Zendaya vs Anya Taylor-Joy
In Hollywood, rivalry between two divas can begin for many reasons: a stolen role, a contested lover, the desire to excel. In the case of Zendaya and Anya Taylor-Joy, the feud began simply because the two disliked each other. If someone had asked them why, they probably wouldn't have known how to answer: it was as if for each of them the existence of the other was a personal offense, an indelible stain on their otherwise perfect life.
At the glamorous "Dune: Part Two" presentation party, the tension was palpable as soon as Anya Taylor-Joy made her grand entrance. The room, already buzzing with the excitement of the impending film, grew quieter as the crowd took in her ethereal beauty in the white gown that seemed to float around her like a cloud. The paparazzi flashed like a thousand stars around her, and everyone whispered her name. Zendaya, dressed in a dazzling golden number that complemented her flawless skin, watched from the sidelines with narrowed eyes. She was standing with Florence Pugh, her co-star, and felt the heat of envy burning in her chest as the spotlight grew brighter around Anya.
Turning to Florence, she couldn't help but let out a sigh. "Can you believe she's getting all this attention? She's barely in the movie!"
Florence rolled her eyes, her patience wearing thin. "Zendaya, she's one of the most popular actresses right now, and she's nominated for an Oscar. What did you expect?" Her voice had a hint of exasperation, a tone she rarely used with Zendaya, but the constant whining was becoming too much.
Zendaya's jaw tightened, and she took a sip of her champagne, the bubbles fizzing in her nose as she swallowed. "It's just not fair," she murmured. "I've been working my ass off on this franchise, and she waltzes in for five minutes and steals the show."
Florence placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Look, let's not ruin the night, alright?" But before she could say another word, Rebecca Ferguson joined them, her emerald eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Oh, the green-eyed monster rears its ugly head," she teased, noticing Zendaya's sour expression. She took a sip from her own champagne flute, her crimson lipstick leaving a perfect imprint on the glass. "You know what they say, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."
Zendaya's gaze shot to her, a spark of something unreadable flickering in her eyes. "What do you mean?"
Rebecca shrugged, her own gown shimmering with a thousand sequins. "I mean, are you going to sit here all night and mope, or are you going to go over there and show everyone why you're the lead?"
Florence's eyes widened as she caught on to Rebecca's game. The two exchanged a knowing look, a silent agreement to stir the pot a bit. Zendaya's competitive spirit was legendary, and they both knew it was only a matter of time before the simmering jealousy boiled over.
"Come on, Z," Florence said with a playful nudge. "You're the Chani of this franchise. You can't let a character who isn't even born hog all the limelight."
Zendaya took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving Anya. "You're right." She said through gritted teeth. With a swift motion, she handed her empty champagne flute to a passing waiter and began to march across the crowded room, her golden dress swaying with each determined step.
Florence and Rebecca watched her go, the corners of their mouths curling into matching devious smiles. Without a word, they clinked their glasses together, the sound echoing in the air like a toast to the impending drama. They knew Zendaya all too well; the challenge had been accepted.
Zendaya's heels clicked against the marble floor as she approached the white-clothed table holding an assortment of wines. She took a moment to select the reddest, most expensive-looking bottle, her eyes never leaving Anya's back. She poured the deep crimson liquid into a flute, her hand steady despite her racing heart. The room was a blur of faces and lights as she approached her adversary, the warmth of the wine in her hand a silent promise of the chaos to come.
When she was close enough, she feigned a clumsy stumble, the glass tilting in Anya's direction. The wine spilled, a dark river flowing down the pristine fabric of Anya's white gown. The room gasped in unison as the stain grew, a stark contrast to her angelic appearance. Anya whipped around, eyes wide with shock, just in time to see Zendaya's smug smile.
But the tables turned faster than anyone could anticipate. Anya, instead of the expected outrage, burst into laughter. It was a full-bodied, genuine laugh that filled the room and seemed to shake the very air. She looked down at her wine-soaked dress and laughed even harder, as if the situation were the most amusing thing she'd seen all night. Zendaya's smirk froze on her face, the room's attention now fully on the two of them.
