[Lostchris]

Sadie Sink vs Sadie Stanley

At 4:53 PM EDT on Sunday, June 1, 2025, the red carpet at a glitzy Hollywood premiere buzzed with flashing cameras and murmuring crowds. Sadie Stanley, fresh off her brutal victory over Millie Bobby Brown, strutted confidently in a sleek black gown, her red hair swept into an elegant updo, her athletic frame radiating triumph despite the faint bruises still visible from her earlier fight. She was soaking in the attention, basking in the glow of her rising star, when Sadie Sink stormed up, her fiery red hair cascading over her shoulders, her emerald green dress hugging her slender frame. The air crackled with tension as Sink’s piercing gaze locked onto Stanley, her expression a mix of fury and determination.

Sink stopped inches from Stanley, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through the red carpet noise. “Listen, we can do this in public or private, your choice,” she said, her tone icy. Stanley froze, the crowd around them quieting as they sensed the brewing confrontation. Sink stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “You went over the line of what’s okay in a fight, Stanley. What you did to Millie—mauling her, humiliating her like that—it was fucking disgusting. I’m gonna teach you respect, you sadistic bitch.”

Stanley’s lips curled into a smirk, her confidence unshaken despite the public setting. She glanced around, noting the cameras trained on them, the reporters leaning in to catch every word. The idea of fighting right there, in front of everyone, was tempting—another chance to prove her dominance, to show the world she wasn’t afraid. But a private fight meant no witnesses, no rules, and a chance to really unleash her fury without repercussions. She weighed her options, her mind racing as Sink stood there, fists clenched, waiting for an answer.

“Private,” Stanley finally said, her voice steady, a glint of malice in her eyes. “I don’t want anyone interrupting me while I put you in your place, Sink. Let’s take this somewhere I can really teach you a lesson.” The crowd murmured, some disappointed, others intrigued, as Stanley turned on her heel, motioning for Sink to follow. Sink nodded, her jaw tight, and the two women slipped away from the red carpet, heading toward a secluded back room in the venue, away from prying eyes.

Once inside the dimly lit room—a storage space cluttered with event supplies—the door slammed shut behind them, and the pretense of civility vanished. Sink didn’t waste a second, lunging at Stanley with a snarl, her fist flying toward Stanley’s face. “You’re a fucking monster!” Sink screamed, her punch grazing Stanley’s cheek as she dodged, her black gown tearing at the thigh from the sudden movement. Stanley retaliated with a vicious slap, her nails raking across Sink’s cheek, drawing thin lines of blood. “You’re the one who’s gonna learn respect, you self-righteous cxnt!” Stanley spat, grabbing Sink’s hair and yanking her head back.

The fight erupted into chaos, the two redheads tearing into each other with unbridled fury. Sink drove her knee into Stanley’s stomach, making her gasp, but Stanley countered by slamming her elbow into Sink’s jaw, sending her stumbling into a stack of chairs. The chairs clattered to the floor as Sink recovered, her green dress ripping at the shoulder, exposing her bra strap. She charged again, tackling Stanley to the ground, her hands clawing at Stanley’s gown, tearing it down the front to reveal her black bra. “You don’t fucking scare me!” Sink roared, slamming her fist into Stanley’s ribs, the impact making Stanley grunt.

Stanley bucked her hips, throwing Sink off, and scrambled to her feet, her gown hanging in tatters. She ripped the rest of it off, leaving her in her bra and panties, her body still marked from her fight with Millie. “You’re gonna regret this, Sink!” she hissed, lunging forward and driving a karate-trained kick into Sink’s thigh, making her cry out and drop to one knee. Stanley grabbed Sink’s hair again, yanking her up, and slammed her face into the wall, splitting her lip. Blood trickled down Sink’s chin as she screamed, “You’re a fucking psycho!”

Sink spun around, her nails slashing across Stanley’s chest, leaving bloody scratches, and tore at her bra, ripping it off completely. Stanley’s pale tits bounced free, already bruised from her earlier fight, but she didn’t flinch—she tackled Sink, both women crashing to the floor in a heap, their dresses now useless scraps. Sink clawed at Stanley’s panties, tearing them away, leaving her fully nude, while Stanley ripped Sink’s dress and underwear off in return, their nude bodies grappling on the cold floor.

The fight turned savage, their hatred pouring out with every strike. Sink slammed her fist into Stanley’s pussy, making her scream, but Stanley retaliated by sinking her teeth into Sink’s shoulder, drawing blood as Sink howled in pain. They rolled across the floor, trading punches and kicks, their bodies slick with sweat and blood. Sink managed to get on top, her hands wrapping around Stanley’s throat, squeezing hard. “I’m gonna fucking end you!” Sink growled, her face contorted with rage, but Stanley drove her knee into Sink’s stomach, forcing her to loosen her grip.

Stanley flipped Sink onto her back, straddling her, and unleashed a flurry of punches to her face, splitting her cheek and blackening her eye. “You think you can teach me respect, you weak bitch?!” Stanley screamed, her fists hammering down, blood splattering with each strike. Sink’s hands clawed weakly at Stanley’s arms, her strength fading, but Stanley didn’t let up—she grabbed Sink’s hair, slamming her head into the floor, dazing her.

With Sink barely conscious, Stanley locked in a rear naked choke, her arm tightening around Sink’s throat, cutting off her air. Sink gasped, her hands slapping at the floor, her body trembling as Stanley leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper. “You’re fucking nothing, Sink. Say it—say I’m better than you, or I’ll choke you out right now.” Sink’s eyes watered, her face turning purple, and she choked out, “You’re… better… than me…”

Stanley smirked, releasing the choke but not her dominance. She straddled Sink’s chest, pinning her down, and slapped her hard across the face, making her whimper. “That’s fucking right,” Stanley sneered, spitting on Sink’s bloodied face. “Don’t ever come for me again, or I’ll do worse than I did to Millie—I’ll fucking break you in half, you pathetic slut.” She stood, leaving Sink a sobbing, bloodied mess on the floor, and grabbed a spare coat from the room to cover herself, walking out with her head held high, victorious once again.

[Lostchris]

Jenns Ortega vs Sydney Sweeney

Tensions boiled over at a private Hollywood event, where Jenna Ortega and Sydney Sweeney found themselves in a heated confrontation. Jenna, dressed in a sharp black blazer and skirt, her dark hair pulled back, glared at Sydney, who was stunning in a low-cut red dress that accentuated her curves, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. The two actresses had been circling each other all night, their mutual disdain fueled by a recent controversy. Jenna had publicly criticized Sydney’s brand deal with Dr. Squatch, a soap company, calling it a “clown move” that made serious actors look bad. Sydney, fresh off a messy public spat with Ariel Winter—where she’d come out on top overall but with rumors of losing one particularly brutal encounter—didn’t take kindly to the shade.

The argument erupted in a secluded corner of the event, away from the main crowd but still within earshot of a few curious onlookers. “You’re out here shilling soap like a fucking influencer, Sydney,” Jenna snapped, her voice sharp, her brown eyes flashing with anger. “It’s embarrassing for those of us who actually care about the craft.” Sydney’s face flushed, her blue eyes narrowing as she stepped closer, her chest heaving in her tight dress. “Oh, fuck off, Jenna,” she shot back, her voice dripping with venom. “Half your roles are just scream queens getting chased by psychos, and the other half are you getting fucked by older men on screen. You’re not some prestige actress—you’re a glorified trope.”

The insult hit hard, and Jenna’s fists clenched at her sides, her petite frame trembling with rage. “You wanna talk about my roles, you D-list bimbo?” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. “Let’s see if your precious tits can back up your big mouth. I challenge you to a titfight, right here, right now.” Sydney smirked, her confidence unshaken despite the lingering sting of her rumored loss to Ariel Winter in their feud. “You’re on, you little bitch,” she replied, cracking her neck. “I’ve already crushed Ariel’s sad little rack—I’ll fucking flatten yours too.”

The two women stormed off to an empty side room, the door slamming shut behind them as a few hushed whispers followed from the event crowd. Inside, the tension was electric as they faced off, their dresses quickly shed—Jenna’s blazer and skirt tossed aside, revealing a black bra, and Sydney’s red dress slipping off to show a lacy white bra that strained against her larger chest. Their eyes burned with hatred as they squared up, their tits the weapons of choice in this vicious showdown.

Jenna struck first, lunging forward and slamming her smaller but firm tits into Sydney’s larger ones, the impact making a loud smack as Sydney grunted, stumbling back a step. “You’re fucking done, Sweeney!” Jenna snarled, grabbing Sydney’s shoulders and thrusting her chest forward again, her bra-clad tits slamming into Sydney’s, the force making Sydney’s breasts jiggle. Sydney winced but retaliated fast, using her size advantage to push back, her own tits crashing into Jenna’s with a brutal smack. “You’re the one who’s done, you jealous little cxnt!” Sydney growled, her larger chest flattening Jenna’s slightly, forcing her to grit her teeth in pain.

The titfight was relentless, their breasts colliding over and over, the room filled with the sounds of flesh smacking flesh and their mutual grunts of effort. Jenna’s agility gave her an edge—she ducked and weaved, slamming her tits into Sydney’s from different angles, targeting her sides and underboob, making Sydney hiss in pain. “Your brand deal tits can’t save you now!” Jenna taunted, delivering a particularly hard thrust that made Sydney’s bra strap snap, her left tit spilling out, red and bruised from the onslaught.

But Sydney’s raw power and experience from her fight with Ariel kicked in. She roared, grabbing Jenna by the waist and pulling her in close, trapping her in a bear hug. “I fucking crushed Ariel, and I’ll crush you!” Sydney screamed, slamming her larger tits down onto Jenna’s, the weight and force flattening Jenna’s smaller chest, making her gasp in agony. Jenna’s hands clawed at Sydney’s back, leaving bloody scratches, but Sydney kept the pressure on, grinding her tits down, her nipples digging into Jenna’s bra as Jenna’s face contorted in pain.

Jenna’s legs buckled, her body trembling as Sydney’s larger rack overwhelmed her, the rumors of Sydney’s loss to Ariel seeming like a distant myth in this moment of dominance. “Say it, you little bitch—say my tits are better!” Sydney demanded, slamming her chest down one final time, the impact making Jenna cry out, her bra finally giving way, her tits exposed and red from the beating. Jenna’s voice was a broken sob as she gasped, “Your… tits… are better…” Sydney smirked, releasing her, letting Jenna collapse to the floor, her chest heaving, her pride shattered.

