but the gate creaks. The Marauder creaks, too. Rises. Her eyes got that wee spark to them with which the Pixie had become so intimately familiar. Violet.

You see the eyes streaking through throat-scraping smog from a tube, burning over the screaming glass-eyed body of your downy white friend, twinkling while she holds and feeds and seduces in a week one who’d been yours five years, smoldering victorious in the Lazarus glory of the most Scarlet match you’d ever seen, sparkling through your thin veneer while she shreds so much that gives the fairy breath—but most of all, you see it in that fuckin kick.

Watch me, Shimma.

Violet violet violet. You’d never see a girl and a move come so close to becoming one and the same. Eleanor cut precise, practice, steam-engine strikes. She punched the way a lifetime's practice and coaching and drilling shaped her to punch. But Angelina—this is just the body at play. Pure invention and uncluttered joy as the leg glides up to the sun; her body unfurls and paints the air as easily as a calligrapher’s brush. The audience had not imagined it: Shimmerlace leaned in, like a moth to gold, and the last thing she saw was violet to send her into black and Ache, and she wanted it. Bad enough to split like a log in fire, she wanted it. It.

(What Charlotte had was a bedroom where she could not sleep, empty for the first time in years)

Here was the violet, sparking again, Thistlebro’s key in her mouth. Shimmerlace’s grin had gone long and tall but white-thin. “I’ll pop your fuckin’ eyes for it.” Tossing her staff, she darted forward, fingers still glistening with spit and Gloaming Sap. Two thumbs aimed to strike, squeeze, and crack two gleaming amethysts.