"Oh, Zendaya," Anya gasped, wiping a tear from her eye, "you really know how to make an entrance!" She took a step closer to her rival, her eyes dancing with amusement.
Zendaya's smile faltered: she had expected anger, indignation, perhaps a dramatic scene worthy of a soap opera. But not this... not laughter. "I'm so sorry," she said in a voice that was a tad too sweet, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "It was a complete accident."
Anya's laughter subsided into a chuckle as she took in Zendaya's expression. "Oh, I know," she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're always so... clumsy."
Zendaya's cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, the color matching the wine that stained the floor. She took a step back, her voice tight. "Excuse me? I'm not clumsy. I've got more coordination in my little finger than you'll ever have!"
Anya's smile remained, unruffled. She raised an eyebrow, her voice still light with amusement. "Then you must have had a very specific target, Zendaya. Or perhaps you're just not as graceful as everyone thinks?"
The crowd around them had grown, their whispers and murmurs now a cacophony of anticipation. The air grew thick with the scent of spilled wine and the electric charge of a confrontation waiting to happen. Zendaya's eyes darted to the side, noticing the eager faces, the cameras poised to capture every moment. The humiliation burned hotter than the wine stain on her hand.
"Why would I do that on purpose?" she snapped back, her voice carrying over the noise. "I don't have to resort to such childish tactics."
"The, if you don't 'need to resort to such childish tactics', you should have had the courage to do this"
With a swift movement, Anya grabbed a full glass of wine from a nearby table, her eyes locked onto Zendaya's. Without a moment of hesitation, she poured the deep red liquid over Zendaya's golden head. The liquid cascaded down her face and neck, staining the expensive fabric of her gown as it went.
Zendaya's shriek of indignation pierced the air like a dagger, cutting through the music and chatter. She stumbled back, her hand flying to her face, the sticky warmth of the wine mixing with her makeup and leaving a crimson streak down her cheek. The room fell silent, the only sound the echo of her outraged cry.
Anya Taylor-Joy, now standing in a puddle of wine, watched Zendaya with a smug satisfaction. Her own dress was ruined, but she had managed to throw Zendaya off balance, and that was all she had hoped for. The crowd around them was frozen in shock, their eyes darting back and forth between the two actresses as if watching a tennis match where the ball was a bottle of Bordeaux and the rackets were their glares.
For a moment, the two women remained motionless, the tension hanging in the air like a heavy fog. Zendaya's chest heaved with the effort of containing her fury, her eyes spitting fire at Anya. The room had gone so quiet that the distant clink of a dropped silverware was as loud as a gunshot.
They both looked around, each searching for someone to step in and break the standoff. The partygoers, however, were too transfixed by the unfolding drama to intervene. Directors, actors, and producers alike held their breaths, their eyes glued to the scene, hoping to capture every moment on their phones. Even the security, who had been hovering nearby, were caught off guard by the sudden turn of events.
Zendaya felt the heat of embarrassment spread from her cheeks to her neck, her thoughts racing. She had to regain control, to show she was above such petty spite. But the desire to wipe that smug grin off Anya's face was overwhelming. The room was a canvas painted with a tapestry of emotions, and she was the artist holding the brush.
As the silence grew heavier, Anya took a step forward, her smile fading into a more serious expression. "Look, I didn't mean to laugh. It's just..." She paused, her eyes searching for the right words. "It's just that we're all so stressed with the movie and the competition. Let's not let it get to us, alright?"
But Zendaya saw something else in that smile, something that made her blood boil. It wasn't genuine amusement; it was mockery. Anya thought she could get away with this, that she could belittle her in public and play it off as a joke. It was a peace offer, but one that reeked of cowardice.
The room was a blur of faces, their whispers a dull murmur in the background. Zendaya felt the eyes on her, the judgment in every stare. But she wouldn't let it show. She would not be the one to back down. With a calculated grace, she stepped closer to Anya, her own smile now a cold, sharp weapon. "Is this your idea of a truce?" she spat, her voice low and venomous. "You think you can make a fool of me and get away with it?"
Anya's smile faltered, the laughter in her eyes replaced with a hint of something darker. "You're the one who made it into a spectacle," she countered, her voice steady. "I was just trying to save you from embarrassment."