“You thought you could challenge me, you little bitch?” Sydney sneered, her voice dripping with venom as she grabbed Jenna by the hair, yanking her head back. Jenna whimpered, her hands weakly pushing at Sydney’s thighs, but her strength was gone, her body trembling from the beating her tits had taken. Sydney smirked, pulling Jenna’s face toward her chest, her larger rack hovering inches from Jenna’s tear-streaked face. “Time to finish you off with the real stars of the show,” Sydney taunted, pressing her tits against Jenna’s face, enveloping her in a suffocating smother.

Jenna’s muffled cry was barely audible as Sydney’s superior rack covered her nose and mouth, cutting off her air completely. Sydney’s breasts, still slick with sweat, pressed down hard, the weight and heat overwhelming Jenna as she squirmed beneath her, her hands slapping weakly at Sydney’s sides. Sydney tightened her grip on Jenna’s hair, pulling her deeper into the smother, her nipples digging into Jenna’s cheeks as she ground her chest down, ensuring no air could get through. “This is what happens when you fuck with me, Jenna,” Sydney growled, her voice low and sadistic, her hips shifting slightly as she maintained her dominant position, kneeling over Jenna’s crumpled form.

Jenna’s struggles grew weaker, her body going limp as the lack of oxygen took its toll, her hands falling to her sides, her muffled gasps fading into silence. Sydney kept the smother locked in, her tits unrelenting, watching with cold satisfaction as Jenna’s eyes fluttered shut, her body slumping completely, knocked out by the suffocating power of Sydney’s rack. Only then did Sydney pull back, letting Jenna’s head loll to the side, her face red and slick with sweat, her chest rising and falling faintly as she lay unconscious on the floor.

Sydney stood, her broken bra barely hanging on, her larger tits glistening with sweat, marked with faint bruises but undeniably victorious. She adjusted her hair, a smirk playing on her lips as she looked down at Jenna’s defeated form. “That’s how a real star ends a fight, you scream queen slut,” Sydney mocked, nudging Jenna’s limp body with her foot, making her roll slightly to the side. “Don’t ever come for me again, or I’ll fucking bury you in my tits next time.” She grabbed her red dress, slipping it back on, and strutted out of the room, leaving Jenna unconscious and humiliated, her body a testament to Sydney’s superior rack and unyielding dominance in their titfight.

[Lostchris]

Maya Hawke vs Sadie Stanley

A secluded beach in Los Angeles stretched out under a blazing sun, its golden sands empty save for one figure: Sadie Stanley, sprawled on a towel in a black bikini, her red hair fanned out, her athletic body glistening with tanning oil. She was oblivious to the world, earbuds in, basking in the glow of her recent victories over Millie Bobby Brown and Sadie Sink, unaware that her reign of terror had sparked a desperate plan for revenge.

Maya Hawke had received a frantic text from Natalie Dyer earlier that day: “Please, you have to do this. She brutalized our friends, and I’m too small and honestly weak to do anything about it.” Maya had hesitated, replying, “And what, I’m not some crazy fighter. I guess I’m a bit bigger than her, but that’s all I got—she’s a killer.” Natalie had pushed back, “Use the element of surprise. She goes tanning 3x a week on that same beach, it’s secluded. Don’t worry about cameras, fight dirty, do whatever to get some payback for Sadie Sink and Millie Bobby Brown.”

Now, Maya stood at the edge of the beach, her taller frame tense in a navy blue bikini, her brown hair tied back, her eyes locked on Sadie. She’d driven here straight from the text exchange, her nerves steeled by the thought of her friends’ suffering. This was her moment. She sprinted across the sand, her bare feet kicking up grains, and launched herself at Sadie, tackling her with a primal scream. Sadie’s earbuds flew out, her body jolting as Maya’s weight slammed into her, pinning her face-down in the sand. “This is for my friends, you fucking bitch!” Maya roared, her fists raining down on Sadie’s back, each punch fueled by rage.

Sadie grunted, caught off guard, her arms flailing as Maya controlled the fight from the start. Maya grabbed Sadie’s hair, yanking her head back, and slammed her face into the sand, grains sticking to Sadie’s tanning oil-slicked skin. “You’re fucking done, Stanley!” Maya snarled, straddling Sadie’s lower back, her hands clawing at Sadie’s bikini top, ripping it off and exposing her pale tits. Maya drove her knee into Sadie’s spine, making her scream, and raked her nails down Sadie’s back, leaving bloody scratches. Sadie thrashed beneath her, her resolve tested, but Maya’s surprise attack and height advantage kept her in command, pummeling Sadie’s ribs with brutal punches.

For the first ten minutes, Maya dominated, her fury relentless. She flipped Sadie onto her back, straddling her chest, and slapped her hard across the face, splitting her lip. “You think you can just brutalize my friends?!” Maya screamed, grabbing Sadie’s bikini bottoms and tearing them off, leaving her nude on the sand. She drove her fist into Sadie’s stomach, making her gasp, and clawed at her thighs, drawing more blood as Sadie’s screams echoed across the empty beach. But Sadie’s endurance, honed from her recent fights, began to show—while Maya’s attacks were fierce, her stamina started to wane, her breaths coming in ragged gasps, her movements slowing.

Sadie, battered but unyielding, waited for her moment. As Maya reared back for another punch, her arms trembling with exhaustion, Sadie bucked her hips, throwing Maya off balance. Sadie scrambled to her feet, her nude body covered in sand and blood, her red hair wild, her eyes blazing with fury. “You fucking nepo bitch!” Sadie spat, lunging at Maya, who was too tired to react in time. Sadie tackled her to the sand, reversing their positions, and unleashed a flurry of punches to Maya’s face, splitting her cheek and blackening her eye. Maya’s screams turned to sobs as Sadie’s fists hammered down, her endurance and grit giving her the upper hand now.

Sadie ripped off Maya’s bikini top, exposing her larger tits, and clawed at them viciously, her nails drawing blood as Maya screamed, “Stop, Sadie! Please!” Sadie sneered, “You should’ve stayed out of this, you weak cxnt!” She tore off Maya’s bikini bottoms, leaving her nude as well, and drove her knee into Maya’s pussy, making her convulse in agony. Sadie straddled Maya’s stomach, her hands wrapping around Maya’s throat, squeezing hard as Maya gasped for air, her hands slapping weakly at Sadie’s arms. “Fucking submit, you bitch!” Sadie roared, tightening her grip until Maya’s voice broke, a choked sob escaping her lips as she whimpered, “I… submit…”

Sadie released her throat but stayed on top, looming over Maya’s bloodied, sand-covered form. She leaned down, her voice a venomous hiss. “You’re fucking lucky you’re a nepo queen, Hawke, or I would’ve ripped your fucking tits off and shoved them down your throat.” Maya sobbed, her body trembling, but Sadie wasn’t done. She stood, grabbing Maya by the hair, and dragged her face-first into the sand, stomping her heel down on the back of Maya’s head, grinding her face into the grains. Maya’s muffled cries were pitiful as sand filled her mouth, her body twitching weakly.

Sadie stepped back, her nude body glistening with sweat, sand, and blood, her dominance unquestioned. She spat on Maya’s broken form, sneering, “Tell Natalie she’s dead if continued to stalk me.” Sadie grabbed her towel, wrapping it around herself, and walked off the beach, leaving Maya a whimpering wreck in the sand, her face bloodied and buried, her body a testament to Sadie’s brutal victory.

[Lostchris]

Ashely Tisdale vs Hilary Duff

As the  Caribbean sun dipped low over an elite resort, its golden rays casting long shadows across the pristine beach. The air buzzed with the energy of the ultra-wealthy, but near a secluded infinity pool, a primal showdown was brewing between two women who felt like apex predators on the prowl. Hilary Duff, in a sleek black bikini, her blonde hair tied back, her toned body glistening with sweat and confidence, strutted with the aura of a queen. She’d never felt more powerful, her ass and thighs sculpted from grueling workouts, her tits firm and proud—she knew she could have any man she wanted. But across the pool, Ashley Tisdale, in a white bikini, her brunette hair loose, her own body a masterpiece of lean muscle and curves, exuded the same predatory energy. Both women, at the peak of their physical primes, couldn’t stand the other’s presence—one of them had to go.

Their eyes locked, the tension crackling like a live wire. “You don’t belong here, Ashley,” Hilary growled, her voice low and dangerous, her hands on her hips, her ass flexing as she stepped closer. Ashley smirked, her white bikini barely containing her curves as she mirrored Hilary’s stance. “Funny, I was about to say the same to you, you washed-up bitch,” Ashley shot back, her tone venomous. The insults ignited the spark, and within seconds, the two women charged, colliding in a whirlwind of fury, their catfight destined to be a war for the ages.

The brawl erupted with savage intensity, their bodies slamming together as they grappled, nails digging into flesh, screams echoing across the deserted pool area. Hilary grabbed Ashley’s hair, yanking her head back, and slammed her fist into Ashley’s stomach, making her gasp. Ashley retaliated, clawing at Hilary’s black bikini top, ripping it off to expose her firm tits, and sank her nails into them, drawing blood as Hilary screamed, “You fucking cxnt!” They rolled across the tiled deck, their bodies a tangle of limbs, scratching, slapping, and tearing at each other’s bikinis until both were nude, their perfect bodies marked with red welts and scratches.

The fight stretched on, easily surpassing an hour, their stamina pushed to the limit. Ashley gained the upper hand early, straddling Hilary and slamming her ass down onto Hilary’s stomach, the impact making Hilary grunt. Ashley reached back, her fingers clawing at Hilary’s pussy, raking her nails across the tender flesh, making Hilary scream in agony, her legs kicking wildly. “I’m gonna fucking ruin you!” Ashley roared, her ass bouncing as she ground down, her hands now slapping Hilary’s tits, leaving them red and swollen. Hilary’s hands clawed at Ashley’s thighs, drawing blood, but Ashley’s assault was relentless—she grabbed Hilary’s ass cheeks, spreading them, and drove her fingers into Hilary’s pussy again, twisting viciously as Hilary sobbed, her body trembling.

For a moment, it looked like Hilary was beaten—her body went limp beneath Ashley, her breaths ragged, her face bloodied from a split lip, her eyes fluttering as if she were on the verge of passing out. Ashley smirked, leaning down to hiss, “You’re fucking done, Duff,” her hands moving to Hilary’s throat, squeezing hard. But then, a surge of adrenaline coursed through Hilary, her eyes snapping open with renewed fury. She roared, bucking her hips with all her strength, throwing Ashley off, and pounced, her second wind turning the tide.

Hilary tackled Ashley to the ground, her nude body slick with sweat and blood, and unleashed a barrage of punches to Ashley’s face, splitting her cheek and blackening her eye. “You’re the one who’s done, you fucking slut!” Hilary screamed, grabbing Ashley’s ass and sinking her nails into the soft flesh, making Ashley shriek as blood trickled down her thighs. Hilary flipped Ashley onto her stomach, straddling her lower back, and reached between her legs, clawing at Ashley’s pussy with savage intent, her fingers tearing into the tender flesh as Ashley sobbed, her body convulsing in pain. “How’s that feel, bitch?!” Hilary taunted, slapping Ashley’s ass hard, the sound echoing as her cheeks jiggled, red handprints blooming on her skin.

The war raged on, their bodies pushed beyond exhaustion, every inch of them marked with blood, bruises, and scratches. Ashley managed a desperate comeback, rolling Hilary off and clawing at her tits, her nails drawing fresh blood as Hilary screamed, but Hilary’s endurance held. She drove her knee into Ashley’s pussy, making her double over, and grabbed Ashley’s hair, slamming her face into the tiled deck, dazing her. Ashley was out on her knees, blood covering her eyes completly helpless, Ashley’s resistance weakened, her body trembling, her sobs growing pathetic as Hilary loomed over her, victorious but merciless. Hilary struck with a vicious jab that was more about the hunilation than ending the fight, Hilary hit that same jab 2 more times until she heard the crunch of Ashley’ nose breaking, “Oof looks like you’re gonna need another nose, third times the charm” said Hilary sadistically.

In the final moments, Hilary dragged Ashley by the hair, forcing her onto her back, and straddled her face, positioning herself perfectly. She locked Ashley’s head between her powerful thighs, her ass inches from Ashley’s bloodied face, and squeezed with all her might, crushing Ashley’s head in a vice-like grip. Ashley’s muffled screams vibrated against Hilary’s skin as her hands slapped weakly at Hilary’s thighs, her face turning red, then purple, as the pressure became unbearable. Hilary’s thighs flexed, her muscles rippling as she poured every ounce of her strength into the hold, her ass bouncing slightly with each clench. “You’re fucking done, Ashley!” Hilary roared, her voice raw with triumph, squeezing harder until Ashley’s body went limp, her hands falling to the sand-covered tiles, her consciousness slipping away.

Hilary held the crushing thigh lock for a few more seconds, ensuring Ashley was out cold, before finally releasing her. Ashley’s body slumped to the ground, her face a swollen, bloodied mess, her chest rising and falling weakly, her once-proud body now a wreck. Hilary stood, her nude body glistening with sweat, blood, and victory, her thighs and ass still trembling from the effort. She spat on Ashley’s unconscious form, sneering, “Stay the fuck down, you pathetic bitch. This resort’s mine.” She grabbed a towel from a nearby lounge chair, wrapping it around herself, and walked away, leaving Ashley broken by the pool, her reign as an apex predator shattered by Hilary’s hellacious victory.

[Lostchris]

Gracie Abrams vs Elle Fanning

At the Cannes Film Festival, the red carpet shimmered with prestige as celebrities gathered for a high-profile premiere. Elle Fanning, radiant in a silver gown adorned with delicate floral embroidery, stood on the right, while Gracie Abrams, striking in a sleek black dress, was on the left. The atmosphere crackled with excitement—until a fiery argument between the two stole the spotlight.

Elle’s voice cut through the crowd as she taunted Gracie with a venomous smirk: “You’re only invited here because of your dad, and it’s kinda ironic that part of the reason I’m here is when your dad needed a real actress, he chose me—not you!” Gracie’s eyes blazed with fury. “You’re just a washed-up child star who can’t handle real talent!” she hissed back, her voice sharp and biting.

The trash talk escalated fast. Elle leaned in, her tone icy: “I’ve been carrying films while you’ve been riding coattails—step up or step out!” Gracie snapped, “You’re all flash, no substance—I’ll outlast you any day!” The tension boiled over when Gracie, trembling with rage, swung at Elle, her fist grazing Elle’s cheek. Elle retaliated instantly, grabbing Gracie’s arm and shoving her back with force, her grip unyielding. Gracie stumbled but quickly regained her footing, her core too strong.

The brawl turned messy. Elle lunged forward, seizing a handful of Gracie’s dark hair and yanking hard, eliciting a sharp yelp. “You’ll never be on my level!” Elle shouted, her voice raw. Gracie, refusing to back down, clawed at Elle’s silver gown, ripping the delicate fabric along the shoulder with a loud tear. “I’ll keep coming for you!” she screamed, her nails leaving scratches on Elle’s arm. Elle pulled harder on Gracie’s hair, dragging her down, but Gracie twisted free, her resilience showing as she tackled Elle to the ground.

The crowd gasped as the two rolled on the red carpet, their elegant dresses now tattered. Gracie’s black gown tore at the hem, exposing her toned frame, while Elle’s floral embroidery hung in shreds. Gracie managed to land a quick slap across Elle’s face, the sound echoing through the stunned onlookers. “You’re nothing!” she spat. Elle, her face flushed with anger, grabbed Gracie’s wrist and twisted, pinning her momentarily before Gracie wriggled free, her endurance keeping her going. She yanked at Elle’s blonde hair in retaliation, pulling out a few strands as Elle hissed in pain.

The fight raged on, their mutual hatred fueling every move. Elle landed a solid shove, sending Gracie sprawling, but Gracie bounced back, charging at Elle and ripping another strip of fabric from her gown. Elle countered by grabbing Gracie’s dress straps, snapping one clean off as they grappled. Both women were relentless, their screams and insults—“This isn’t over, Gracie—I’ll bury you next time!” from Elle, and “Bring it, Fanning—I’ll be ready!” from Gracie—piercing the air.

The women were separated and the festival continued but you couldn’t deny if that scrap wasn’t the talk of the town.

“I’m telling you it wasn’t my fault, psycho bitch wanted a fight” said Gracie as she got off the elevator. Gracie opened her hotel room and slipped out of her ruined dress, standing in her bra and panties. “Listen I promise I won’t cause any more trouble, I ordered room service and my flight is in the morning” said Gracie as she hung up with her management team and threw on a bathrobe. Gracie started to prepare an instagram post downplaying the incident when she heard a knock on the door.

Gracie opened the door expecting to take a platter from the bellhop but instead she took a brutal forearm smash from Elle Fanning. “Fucking found you bitch” said Elle as she entered the room and closed the door still in her tathered dress. “Just me and you now… no one to stop us from finishing this”.

Gracie stumbled backward, clutching her face where Elle’s forearm had smashed into her cheek, the sting radiating through her jaw. Her bathrobe slipped slightly as she caught herself against the edge of the hotel room’s desk, her eyes wide with shock but quickly narrowing into a glare. “You’ve got some nerve, Fanning,” she spat, her voice low and seething, as she straightened up, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. The Instagram post she’d been drafting—some half-hearted caption about “misunderstandings” at Cannes—was forgotten, her phone clattering onto the desk.

Elle, still in her tattered silver gown, the floral embroidery hanging in sad, jagged strips, kicked the door shut with a thud. Her blonde hair was a mess, strands sticking to her sweat-slicked neck, but her eyes burned with fury. “No cameras, no security—just me and you, Abrams. Let’s see how tough you really are,” she sneered, cracking her knuckles as she stepped closer, her torn dress rustling with each movement.

Gracie tightened the belt of her bathrobe, her lips curling into a defiant smirk despite the throbbing pain in her face. “You’re unhinged, you know that? But if you want to finish this, I’m right here,” she shot back, her voice steady even as her heart raced. She wasn’t about to let Elle get the upper hand—not again.

Elle charged without warning, closing the gap in two strides and grabbing Gracie by the shoulders, shoving her hard against the wall. The impact knocked a framed picture of the French Riviera off its hook, the glass shattering on the floor. “You think you can humiliate me on the red carpet and walk away?” Elle hissed, her nails digging into Gracie’s arms through the thin fabric of the bathrobe. Gracie winced but didn’t hesitate—she drove her knee up into Elle’s stomach, forcing a sharp gasp from Elle as she doubled over.

“You’re the one who started this, psycho!” Gracie yelled, seizing the moment to grab a fistful of Elle’s blonde hair and yank her upright. Elle let out a cry of pain, her hands flailing before she managed to slap Gracie across the face, the sound echoing in the small room. Gracie’s head snapped to the side, but she held her ground, her grip on Elle’s hair tightening as she pulled harder, dragging Elle toward the bed.

Elle stumbled, her torn gown catching on the corner of the desk and ripping further, exposing more of her side. She regained her balance just in time to swing a wild punch, catching Gracie on the shoulder. “You’re nothing, Gracie—just a wannabe!” Elle shouted, her voice raw with rage. Gracie absorbed the hit, her own anger fueling her as she shoved Elle onto the bed, the mattress creaking under the sudden weight. “Keep talking, Fanning—I’ll shut you up for good!” Gracie snapped, climbing on top of Elle and pinning her arms down.

Elle thrashed beneath her, her legs kicking as she tried to buck Gracie off. “Get off me, you bitch!” she screamed, managing to free one arm and clawing at Gracie’s bathrobe, tearing the fabric down the front. The robe fell open, leaving Gracie in her bra and panties, but she didn’t flinch—she pressed her forearm against Elle’s throat, leaning in close. “You wanted this fight—now deal with it,” Gracie growled, her voice low and dangerous. Grace changed her position sliding her knees forward and began slowly grinding her pussy on Elle’s face.

Elle choked out a curse, her face reddening as she grabbed Gracie’s wrist, twisting it with enough force to break her hold. In a sudden burst of energy, Elle rolled them over, reversing their positions so she was on top, her knees pinning Gracie’s hips to the bed. “I’m not done with you,” Elle said as wound up to slap Gracie. Gracie’s eyes flashed with fury as she reached up, clawing at Elle’s face, leaving red scratches across her cheek.

The hotel room was a battlefield—glass shards glinted on the floor, the bed was a chaotic mess of tangled sheets, and Elle Fanning and Gracie Abrams were locked in a vicious struggle, their mutual hatred driving every move. Elle, her silver gown hanging in tatters, yanked Gracie’s dark hair back with a fierce tug, forcing a sharp cry from Gracie’s lips. “You’re pathetic, Elle!” Gracie screamed, her voice raw as she retaliated, raking her nails down Elle’s arm, leaving trails of blood on her skin. Elle hissed in pain but didn’t let up, her eyes blazing. “I’ll end you, Abrams!” she roared, her grip tightening.

Gracie in nothing but her revealing underwear, shoved Elle hard, sending them both stumbling toward the door. The force of their struggle knocked it open, and they spilled into the hallway, a blur of torn fabric and flailing limbs. The pristine corridor of the Cannes hotel was suddenly filled with their shouts, echoing off the walls. Gracie grabbed Elle’s shoulder, trying to slam her against the wall, but Elle twisted free, her blonde hair whipping around as she lunged back, clawing at Gracie’s panties trying to rip them off. Gracie didn’t flinch—she tackled Elle, sending them crashing into the elevator doors just as they slid open.