Zendaya's eyes narrowed. "Don't patronize me," she said, her voice dangerously low. "I know what you're doing. And let me be clear: I'd love nothing more than to show you exactly what I think of your little stunt."
Anya's smile grew colder. "You're not going to do anything, Zendaya. Because you're not that kind of person. You're all glitz and glamour, no substance. You wouldn't dare ruin your precious reputation with a catfight at a fancy party."
Inside, both women were hoping that someone would intervene to separate them; but there was a deeper part of them, wilder and more primitive that instead roared to be freed. The primal urge to resolve disputes with violence, not with reason.
Florence and Rebecca, who had been watching the exchange from the sidelines, couldn't help the smirks that played on their lips. They knew what was coming and it was going to be glorious. Leaning in close to each other, their voices barely above a whisper, they began to chant: "Fight! Fight! Fight!" The words were like a secret incantation, a dark spell that only the two of them could hear. They watched as the tension grew thicker, as if the air itself was coalescing into a physical barrier between Zendaya and Anya.
The rest of the partygoers slowly started to catch on, their whispers turning into murmurs of excitement. The hum of the room grew louder as the anticipation of a catastrophic event grew. The whispers grew bolder, the glances more frequent, as people realized that the two Hollywood divas were about to have a very public meltdown. The air was electric with tension, and it seemed as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the moment when the storm would finally break.
And then, without warning, it did. With a shrill shriek that could shatter glass, Zendaya and Anya lunged at each other, their perfectly manicured nails digging into the soft flesh of the other's arms. The room gasped as the two women, once the epitome of poise and grace, now resembled nothing more than a pair of wild animals fighting over a scrap of meat.
Their gowns, once elegant and pristine, were now wrinkled and stained as they grappled, pulling each other's hair and spitting insults that were lost in the cacophony of the party. The crowd grew around them, their whispers now shouts of encouragement or horror.
Florence and Rebecca watched the scene unfold from a safe distance, their initial shock giving way to a private giggle. The absurdity of it all was too much, two goddesses of the silver screen fighting like schoolgirls in a food fight. They couldn't help but enjoy the spectacle, the drama that was playing out before them. They had seen their share of Hollywood feuds, but this was a new level.
Zendaya and Anya's hair flew as they pulled and yanked, the once sleek strands now a tangled mess. The gold of Zendaya's dress and the red of the wine blending with the white of Anya's gown, creating a modern-day battle of the elements. The crowd had gone from shock to a mix of horror and excitement, phones held high, capturing every moment of the scandal that would surely go viral within minutes.
"You think you're so much better than me," Zendaya growled, her voice a mix of rage and disbelief. "You're just a pretty face with no talent!"
"Talent?" Anya spat back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You couldn't act your way out of a paper bag!"
Their catfight grew more intense, the sound of fabric tearing and heels scraping against the marble floor. They stumbled through the room, knocking over a table laden with hors d'oeuvres and sending glasses flying. The smell of spilled wine and shattered glass mingled with the expensive perfumes that filled the air. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, making way for the chaos that was unfolding before their eyes.
And then, in a moment of pure, unbridled fury, Anya tripped on the train of her own gown. She fell with a thud, her white fabric staining the dark red of the wine-soaked floor. Before she could recover, Zendaya was on top of her, her golden dress now a crimson mess. The two rolled around the floor, slapping and scratching at each other like feral cats.
Their makeup ran down their faces in rivers of black and red, smearing their once flawless visages into a grotesque parody of themselves. The sound of their grunts and gasps mixed with the shattering of glass and the crunch of ruined hors d'oeuvres beneath them. The crowd had gone from shocked to horrified to absolutely thrilled. They had come for a night of glamour and elegance, but what they were getting was a full-blown, no-holds-barred catfight.
Zendaya managed to straddle Anya, her legs on either side of the other woman's waist, her gold dress now a crimson mess. She raised her hand high, the light from the chandeliers glinting off her ring as she brought it down in a slap that echoed through the silent room. "You're just an overrated bimbo," she spat, her voice hoarse with rage. "You think you can come in here and take what's mine?"