They tumbled into the elevator, the confined space amplifying their grunts and curses. Elle seized the advantage, her fury unleashed as she grabbed Gracie by the shoulders and slammed her against the mirrored wall with a sickening thud. Gracie’s head snapped back, her body slumping slightly as Elle kept up the assault, driving her knee into Gracie’s stomach. “You’re done, Gracie!” Elle snarled, her voice dripping with venom as she slammed Gracie again, the mirror cracking behind her. Gracie’s breaths came in ragged gasps, her body trembling—she seemed broken, her earlier fire dimming under Elle’s relentless attack.

But then, in a sudden burst of defiance, Gracie clenched her fist and swung a devastating uppercut, her knuckles connecting with Elle’s jaw. The crack of the impact echoed in the elevator, Elle’s head snapping back as her body went limp, her eyes rolling back as she crumpled to the floor. Gracie, panting heavily, fell down backwards having put everything into that her chest heaving—had she knocked Elle out? She’d never know, because at that moment, the elevator doors slid shut with a soft ding, leaving Gracie alone in the hallway, her body bruised and her underwear barely covering her.

Adrenaline surged through Gracie as she stumbled toward the stairs, her legs shaky but her resolve unbroken. She had to know if Elle was down for good. Clutching the railing, she descended the steps as fast as her battered body would allow, her bare feet slapping against the cold marble. Her mind raced—where was the elevator going? She reached the lobby, her breath ragged, her appearance wild: hair disheveled, body scratched and bruised, standing in her underwear amidst the shocked stares of hotel guests and staff.

Gracie positioned herself in front of the elevator doors, her fists clenched, ready to face Elle again. The lobby was eerily quiet, the tension thick as the numbers above the elevator ticked down. Finally, the doors opened with a soft chime—but instead of a knocked-out Elle Fanning, the elevator was empty. Gracie’s eyes widened, her heart pounding as she stepped forward, peering inside. Nothing. No sign of Elle, not even a scrap of her torn dress.

Gracie stood there, frozen, her chest heaving as whispers spread through the lobby. She looked unhinged, a disheveled figure in her underwear, her body marked by the fight, her expression a mix of confusion and fury. The fight had ended—again—with no clear winner, leaving Gracie alone in the hotel lobby, her rivalry with Elle unresolved, the mystery of Elle’s disappearance hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.


Part 2 .

Elle Fanning’s return from Cannes left her with a bitter taste in her mouth. Her latest film had earned critical acclaim, and she’d turned heads on the red carpet in her stunning silver gown, but the trip was marred by her very public—and very messy—fight with Gracie Abrams. The brawl on the red carpet, followed by their vicious clash in Gracie’s hotel room, had ended without a winner, leaving Elle humiliated and fuming. Gracie had ridden her face during their fight, forcing Elle into a degrading position that still burned in her memory, the taste of her rival lingering like a stain. Worse, Gracie was still out there, likely plotting revenge. Elle confided in her sister Dakota, who shared a grim tale of her own past rivalry with Saoirse Ronan. Dakota’s advice was cold and clear: “Finish Gracie before she comes to finish you.”

Back at her Los Angeles home, Elle stood in front of her full-length mirror, flexing her toned arms and admiring her physique. She was in the best shape of her life—strong, lean, and powerful, which had shown when she’d slammed Gracie around in their last fight. But Gracie had been quick, landing sharp strikes that left Elle bruised, and the memory of Gracie’s humiliating domination gnawed at her. Elle knew she had to be ready. She slipped into a tight tank top and leggings, grabbed her reusable bags, and headed to Whole Foods for groceries, trying to clear her mind.

Unbeknownst to Elle, Gracie had been tailing her since she landed back in LA. Gracie, still seething from Cannes, had tracked Elle’s movements, her anger simmering as she watched from a distance. Now, as Elle loaded her groceries into her car in the Whole Foods parking lot, Gracie saw her chance. She stepped out of her own car, dressed in a black sports bra and shorts, her dark hair tied back, her eyes locked on Elle with predatory focus. “Hey, Fanning,” Gracie called out, her voice sharp and taunting. “Thought you could run from me?”

Elle froze, her hand on a bag of kale, and turned slowly. Her blue eyes narrowed as she saw Gracie approaching, her rival’s toned body radiating defiance. “You’ve got a death wish, Abrams,” Elle hissed, slamming her car door shut and stepping forward, her groceries forgotten. “I’m done playing with you.”

“Then let’s finish this, bitch,” Gracie snarled, closing the distance fast. She swung a hard slap at Elle’s face, but Elle ducked, grabbing Gracie’s wrist and yanking her forward into a knee to the stomach. Gracie grunted, the air rushing out of her, but she twisted free, her speed showing as she raked her nails across Elle’s cheek, leaving red streaks. “You’re gonna pay for Cannes!” Gracie screamed, lunging at Elle and tackling her against the side of Elle’s car.

The two women grappled fiercely, their bodies slamming into the car with a thud that echoed through the parking lot. Elle grabbed a fistful of Gracie’s dark hair, yanking her head back and slamming her face into the car window. “You humiliated me, you little skank!” Elle roared, her voice raw with rage. Gracie yelped, her nose bleeding, but she retaliated by driving her elbow into Elle’s ribs, forcing Elle to loosen her grip. “You loved tasting me, didn’t you, whore?” Gracie taunted, her voice dripping with venom as she clawed at Elle’s tank top, ripping it down the front to expose her bra.

Elle’s face flushed with fury at the reminder. She shoved Gracie back, her strength evident as Gracie stumbled into the parking lot, but Gracie’s agility kept her on her feet. She charged again, grabbing Elle’s blonde hair and pulling her toward the sidewalk, their bare feet scraping against the pavement. “I’m gonna make you choke on me again!” Gracie hissed, dragging Elle toward the apartment building across the street, where Elle lived on the third floor.

They stumbled through the lobby, a tangle of limbs and fury, ignoring the shocked gasps of the doorman. Elle slammed Gracie against the wall near the elevator, the impact shaking a framed painting loose. “You’re nothing, Gracie!” Elle spat, ramming her shoulder into Gracie’s chest. Gracie gasped but fought back, clawing at Elle’s face and tearing at her bra, the fabric snapping off to reveal Elle’s chest. “Look at you, all exposed—pathetic!” Gracie mocked, landing a sharp slap across Elle’s breasts that made her scream.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, and Gracie shoved Elle inside, the two women tumbling into the confined space as the doors closed. Inside the elevator, Elle took control, her power surging as she grabbed Gracie by the shoulders and slammed her against the mirrored wall, the glass cracking under the force. “You’re done, Abrams!” Elle growled, slamming Gracie again, then driving her knee into Gracie’s stomach. Gracie’s body folded, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as Elle pinned her against the wall, one hand gripping Gracie’s throat while the other yanked at her sports bra, tearing it off. “How’s that feel, slut?” Elle taunted, slamming Gracie’s head against the mirror again, her blonde hair wild with fury.

Gracie looked broken, her body trembling, her face bloodied from the earlier blow to her nose. Elle smirked, thinking she had her rival beaten, but Gracie’s eyes flashed with defiance. With a sudden burst of energy, Gracie swung a devastating uppercut, her fist connecting with Elle’s jaw in a sickening crack. Elle’s head snapped back, her body going limp as she collapsed to the elevator floor, her eyes fluttering shut. Gracie, panting heavily, stood over her, her chest heaving, her sports bra gone, her shorts torn. She thought she’d knocked Elle out cold—until the elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Gracie stumbled out into the third-floor hallway, her adrenaline still pumping.

Elle’s body lay motionless on the elevator floor as the doors closed again, the car descending back to the lobby. Gracie, her mind racing, realized she couldn’t let Elle get away, not again not likr at Canned. She staggered to the stairs, her body aching, her bare feet slapping against the cold steps as she descended, her torn shorts barely clinging to her hips. She reached the lobby, her chest heaving, her body scratched and bruised, standing in just her underwear as hotel guests stared in shock. The doorman approached, but Gracie waved him off, her eyes locked on the elevator doors.

The numbers ticked down, and the doors opened with a soft ding. Gracie braced herself, expecting to see Elle’s unconscious body—but the elevator was empty. No Elle, no sign of her, just the cracked mirror and a few drops of blood on the floor. Gracie’s eyes widened, her heart pounding as she stepped inside, looking around in disbelief. “Where the hell are you, Fanning. How do I keep losing to the fucking elevator?” she muttered, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and confusion.

She stepped back into the lobby, her body trembling, her appearance wild—hair a mess, body marked by scratches and bruises, standing in her underwear amidst the stunned onlookers. The fight had ended with no clear winner, leaving Gracie looking unhinged, her rivalry with Elle unresolved, and the mystery of Elle’s disappearance hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

Gracie stood in the lobby of Elle’s apartment building, her chest heaving, her body scratched and bruised, clad only in her torn shorts and underwear. The elevator doors had opened to reveal nothing—no Elle, just a cracked mirror and a few drops of blood. The shocked stares of the lobby’s occupants burned into her, but Gracie’s mind was singularly focused: Elle had slipped away, and she wasn’t done with her yet. Ignoring the doorman’s protests, Gracie stormed back to the stairs, her bare feet pounding against the steps as she climbed to the third floor, her fury driving her through the pain.

She reached Elle’s apartment door, her breaths ragged, her dark hair a tangled mess. The door was slightly ajar—Elle must have slipped inside while Gracie was in the lobby. Gracie kicked it open with a bang, her eyes scanning the sleek, modern apartment. The living room was dimly lit, with a large mirror against one wall where Elle had been flexing earlier that day. “Fanning, you coward! Get out here!” Gracie shouted, her voice echoing through the space.

Elle emerged from the hallway leading to her bedroom, her blonde hair disheveled, her jaw swollen from Gracie’s uppercut in the elevator. Her tank top and bra were long gone, her leggings torn at the thigh, leaving her in just the shredded fabric clinging to her hips. She wiped a trickle of blood from her lip, her blue eyes blazing with hatred. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you, Abrams?” Elle hissed, stepping forward, her toned body flexing with every movement. “This is my house, bitch—I’m ending you here.”

Gracie didn’t waste a second. She charged, slamming into Elle and driving her back against the mirror with a loud thud, the glass rattling in its frame. “You’re the one who’s done!” Gracie snarled, grabbing Elle’s blonde hair and yanking her head back, slamming it against the mirror. A spiderweb of cracks spread across the glass as Elle groaned, her hands clawing at Gracie’s arms, leaving red scratches on her skin. “You loved tasting me at Cannes—let’s see if you can handle seconds!” Gracie taunted, her voice dripping with venom as she drove her knee into Elle’s stomach.

Elle gasped, the air rushing out of her, but she retaliated with a vicious slap across Gracie’s face, the sound echoing through the apartment. “You’re disgusting, you little whore!” Elle screamed, grabbing Gracie’s torn shorts and ripping them down, leaving her in just her panties. Gracie stumbled, her legs tangled in the fabric, and Elle seized the moment, shoving her rival to the floor and straddling her, her knees pinning Gracie’s arms. “I’m gonna make you scream this time,” Elle growled, raking her nails across Gracie’s chest, leaving angry red welts.

Gracie bucked beneath her, her agility showing as she twisted free, rolling them over so she was on top. “You’re all talk, Fanning!” she spat, grabbing Elle’s throat with one hand and slamming her head against the hardwood floor. Elle’s vision blurred, but she reached up, clawing at Gracie’s face, her nails catching the corner of Gracie’s eye. Gracie yelped, loosening her grip, and Elle used the moment to shove her off, scrambling to her feet.

The two women circled each other, panting, their bodies battered but their hatred unyielding. Elle lunged, grabbing Gracie by the hair and dragging her toward the couch, throwing her over the armrest so her stomach hit the edge. “Let’s see how tough you are now, skank!” Elle hissed, climbing onto Gracie’s back and pulling her hair like reins, forcing her head back. Gracie screamed, her hands flailing as she tried to buck Elle off, but Elle held firm, slamming her fist into Gracie’s side, each blow drawing a sharp grunt.

Gracie managed to twist, her flexibility saving her as she hooked her leg around Elle’s and pulled, sending them both crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Gracie landed on top, her nails digging into Elle’s shoulders as she pinned her down. “You’re nothing, Elle!” Gracie shouted, slamming her forehead into Elle’s nose with a sickening crunch. Blood gushed from Elle’s nose, staining both their bodies, and she let out a guttural scream, her hands grabbing at Gracie’s panties and ripping them off in a desperate counterattack.

Now both women were nearly naked, their bodies slick with sweat and blood, their screams filling the apartment. Elle, her face a mess of blood and tears, managed to roll Gracie off, straddling her again and wrapping her hands around Gracie’s throat. “I’m done with you!” Elle roared, squeezing hard, her knuckles white. Gracie’s face turned red, her hands clawing at Elle’s wrists, but her strength was fading, her eyes fluttering as she gasped for air.

Just as Gracie’s struggles weakened, she mustered one last burst of energy, driving her knee up into Elle’s lower back. Elle arched in pain, her grip loosening, and Gracie shoved her off, both women collapsing to the floor, panting and trembling. They lay there for a moment, their bodies inches apart, their breaths ragged, their hatred still burning. Gracie tried to crawl toward Elle, her nails scraping the floor, but Elle rolled away, dragging herself toward the hallway.

Before either could strike again, the sound of sirens echoed faintly through the open window—someone in the building must have called the cops after hearing the chaos. Gracie froze, her chest heaving, her body too battered to keep going. Elle, clutching her bloodied nose, glared at her from across the room, her voice a hoarse whisper: “This isn’t over, Abrams.” Gracie, her voice equally broken, spat back, “I’ll be back for you, Fanning.”

The fight ended with no clear winner, both women too exhausted and injured to continue as the sirens grew louder. Gracie, naked and battered, stumbled to her feet, grabbing a throw blanket from the couch to cover herself as she staggered out of the apartment, leaving Elle slumped against the wall, her apartment in ruins, their rivalry unresolved and simmering for the next inevitable clash.

[Lostchris]

Gracie Abrams vs Elle Fanning part 2

Gracie Abrams had spent the evening in her father’s lavish office, high up in a sleek Hollywood skyscraper, trying to channel new energy into her next album. The space, filled with awards and framed posters from blockbuster films, felt both foreign and familiar—a perfect muse for her creative process. It was late, well past regular hours, and the building was nearly deserted. The only production still active was some “hippy
bullshit” film that relied on natural lighting, so they’d likely wrapped hours ago. Gracie finished her writing session, locked the office door as her dad had instructed, and headed to the elevator, her mind still buzzing from the lyrics she’d scribbled down. She was dressed casually in a cropped tank top and leggings, her dark hair tied back, expecting a quiet ride down to the lobby.

The elevator hummed as it descended, and Gracie scrolled through her phone, mentally drained and in no mood for small talk. She barely registered the elevator slowing until it stopped a few floors down, the doors sliding open with a soft ding. She didn’t look up until a familiar voice cut through the silence like a knife: “No fucking way.” Gracie’s head snapped up, her heart racing as she locked eyes with Elle Fanning, standing in the doorway. Elle, still in a chic blazer and skirt from a late-night meeting with a producer, looked equally stunned—and furious. Her blonde hair was slightly mussed, her blue eyes narrowing as the tension from their past fights at Cannes and Elle’s apartment flooded back.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Gracie hissed, shoving her phone into her pocket as she stepped forward, her body tensing. “What the hell are you doing here, Fanning?”

Elle stepped into the elevator, the doors closing behind her, trapping them in the confined space. “I could ask you the same thing, Abrams. Still riding daddy’s coattails, I see,” she sneered, her voice dripping with venom as she crossed her arms. “Guess you can’t stay away from me, huh? Need another ass-kicking?”

Gracie’s face flushed with rage. “You’re the one who can’t let it go, you psycho bitch! I’m gonna finish what I started at your place,” she snapped, her fists clenching. The elevator jolted as it resumed its descent, but neither woman cared—they were already lunging at each other.

Gracie struck first, grabbing Elle by the blazer and shoving her against the elevator wall with a thud, the mirrored surface rattling. “You humiliated me at Cannes, and I’m not forgetting that!” she shouted, slamming her forearm into Elle’s chest. Elle grunted, her breath hitching, but she retaliated fast, grabbing Gracie’s dark ponytail and yanking her head back. “You’re the one who rode my face, you filthy slut!” Elle growled, driving her knee into Gracie’s stomach. Gracie doubled over, gasping, but her fury kept her moving—she clawed at Elle’s blazer, tearing it open and exposing her blouse underneath.

The elevator dinged as it reached another floor, but no one was there to witness the chaos. Elle used the moment to shove Gracie back, ripping at her tank top and tearing it down the front, leaving Gracie’s sports bra exposed. “Look at you, all sweaty and desperate—pathetic!” Elle taunted, slapping Gracie across the face with a loud crack. Gracie’s head snapped to the side, but she roared back, tackling Elle to the floor of the elevator just as the doors closed again. They rolled across the small space, their bodies slamming into the walls, the mirrors cracking under the force of their struggle.

Gracie ended up on top, straddling Elle and grabbing her throat with one hand while ripping at her blouse with the other. Buttons popped off, scattering across the floor as Elle’s bra was exposed. “I’m gonna make you scream this time, Fanning!” Gracie snarled, slamming Elle’s head against the floor. Elle’s vision blurred, but she reached up, clawing at Gracie’s face, her nails leaving red scratches across her cheek. “You’re nothing, Abrams!” Elle spat, bucking her hips to throw Gracie off. She succeeded, rolling them over so she was on top, her knees pinning Gracie’s arms as she tore at Gracie’s leggings, ripping them down her thighs.

The elevator reached the lobby with a final ding, the doors sliding open to an empty, dimly lit space. The women spilled out into the lobby, a tangle of limbs and fury, their clothes in tatters. Gracie, now in just her sports bra and torn leggings, scrambled to her feet and charged at Elle, slamming her against a marble pillar. “You’re done, you prissy bitch!” Gracie shouted, driving her fist into Elle’s stomach. Elle doubled over, her breath ragged, but she grabbed Gracie’s hair and yanked her down, both women crashing to the polished floor.

Elle straddled Gracie, her blazer and blouse hanging off her shoulders, her skirt hiked up as she clawed at Gracie’s sports bra, tearing it off completely. “You think you’re tough? I’ll break you!” Elle hissed, raking her nails across Gracie’s bare chest, leaving angry red welts. Gracie screamed, her hands flailing as she grabbed Elle’s skirt and ripped it down, leaving Elle in her panties and torn blouse. “Get off me, you psycho!” Gracie yelled, managing to shove Elle off and roll to her knees, her chest heaving as she lunged again.

They grappled across the lobby, their bare feet slapping against the cold marble, their screams echoing in the empty space. Elle grabbed Gracie by the throat, shoving her against the reception desk, the edge digging into Gracie’s back. “I’m gonna choke you out, you little whore!” Elle snarled, squeezing hard. Gracie’s face turned red, her hands clawing at Elle’s wrists, but she managed to drive her knee up into Elle’s stomach, forcing her to loosen her grip. Gracie gasped for air, then tackled Elle to the ground, straddling her and slamming her fists into Elle’s sides. “You’re the whore who can’t stop coming for me!” Gracie spat, grabbing Elle’s hair and banging her head against the floor.

Elle groaned, her body weakening, but she wasn’t done. She reached up, clawing at Gracie’s face again, her nails catching the corner of Gracie’s eye. Gracie yelped, her grip faltering, and Elle used the moment to roll them over, pinning Gracie beneath her. “I’m better than you, Abrams—always will be!” Elle hissed, wrapping her hands around Gracie’s throat again, squeezing with all her strength. Gracie’s eyes widened, her hands slapping at Elle’s arms, her legs kicking desperately, but Elle’s fury gave her the edge. Gracie’s struggles slowed, her face turning a deeper shade of red, her breaths coming in weak gasps.

Just as Gracie’s eyes started to flutter, she mustered one last burst of energy, clawing at Elle’s face and catching her lip, drawing blood. Elle screamed, her grip loosening, and Gracie shoved her off, both women collapsing to the floor, panting and trembling. But Elle was quicker to recover, her adrenaline surging as she crawled over to Gracie, who was still gasping for air. Elle straddled her again, grabbing Gracie’s wrists and pinning them above her head. “You’re done,” Elle growled, her voice hoarse as she leaned down, her face inches from Gracie’s. “Say it, bitch—say I win.”