Anya's eyes flashed with a fiery defiance as she reached up, her own hand connecting with Zendaya's cheek with a sharp sound that was heard even over the music that had started playing again in a desperate attempt to drown out the scene. "You're the one who spilled wine on me," she hissed, her breath hot and heavy with fury. "This is all your doing."
Zendaya's smile was a twisted snarl. "Oh, darling," she said, her voice a deadly purr, "you think I care?" She leaned down, her hands moving to Anya's shoulders, pressing her down into the sticky mess on the floor. "You think you can come in here, in my movie, my night, and take the spotlight?"
Anya's eyes narrowed, her teeth gritted. She pushed back, her arms trembling with the effort. "Your movie?" she spat. "You think you own this franchise?"
"I've worked harder than you ever will," Zendaya retorted, her grip tightening on Anya's shoulders. "I've given my blood, sweat, and tears for this role, and you just waltz in for five seconds of screen time and think you can steal the show?"
Anya's eyes flashed with a fiery intensity that matched the red stains on her dress. She bucked her hips, trying to dislodge Zendaya's weight. "It's not my fault that those few seconds of me are more interesting than all your minutes!" she hissed through clenched teeth.
With a snarl, Zendaya grabbed a handful of Anya's hair, the once-perfect coif now a tangled mess. She yanked hard, pulling Anya's head back, exposing her neck in a gesture that was more animalistic than human. Anya's eyes watered with pain, but she didn't make a sound, her jaw set in determination. She knew that the moment she showed weakness, it would be all over.
But Anya Taylor-Joy was not one to be easily bested. With a strength that surprised even herself, she reached up and grabbed Zendaya's breasts, her long nails digging into the thin fabric of the golden dress. The gasp that escaped Zendaya's lips was a mix of shock and pain, her eyes wide with outrage. The crowd around them gasped in horror and excitement, the line between the two emotions blurring as the fight grew more vicious.
Florence and Rebecca watched the unfolding scene with a mix of amusement and disbelief. "Remember when she talked about her 'fight training' before the filming?" Florence whispered to Rebecca, her voice laced with giggles. "She's fighting like she's never seen a punching bag before!"
Rebecca's smile grew wider as she nodded. "And Anya," she said, her eyes never leaving the writhing mass of fabric and limbs on the floor, "she's not doing much better either."
Florence glanced over, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "What do you mean?"
Rebecca leaned in closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Anya's all talk," she said with a wink. "She thinks she's a tiger, but in a real fight, she's just a kitten playing with a ball of yarn."
But as they watched, the tide of battle turned again. Anya managed to roll Zendaya over, now straddling her with surprising strength. Her fingers dug into the golden fabric, her nails leaving a trail of crimson against Zendaya's skin. The room was a whirlwind of gasps and murmurs as the reality of the situation hit everyone present.
"How can you call yourself a warrior?" Anya taunted, her breath hot against Zendaya's face. "How can anyone take you seriously when you can't even handle a little wine?"
Zendaya's eyes flashed with a feral anger. "I'll show you a warrior," she growled, her hands flying up to scratch at Anya's arms with a desperate strength fueled by humiliation and fury. Her nails raked down the other woman's skin, leaving trails of red that stood out against the pristine fabric of her white dress. Anya's eyes widened in surprise and pain, releasing her grip on Zendaya's breasts to protect herself.
In that moment of distraction, Zendaya managed to twist out from under Anya, sending her sprawling onto the sticky, wine-soaked floor. The crowd gasped again as the fabric of Zendaya's gown tore away, leaving her breasts exposed to the cold air of the room. The horror and excitement on the faces of the partygoers was palpable, their whispers turning into a fever pitch of excitement and disbelief.
Rebecca and Florence, who had been watching the spectacle with a mix of amusement and horror, could no longer hold back their laughter. They had started taking pictures of the fight, their phones held high like trophies in a wild game hunt. "This is going to be the best Instagram post ever," Florence murmured to herself, her eyes shining with mischief.
Zendaya, her face a mask of fury, quickly covered herself with the shredded remains of her golden dress. The fabric clung to her body like a second skin, the sticky wine making it almost impossible to move. She looked up at Anya, who was standing above her, twirling a torn piece of the gown around her finger. The white fabric looked like a macabre ribbon in the dim light of the party.