Gracie, her chest heaving, her body battered and bruised, glared up at Elle with pure hatred, but her strength was gone. “Fuck… you…” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper. Elle smirked, her lip bleeding, her blonde hair a mess. “That’s good enough,” she hissed, slamming Gracie’s head against the floor one last time for good measure. Gracie’s eyes rolled back, her body going limp as she passed out, her naked chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Elle sat back on her heels, her own body aching, her torn clothes hanging off her frame. She wiped the blood from her lip, her breathing ragged as she looked down at her unconscious rival. The lobby was a mess—scratches on the marble, papers from the reception desk scattered everywhere, and the two women battered and bruised in the center of it all. Elle stood shakily, grabbing her torn blazer to cover herself as she stumbled toward the exit, leaving Gracie sprawled on the floor. This time, there was a winner—Elle had finally taken Gracie down, but the cost of their brutal rivalry was written in every bruise and scratch on her body. As Elle disappeared into the night, the question lingered: would Gracie let this defeat stand, or would their feud reignite once more?

Time had passed since their brutal fight in the Hollywood skyscraper, where Elle Fanning had finally emerged victorious over Gracie Abrams, leaving her unconscious on the lobby floor. But the bad blood between them hadn’t cooled. It was now Elle’s birthday, and a mutual friend—unaware of the depths of their rivalry—had thrown a lavish party at a trendy LA club. Elle, tipsy on champagne, had climbed onto a table, her blonde hair glowing under the strobe lights, and started singing one of Gracie’s new songs, her voice slurring but playful. She danced, her body swaying in a tight dress, and as the song ended, she looked around with a smirk, shouting over the music, “People forget I kicked that bitch’s ass—nice song, though!” The moment was captured on the friend’s Snapchat story, and Gracie, scrolling through her phone back at her place, saw it all.

Her blood boiled. Elle’s taunting words reignited every ounce of humiliation Gracie had felt after their last fight. Using Snap Maps, Gracie tracked Elle’s movements through their mutual friend’s posts, noting that Elle was still at the club and not at home. A wicked idea formed in Gracie’s mind. She grabbed a bag of “supplies”—a mix of personal items meant to humiliate Elle, including a marker, some duct tape, and a few other surprises—and headed to Elle’s house. She knew Elle’s security habits (or lack thereof) from their last encounter and easily slipped inside, the darkness of the empty house amplifying her anticipation. Gracie was ready to give Elle a birthday present she’d never forget.

Gracie paced the living room, her heart pounding with adrenaline, her dark hair tied back, dressed in a black tank top and ripped jeans. She set her bag on the coffee table, her mind racing with plans to ambush Elle the moment she walked through the door. The clock ticked past midnight, and finally, the sound of a key in the lock echoed through the house. Elle stumbled in, still tipsy, her dress slightly askew, her blonde hair a mess from the night’s revelry. She kicked off her heels, humming to herself, oblivious to the danger waiting in the shadows.

Gracie stepped into the light, her voice low and menacing. “Happy birthday, Fanning. Thought I’d drop off a little present.” Elle froze, her blue eyes widening as she registered Gracie’s presence. “Abrams? What the fuck are you doing in my house?” she slurred, her fists clenching as she straightened up, the alcohol dulling her reflexes but not her hatred. “You’ve got some nerve after I beat your ass last time.”

Gracie smirked, her eyes blazing with contempt. “You think you won, bitch? I saw your little performance on Snapchat—mocking me on my song? I’m gonna make you regret that.” She stepped closer, cracking her knuckles. “I’m here to really hurt you this time, Elle. No one’s saving you now.”

Elle’s face twisted with rage. “You’re delusional if you think you can take me again, you talentless cxnt,” she snarled, kicking off her other heel and raising her fists. “I’m gonna finish what I started—permanently.” She lunged at Gracie, her nails aiming for Gracie’s face, but Gracie was ready, sidestepping and grabbing Elle by the wrist, twisting her arm behind her back and slamming her against the wall.

“You’re too drunk to fight me, Fanning,” Gracie hissed, yanking Elle’s hair and pulling her head back. “But I’m gonna make sure you feel every second of this.” Elle screamed, thrashing against Gracie’s grip, and managed to elbow Gracie in the ribs, breaking free. “Fuck you, Abrams!” Elle roared, spinning around and landing a sloppy but hard slap across Gracie’s face, the crack echoing through the room. Gracie’s head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming on her cheek, but she retaliated with a vicious punch to Elle’s stomach, doubling her over.

Elle gasped, clutching her midsection, but she wasn’t done. She charged at Gracie, tackling her onto the couch, their bodies crashing down in a tangle of limbs. “I’m gonna rip your fucking throat out!” Elle screamed, clawing at Gracie’s tank top and tearing it down the front, exposing her bra. Gracie growled, grabbing Elle’s dress and ripping it at the shoulder, the fabric giving way as she shoved Elle off, both women rolling to the floor.

They scrambled to their feet, circling each other in the dimly lit living room, their clothes in tatters, their breaths heavy with hatred. “You’re nothing, Gracie,” Elle spat, her lip bleeding from a scratch. “I’ll make sure you never show your face in this town again.” She lunged again, this time grabbing Gracie’s hair and yanking her down, slamming her knee into Gracie’s chest. Gracie grunted, the air rushing out of her, but she retaliated by hooking her leg around Elle’s and pulling her to the ground, landing on top of her.

“I’m gonna destroy you, Fanning,” Gracie snarled, wrapping her hands around Elle’s throat and squeezing. Elle’s eyes widened, her hands clawing at Gracie’s wrists as she gasped for air, her legs kicking wildly. “You’ll never sing my songs again, you bitch,” Gracie hissed, tightening her grip. Elle’s face turned red, but she managed to dig her nails into Gracie’s forearms, drawing blood and forcing Gracie to loosen her hold. Elle bucked her hips, throwing Gracie off and rolling to her knees, panting.

Elle lunged again, grabbing Gracie by the hair and slamming her face into the coffee table, the wood splintering under the impact. Gracie’s nose bled instantly, the pain shooting through her skull, but she roared in defiance, grabbing Elle’s arm and twisting it, forcing her to the ground. “I’m not done with you!” Gracie screamed, straddling Elle and ripping at her dress completely, leaving her in her bra and panties. Elle screamed, clawing at Gracie’s face, her nails catching Gracie’s cheek and drawing blood. “You’re a fucking psycho!” Elle yelled, managing to shove Gracie off and scramble to her feet.

Gracie wiped the blood from her face, her eyes wild with rage. “I brought some toys for you, birthday girl,” she sneered, grabbing her bag from the table and pulling out a roll of duct tape. Elle’s eyes widened, but she didn’t back down. “You think you can tie me up? I’ll kill you first,” Elle spat, charging at Gracie and tackling her to the floor again, the duct tape rolling away. They grappled, their bodies slick with sweat and blood, their screams filling the house as they tore into each other without mercy.

Gracie managed to pin Elle beneath her, grabbing her wrists and slamming them to the floor. “I’m gonna tape your mouth shut and make you scream through it,” Gracie threatened, reaching for the duct tape with one hand while holding Elle down. Elle thrashed, her nails digging into Gracie’s arms, but Gracie slapped her hard across the face, stunning her long enough to grab the tape. She tore off a strip with her teeth, her hands shaking with adrenaline, and slapped it over Elle’s mouth, muffling her screams. “There we go—nice and quiet,” Gracie mocked, her voice dripping with malice.

Elle’s eyes burned with fury as she bucked beneath Gracie, managing to free one hand and claw at Gracie’s throat, her nails drawing blood. Gracie hissed in pain, slapping Elle again, the sound muffled by the tape. “You’re done, Fanning,” Gracie growled, grabbing Elle’s hair and slamming her head against the floor, once, twice, until Elle’s struggles weakened, her eyes fluttering. Gracie reached into her bag again, pulling out a marker, and scrawled “LOSER” across Elle’s stomach, the black ink stark against her pale skin. “A little birthday message,” Gracie sneered, tossing the marker aside.

Elle’s body trembled, her breaths shallow through her nose, the tape still covering her mouth. Gracie stood, panting, her own body battered—her tank top gone, her jeans torn, blood dripping from her nose and scratches on her face. She looked down at Elle, who was barely conscious, her bra and panties askew, the word “LOSER” glaring on her skin.
Gracie Abrams had just delivered a crushing defeat to Elle Fanning in Elle’s own home on her birthday, a calculated ambush fueled by Elle’s taunting Snapchat performance. Elle lay on the living room floor, battered and broken, her dress in tatters, the word “LOSER” scrawled across her stomach in black marker. Her arms were pinned beneath Gracie’s knees, her breaths shallow through her nose, the duct tape over her mouth muffling her cries. Gracie, her tank top gone, jeans discarded, and face scratched, had already humiliated Elle by removing her own panties and riding her face, a brutal echo of their degrading fight at Cannes. But Gracie wasn’t done—she wanted to push Elle’s humiliation to its absolute limit.

Gracie looked down at Elle, her dark hair a mess, her eyes blazing with sadistic triumph. Elle’s face was a mess of tears and sweat, her muffled sobs barely audible through the tape. Gracie leaned in close, her breath hot against Elle’s ear. “You thought you could mock me, Fanning? Thought you were better than me?” she hissed, her voice low and venomous. “I’m not done with you yet.” She reached down, her fingers brushing against the edge of the duct tape on Elle’s mouth, and with a slow, deliberate motion, she peeled it off, the adhesive pulling at Elle’s skin as she whimpered in pain.

Elle gasped for air, her lips swollen and red from the tape, her voice hoarse as she spat, “You’re a fucking psycho, Abrams! I’ll kill you for this!” But her defiance was hollow—her body was too battered to back up her words, her blue eyes filled with a mix of hatred and fear. Gracie smirked, grabbing Elle’s blonde hair and yanking her head up, forcing her to meet her gaze. “Oh, you’re gonna do more than that, birthday girl,” Gracie sneered, her tone dripping with malice. “You’re gonna beg me to finish this—beg me to cum on your pathetic face.”

Elle’s eyes widened, her face contorting with disgust and fury. “Fuck you! I’d rather die!” she screamed, her voice cracking as she tried to thrash beneath Gracie, but Gracie’s grip on her hair tightened, holding her in place. Gracie slapped her hard across the face, the crack echoing through the room, stunning Elle into silence. “You don’t get to say no,” Gracie growled, her free hand trailing down to her own bare skin, her position still hovering over Elle’s face. “You’re gonna beg me, or I’ll make this so much worse for you.”

Elle’s chest heaved, her breaths ragged, tears streaming down her face as she glared up at Gracie. “I’ll never beg you, you disgusting bitch,” she choked out, her voice trembling but defiant. Gracie’s smirk widened, her hand tightening in Elle’s hair until she winced in pain. “Oh, you will,” Gracie said, her voice cold and unyielding. She shifted her hips, pressing herself closer to Elle’s face, the threat clear as Elle’s eyes filled with fresh panic. “Say it, Fanning. Beg me to cum on your face, or I’ll keep going until you break completely.”