"Why bother hiding?" Anya sneered, her own dress in tatters around her. "You know it's your body that keeps your career afloat, not your 'acting'." The crowd murmured in shock, the words hitting Zendaya like a slap across the face.
Florence couldn't help but interject, her voice carrying over the gasps. "That's a low blow, Anya," she said with a hint of laughter. The comment was like a spark thrown into a pile of dry leaves; it ignited a fresh wave of anger in Zendaya.
Rebecca's smirk grew as she leaned in closer to Florence. "Was it, though?" she murmured, her voice barely audible over the commotion. "I mean, let's be honest, she's got a point."
Zendaya, fueled by the insult and the burning need to reclaim her dignity, lunged at Anya. She wrapped her arms around the other woman's legs, pulling with all her might. Anya's eyes widened in surprise as she toppled over, her fall cushioned by the plush carpet. The room gasped as the two rivals rolled over, a tangle of limbs and fabric.
With a snarl, Zendaya started ripping at Anya's white gown, the material tearing like paper beneath her furious grip. Each rip was accompanied by a satisfying sound that seemed to echo through the suddenly silent room. The once-innocent white dress was now a battleground of torn fabric and exposed skin, the red wine stains standing out like a declaration of war.
As the two rolled over, Anya's gown gave way to reveal a thong that was more of an illusion than an actual piece of clothing. Zendaya's eyes lit up with a sadistic glee. With a swift motion, she grabbed the scrap of material and gave it a vicious yank, pulling it upwards. Anya's face contorted in a silent scream of shock and pain as the thong dug into her flesh. The room held its collective breath as the fabric stretched and tightened, a stark contrast to the elegant evening wear that had once adorned the two.
Florence, unable to contain her amusement, leaned in to whisper to Rebecca, "I told you she fought like a schoolgirl." But Rebecca's eyes remained glued to her phone, capturing every second of the mortifying scene. She had zoomed in on the battle between the fabric and Anya's body, her thumb hovering over the camera button. "Look at that thong," she murmured, her voice thick with excitement. "It's like it's trying to escape."
Anya's scream pierced the air, a high-pitched wail that seemed to shatter the chandeliers above them. She had felt the fabric give way, the thong ripping like a silent fuse that had been lit. The pain was sudden and sharp, but it was nothing compared to the horror of realizing she was now exposed before the entire room. Her eyes went wide, searching for a way out, a way to cover herself, but Zendaya's grip was like iron.
Zendaya, holding the torn thong in her hand, twirled it around her finger like a ring, her smile a cold, mocking imitation of Anya's earlier gesture. "Looks like you're not as put together as you thought," she taunted, her voice dripping with spite. The crowd had gone from shocked to gleeful, the energy in the room palpable as they watched the spectacle unfold.
Anya, desperation in her eyes, lunged at Zendaya again. Their hair tangled together as they rolled across the floor, their gowns now little more than shreds of fabric. The sound of their heels clacking against the marble was a sharp counterpoint to the gentle melody of the background music, which seemed to grow fainter with each passing second. They grabbed at each other's hair, pulling and tugging, each trying to regain the upper hand.
As they continued to struggle, their flailing limbs sent a nearby table flying. The vase atop it shattered, sending shards of glass and water spraying through the air. The room gasped as the cold reality of their fight set in - this was no longer a petty squabble, but a full-blown brawl, and the consequences could be dire. The partygoers had gone from stunned to horrified, their phones still held high, the desire to capture the moment warring with their sense of decorum.
Their momentum carried them closer to the open French windows, the cool night air whispering a warning that went unheard. They stumbled through the opening, their torn dresses fluttering like battle flags behind them. The lush garden lay in stark contrast to the chaos they brought, the moon casting long shadows that danced as they rolled down the steps and onto the dewy grass.
Rebecca's words cut through the tension like a knife, "No style points for either of them, but I'll give them an A for endurance." she said, sipping her drink with a wry smile. Florence chuckled, the absurdity of the situation finally breaking through her shock. They watched the two rivals continue to claw and scratch at each other, the elegance of the evening now a distant memory.