Elle’s resolve wavered, her body trembling with exhaustion and shame, the weight of Gracie’s dominance crushing her spirit. She squeezed her eyes shut, her voice barely a whisper as she forced the words out. “Please… Gracie… do it,” she mumbled, her face burning with humiliation. Gracie’s eyes gleamed with triumph, but she wasn’t satisfied. She yanked Elle’s hair harder, forcing her to open her eyes. “Louder, bitch. Say it like you mean it,” Gracie demanded, her voice sharp.

Elle’s sob broke through her defiance, her voice shaking as she spoke louder, her words laced with despair. “Please, Gracie… cum on my face… I’m begging you,” she said, her voice cracking, tears streaming down her cheeks as the last of her pride shattered. Gracie’s smirk turned into a wicked grin, her grip on Elle’s hair loosening slightly as she leaned back, savoring the moment. “Good girl,” she purred, her tone mocking as she positioned herself fully over Elle’s face, her bare skin pressing against Elle’s lips.

Gracie rode Elle’s face with deliberate intensity, her hands still tangled in Elle’s hair, her movements slow and punishing as she chased her own release. Elle’s muffled sobs vibrated against her, the sound fueling Gracie’s sadistic pleasure as she ground harder, her breaths coming in sharp gasps. “That’s it, Fanning—take it all,” Gracie moaned, her voice thick with triumph as she reached her climax, her body shuddering as she came, marking Elle with the ultimate humiliation, her release a cruel trophy of her dominance.

When it was over, Gracie lifted herself off, her chest heaving, her face flushed with victory. She looked down at Elle, whose face was a wreck of tears, sweat, and shame, her lips trembling, her eyes vacant with defeat. Gracie stood, wiping the blood from her scratched cheek, her torn jeans pulled back on but her panties still discarded on the floor as a final taunt. She grabbed her bag, her body battered but triumphant, and headed for the door, turning back for one last look at her broken rival. Elle lay there, utterly humiliated, the word “LOSER” still scrawled on her stomach, her spirit shattered by the degradation she’d just endured.

“Happy birthday, bitch,” Gracie said with a cold smirk, slamming the door behind her as she left. Elle remained on the floor, her body trembling, her mind reeling from the ultimate humiliation Gracie had forced upon her. Gracie had won this round, pushing their rivalry to its most degrading peak yet, but the fire of their hatred ensured this wouldn’t be the end—Elle’s thirst for revenge would only grow, setting the stage for another inevitable, vicious clash.

——————————————————————————————————
 This is ideally where I would have ended todays post but If I put off completing it, I’ll keep adding to the cycle of revenge and it simply better to finish it. Consider this an intermission before we’re back with a flashback and The Final Chapter

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Dakota Fannjng interlude

The the secluded Malibu beach stretched out under a relentless sun, its golden sands now the stage for a long-awaited reckoning between Dakota Fanning and Saoirse Ronan. The feud had reignited after Ronan’s recent Women’s Health interview, where she casually confirmed years of rumors by revealing her kickboxing training stemmed from a fight with another actress over similar roles—specifically, the coveted *Lady Bird* role Dakota had lost to her. The social media firestorm that followed had set the stage for this confrontation, a no-holds-barred fight until one submitted, with the loser facing humiliating defeat.

Dakota Fanning, in a striking purple bikini with a red headband tying back her blonde hair, stood with a steely resolve, her lean frame a testament to years of discipline. Across from her, Saoirse Ronan, in a vintage green one-piece swimsuit, her red hair loose and wild, exuded a cocky confidence, her kickboxing skills a point of pride. The waves crashed in the background as they faced off, their eyes locked with a hatred that traced back years.

---

**Flashback: 2016, A Hidden Studio Lot Fight for *Lady Bird***

The memory burned in Dakota’s mind as she squared up. It was late 2016, during the casting scramble for *Lady Bird*. Dakota, then a rising star, had been neck-and-neck with Saoirse for the role of Christine “Lady Bird” McPherson. The tension had exploded one evening on a deserted studio lot after a heated audition callback. Saoirse, lean and determined, had taunted Dakota, sneering, “You’re just a child star riding coattails, Dakota. This role’s mine.” The words had ignited Dakota’s fury, but Saoirse struck first, lunging with a surprising kickboxing move—a sharp jab to Dakota’s stomach that doubled her over.

Dakota remembered the sting as Saoirse pinned her to the ground, her green eyes glinting with malice. “You don’t belong here,” Saoirse had hissed, clawing at Dakota’s shirt, tearing it open to expose her bra, and raking her nails across Dakota’s tits, drawing blood. Dakota had screamed, thrashing beneath her, but Saoirse’s hands had moved lower, clawing at Dakota’s jeans, ripping them down to assault her pussy, her fingers digging in with cruel intent. “Submit, you weak bitch!” Saoirse had demanded, her knee grinding into Dakota’s stomach until Dakota, overwhelmed and humiliated, sobbed, “I submit…” Saoirse had stood, spitting on her, and walked away, leaving Dakota a bloodied wreck, the role slipping through her fingers.

---

Back in 2025, Dakota’s eyes narrowed, that humiliation fueling her every move. Without a word, she charged, her agility catching Ronan off guard as she delivered a swift kick to Ronan’s thigh, the impact making her stumble. “You think you can steal my roles and brag about it, you Irish cxnt?” Dakota snarled, her voice thick with years of pent-up rage. Ronan gasped, swinging a wild punch from her kickboxing arsenal, but Dakota ducked, grabbing Ronan’s arm and twisting it behind her back, forcing her to her knees in the sand. “This is for *Lady Bird*, you fraud!” Dakota roared, slamming her knee into Ronan’s back, the sand sticking to Ronan’s sweat-slicked skin as she screamed.

Dakota dominated the fight, her movements precise and relentless, repaying every blow from that 2016 defeat. She flipped Ronan onto her back, straddling her chest, and rained punches on Ronan’s face, splitting her lip and blackening her eye—mirroring the facial damage Ronan had inflicted years ago. “You clawed my tits, huh?” Dakota hissed, tearing off Ronan’s swimsuit top, exposing her pale breasts, and raking her nails across them, drawing blood just as Ronan had done. Ronan howled, her hands flailing, but Dakota’s fury was unstoppable—she grabbed Ronan’s bottoms, ripping them off, and clawed at Ronan’s pussy, her fingers digging in with the same cruel intent Ronan had used. “Feel that, you bitch? That’s what you did to me!” Dakota screamed, her knee grinding into Ronan’s stomach, forcing a choked sob from her lips.

As Ronan’s resistance weakened, Dakota’s revenge took a darker turn. She stood, grabbing Ronan by the hair, and dragged her face-first into the sand, flipping her onto her back. “Time to humiliate you like you did me, you role-stealing slut,” Dakota sneered, positioning herself over Ronan’s head. She lowered her ass onto Ronan’s face, her purple bikini bottom riding up as she face-sat her, the weight and heat suffocating Ronan. Dakota began to twerk, her ass bouncing rhythmically on Ronan’s face, the sand clinging to her cheeks as Ronan’s muffled screams vibrated against her skin. “You made me submit back then—now you’re gonna eat my ass!” Dakota taunted, grinding her hips, her twerking relentless, each movement burying Ronan deeper into the sand, repaying the humiliation of that 2016 defeat with interest.

Ronan’s hands slapped weakly at Dakota’s thighs, her sobs growing faint as the lack of air overwhelmed her, her body trembling helplessly. Dakota twerked harder, her ass enveloping Ronan’s face completely, the degradation absolute as Ronan’s struggles ceased, her body going limp beneath the punishing weight. Finally, Dakota stood, leaving Ronan sprawled in the sand, her face red and buried, her chest heaving weakly, her spirit broken. Dakota loomed over her, spitting on her defeated form, her voice cold and triumphant. “You’re fucking nothing, Saoirse. Submit, or I’ll keep going.”

Ronan’s voice was a choked sob as she gasped, “I… submit… please…” Dakota smirked, turning to the empty beach as if addressing an invisible audience, her voice rising. “And hey, Gracie Abrams—watch yourself! If you ever cross me like this bitch did, I’ll twerk your face into the ground too!” She kicked sand onto Ronan’s prone body, grabbed a towel from a nearby beach chair, and strutted away, her victory a sweet repayment for the 2016 humiliation, leaving Ronan a wrecked, humiliated figure buried in the sand beneath Dakota’s triumphant ass.



Elle’s Revenge


A week had passed since Gracie Abrams’ brutal ambush on Elle’s birthday, a humiliating defeat that left Elle battered and degraded. Under Dakota Fanning’s rigorous training—kickboxing, grappling, and endurance drills—Elle had transformed her rage into a weapon, her lean frame now taut with muscle, her blonde hair tied back in a tight ponytail, her blue eyes blazing with vengeance. Clad in a black sports bra and leggings, she carried a bag with duct tape, a marker, a razor, and scissors—tools to mirror and amplify Gracie’s sadistic tactics.

Dakota’s strategy had been flawless. A fake Instagram story, posted an hour earlier, showed Elle “recovering alone” at the warehouse, complete with a staged photo of an open door and a dropped phone to lure Gracie in. The manipulated Snap Maps from their mutual friend’s account had done the trick, exploiting Gracie’s proven tracking skills. Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit by a flickering bulb, its concrete floor scattered with debris, perfect for the ambush. Elle crouched behind a stack of crates, her breath steady, her body coiled, waiting.

Gracie arrived at 11:05 PM, her dark hair loose, her confidence unshaken after her birthday triumph. She wore a black hoodie and jeans, a bag slung over her shoulder—likely more “supplies”—her steps purposeful as she slipped through the open door. “Elle, you stupid bitch,” Gracie muttered, spotting the staged phone and bending to pick it up, her guard down. That was Elle’s moment.

Elle sprang from her hiding spot, tackling Gracie face-first into the concrete with a roar. “Surprise, you fucking psycho!” she snarled, her knee driving into Gracie’s back as she pinned her arms, wrenching them behind her. Gracie screamed, thrashing, but Elle’s strength—honed by a week of training—held firm. “You thought you could humiliate me in my own home and then again whenever you want? Now it’s your turn!” Elle hissed, ripping off Gracie’s hoodie, exposing her bra and leaving her vulnerable.

Gracie bucked, elbowing Elle in the ribs, but Elle absorbed it, slamming Gracie’s head into the floor to stun her. “Look I brought some of your favorite toys !” Elle growled, grabbing the duct tape and slapping a strip over Gracie’s mouth, muffling her cries. She yanked off Gracie’s jeans, leaving her in her underwear, and flipped her onto her back, straddling her chest. Elle pulled out the marker, scrawling “BITCH” across Gracie’s chest in bold black letters for old times sake, the ink stark against her pale skin as Gracie’s muffled sobs vibrated beneath her.

Elle then pulled out the razor and scissors, holding them up for Gracie to see, her voice cold and deliberate. “You took my dignity, my pride, you really fucking hurt me as much I hate to admit, Gracie and Now you’ve got a choice: let me fuck your ass, or I shave your head and take away your beauty.” Gracie’s eyes widened in terror, her muffled screams growing frantic as she shook her head, her hands clawing weakly at Elle’s legs. Elle smirked, leaning closer, her tone menacing. “Decide, bitch. Ass or hair—I’m not waiting.”

Gracie’s resistance faltered, her body trembling as she realized her options were not truly options and she wanted to try to convince Ele to go easy on her . With a choked sob, she nodded weakly, her eyes pleading through the tape. Elle’s smirk widened as she set the razor aside, grabbing a small bottle of lotion from her bag—part of her planned humiliation—and smeared it over her fingers. “Good choice,” Elle sneered, flipping Gracie onto her stomach and yanking her panties down, exposing her ass. “Let’s see how you like this.” She thrust her fingers into Gracie’s ass, the intrusion making her scream into the tape, her body convulsing in pain and shame. Elle worked her fingers deeper, her other hand slapping Gracie’s ass hard, the sound echoing as red handprints bloomed on her skin. “Take it, you fucking loser!” Elle taunted, her thrusts relentless, each one a repayment for the degradation she’d endured.

Gracie’s muffled sobs grew weaker, her body slumping as Elle’s assault continued, her dominance absolute. After several minutes, Elle pulled back, leaving Gracie a trembling wreck on the concrete, her ass red and marked. Elle stood, dragging Gracie by the hair to the center of the warehouse, and forced her onto her knees. She peeled the tape off Gracie’s mouth, the adhesive pulling at her skin as Gracie gasped for air, her voice hoarse. “Fuck you, Fanning!” she spat, but her defiance was hollow, her body too broken to fight.

“Beg me, you cxnt,” Elle demanded, yanking Gracie’s hair back. “Beg me to cum on your face, or I’ll shave you bald anyway.” Gracie’s eyes filled with fresh panic, her sobs breaking through as she choked out, “Please… Elle… cum on my face… I’m begging you…” Her voice was a whisper of defeat, her pride shattered. Elle’s lips curled into a triumphant grin, pushing Gracie onto her back and straddling her face, her leggings pulled down just enough. “Take it, you fucking bitch,” she sneered, lowering herself onto Gracie’s face, the heat and weight suffocating her.

Elle rode Gracie with deliberate intensity, her hands tangled in Gracie’s hair, her movements slow and punishing as she chased her revenge. Gracie’s muffled sobs vibrated against her, fueling Elle’s satisfaction as she ground harder, her breaths coming in sharp gasps. “That’s it, Abrams—take it all,” Elle moaned, her voice thick with triumph as she reached her climax, marking Gracie with the ultimate humiliation, her release a cruel trophy of her victory.

When it was over, Elle lifted herself off, her chest heaving, her face flushed with victory. She looked down at Gracie, whose face was a wreck of tears, sweat, and shame, her hair still intact but her spirit utterly broken, the word “BITCH” glaring on her chest. Elle stood, pulling up her leggings, and wiped the blood from a scratch on her arm, her body battered but triumphant. “Stay the fuck down, Gracie. This is what happens when you mess with a Fanning. I’m done with you.I want you to lay there and be grateful that’s the end of this”

Gracie lay on the concrete, whimpering, her body trembling, her humiliation complete. Elle strode out of the warehouse, the door slamming shut behind her, her revenge fulfilled. The rivalry for now was over. Both women shared a look that said that’s enough… for now ,

[Lostchris]

Sydney Sweeney vs Billie Eilish

You cut the tension in Billie Eilish’s private record studio in Los Angeles with a wire and the arguments had reached a breaking point, fueled by Billie’s outrage over Sydney Sweeney’s latest Dr. Squatch campaign. The “Sydney’s Bathwater Bliss” soap, infused with a drop of Sydney’s bathwater, struck Billie as the ultimate “simp baiting” move, clashing violently with her anti-objectification stance. Billie had beeb producing a song for Sydney’s new movie and now sje wanted nothing to do with the project,  Dressed in her signature casual comfort style—baggy gray sweatpants, an oversized black hoodie, and neon green sneakers—her dark hair loose and framing her face with a few stray strands, Billie had invited Sydney for a confrontation. The studio, bathed in soft amber light, featured a cluttered mixing table with sliders and dials, a plush gray couch, and a glass-walled bathroom with gleaming tiles, setting the stage for an unexpected showdown.

Sydney arrived at 11:15 AM, surprised by the invitation but eager to network with a star like Billie. She wore a vibrant, multicolored bikini top with bold patterns—red roses, yellow patches, and blue accents—its design accentuating her firm, rounded bosom, paired with matching bottoms that hugged her hips. Her blonde hair flowed freely, catching the light as she stepped inside with a cautious smile. “Hey, Billie,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity, “what’s this about?”

Billie, her taller 5’9” frame tense, stepped forward, her green eyes narrowing beneath her heavy bangs. Her own bosom, fuller and more prominent than Sydney’s, was concealed beneath her loose hoodie, its generous curves hinted at with each movement. “This is about that Dr. Squatch crap, Sydney,” she said, her voice firm and cutting. “Selling your bathwater? It’s degrading, and I’m not here for it. We need to settle this, clean up your act or you’re not getting my music or my brand's cooperation. Mmh mm.” She loomed closer, her presence intimidating, but Sydney, at 5’4” with a sturdy build, stood her ground, her arms crossing to press her firm jugs together.

“I didn’t think it’d bother you this much, Billie,” Sydney replied, her tone steady. “It’s just business, just a side hustle. Are you really this upset or are you jealous? .” The exchange escalated quickly, and in a surge of frustration, Billie slapped Sydney across the face, the sharp crack echoing. “Take this, bitch!” she growled, yanking her hoodie down to reveal her black bra, her ample tits spilling out, their pale skin taut and slightly jiggling with the motion. Sydney’s cheek stung, her eyes flashing as she ripped off her bikini top, exposing her firm, rounded breasts, their creamy surface flushed with defiance. “Let’s go, Eilish—take this!” she retorted, and a titfight erupted—Sydney smashed her chest into Billie’s, neither woman gave an inch.

A titfight, by its nature, was a brutal test of endurance and dominance Billie, with her larger, softer jugs, charged first, wrapping her arms around Sydney in a tight bear hug, squeezing with all her might. “I’m gonna snsp you like a twig!” she grunted, her ample breasts pressing hard against Sydney’s firmer ones, the pressure causing both to redden and swell. Sydney groaned, returning the embrace, her arms locking around Billie, her rounded tits pushing back with equal force. “Not so fast Bill, I can hold my own!” she gasped, their chests mashing together, the friction igniting a burning sensation as they twisted and pulled at each other’s flesh. Sydney or Billie giving an inch.

They stumbled to the mixing table, its surface shaking as Billie pinned Sydney against it, her hands mauling Sydney’s breasts, fingers digging in to twist and pinch the tender skin. “Take this, bitch!” Billie snarled, her larger jugs slamming down, the impact sending a ripple through Sydney’s firm rack. Sydney winced but fought back, grabbing Billie’s softer tits, pulling and pinching with a fierce grip. “How’s that feel, Eilish?” she hissed, thrusting her chest upward, their breasts colliding with a wet *smack*, sliders clattering to the floor. The table wobbled as they grappled, their arms locked in a crushing bear hug, each trying to flatten the other’s bosom.

The fight spilled into the studio, knocking over a mic stand with a crash as they rolled across the carpet. Billie mounted Sydney, her ample tits descending in a brutal slam, the impact flattening Sydney’s jugs momentarily. “Oh fuck!” she moaned, her hands twisting Sydney’s nipples, eliciting a sharp cry, her pussy soaking wet, Billie flet in control. Sydney was trying everything to get out from under Billie, finally while Billie soaked in her  moment of dominancd Sydney bucked , flipping Billie onto her back, and mounted Billie and began mauling her softer breasts, pulling and pinching with vengeful intent. “How’s that feel now?” she panted, slamming her firm rack down, the collision sending a shockwave through Billie’s chest. They rolled, their breasts mashing and clawing, the carpet burning their skin as they fought for dominance.

Desperation drove them to the bathroom, Sydney shoving Billie against the sink, its cold edge biting into her back. “Take this, bitch!” Sydney yelled, her firm jugs ramming into Billie’s larger ones, the *smack* echoing off the tiles. Billie gasped, her breasts reddening, then countered, pushing Sydney into the shower stall, the glass door sliding open with a screech. Water sprayed as Billie lunged, her ample tits slamming into Sydney’s, the wet impact sending droplets flying. “How’s that feel, huh?” she roared, her hands mauling Sydney’s breasts, twisting and pulling as they grappled under the stream.

The fight wore on, Billie’s larger jugs giving her an early edge, their softness allowing her to absorb and redirect Sydney’s blows. But Sydney’s toughness shone through, her endurance keeping her in the fight as Billie’s energy waned. After thirty grueling minutes, their breasts—Billie’s fuller tits swollen and bruised, Sydney’s firm jugs marked with red welts—were battle-scarred. Sydney seized the moment, tackling Billie to the wet bathroom floor, pinning her arms with her knees. “Take this, bitch!” she grunted, lowering her chest to smother Billie’s face, her firm breasts pressing down, cutting off her air. “How’s that feel now?” she murmured, grinding her rack against Billie’s, the pressure unrelenting.

Billie struggled, her larger tits heaving beneath Sydney’s smother, her breaths shallow as the lack of oxygen took hold. “No… take this…” she gasped weakly, but her strength faded. Sydney held firm, her firm jugs enveloping Billie’s face completely, the wet skin slick against Billie’s cheeks. After a tense minute, Billie’s arms fell limp, her body slumping, a muffled “I submit…” escaping her lips. Sydney lifted herself, panting, her rounded breasts glistening with water and sweat, and looked down at Billie, defeated and breathless. “That’s how it feels to lose now. Before you get back to work on my song, I’ll let you sample some of that special ingrediant. ,” she said quietly, sitting on Billie’s chest and angled so that water from the shower ran off Syndey’s body right into Billie’s mouth, Billie coughed and gagged then Sydney rose up adjusting her bikini top and stepping out, leaving Billie sprawled on the tiles, her larger jugs battered and bruised a testament to Sydney’s enduring toughness and smothering victory.

[ernest31]

I love your stories any chance about making one with Emma watson?

[Dario]

Yes , agree.
Emma Watson vs Kristen Stewart would be Wonderfull.