And then, with a wild shriek, Anya made her move. In a desperate attempt to gain the upper hand, she threw herself at Zendaya, the two of them tumbling through the air like rag dolls thrown by an angry child. The crowd parted again, creating a path that led straight to the pond in the center of the garden. It was as if the universe itself had conspired to provide a stage for their dramatic fall.
They landed with a splash that sent water spraying in every direction, the sound echoing through the stunned silence of the partygoers. For a moment, all was still. The two actresses floated in the moonlit water, their once-elegant gowns now nothing more than shreds of fabric clinging to their bodies. The red wine stains looked like open wounds against the stark white of Anya's gown, the gold of Zendaya's now a dull brown.
The crowd watched, horrified and fascinated, as the two women began to rise from the water. Their hair, once perfectly styled, was now plastered to their faces, the makeup smeared into grotesque patterns that made them look like warriors from some ancient tribe. They staggered to their feet, the water weighing down their sodden dresses, which clung to their forms like second skins.
For a brief moment, it seemed like the unexpected dunk in the pond had cooled their tempers. But as their eyes met again, the fire between them roared back to life. Zendaya took a step forward, the water sluicing off her, and lunged at Anya. The other woman stumbled back, her feet slipping on the slick grass. But she recovered quickly, her eyes flashing with a fury that matched her opponent's.
"Ladies! Ladies!" someone called out, trying to break up the fight, but they were too far gone. The crowd had parted, giving them a clear path back to the party, but their focus remained solely on each other.
Rebecca and Florence, still standing by the shattered remains of the table, watched the scene unfold with a mix of shock and amusement. "You know what?" Florence said, her voice a mix of excitement and horror. "I think we should place a bet."
Rebecca's gaze flickered over the crowd, their faces a mix of shock, horror, and undisguised excitement. She took a moment to consider the implications of such a bet. "Isn't it in bad taste?" she asked, a hint of doubt in her voice.
Florence giggled. " Everyone's already placing bets with their eyes. We're just putting our money where our mouths are." She took a long sip of her drink, the ice clinking against the glass. "Besides," she added with a smirk, "it's not every day you get to see two A-listers turn into mud-wrestling barbarians."
Rebecca couldn't argue with that logic. With a grin that was more devilish than demure, she turned to the nearest group of partygoers. "Who's in?" she shouted, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. "Twenty bucks on the golden girl to take the crown!"
The crowd roared to life, pockets of bets forming around the garden as people shouted their allegiances. Some backed Zendaya, drawn in by her fiery spirit and the allure of the underdog. Others placed their chips on Anya, convinced that her sharp tongue and cunning mind would win out in the end. The atmosphere grew electric as the stakes grew higher, the air thick with the scent of money and desire.
Now indifferent to the prying eyes and eager cameras, the two women continued to fight in the pond. Anya had managed to wrap her legs around Zendaya's waist, her arms locked around the other's neck in a chokehold that threatened to cut off her air supply. Zendaya's eyes bulged as she tried to break free, her hands clawing at the water's surface. The pond had turned murky red with the wine and makeup, a reflection of the battle raging between them.
With a surge of strength, Zendaya managed to pull herself from Anya's grip, her hand sinking into the soft, sludgy bottom of the pond. She emerged with a fistful of thick, cold mud, the smell of earth and stale water filling her nostrils. She saw her chance and took it without hesitation, flinging the mud at Anya's face with a feral grunt. The dollop splattered against Anya's skin, obscuring one eye and mixing with the smeared makeup to create a ghastly mask.
The crowd's gasps turned to cheers as they watched the muddy spectacle. Anya, momentarily blinded, released her hold and staggered backward. Her once-white dress was now a canvas of brown and red, the fabric clinging to her in a way that was more revealing than the thong she had lost in the scuffle. She brought her hands to her face, spitting out the foul water that had entered her mouth.
Zendaya, sensing an opportunity, lunged again. This time, she had no intention of letting Anya regain her footing. She grabbed another handful of the murky pond sludge and brought it up to Anya's face with a snarl of triumph. Anya's eyes widened in horror as she felt the cold, thick mud slide over her skin, coating her lashes and sticking to her eyebrows. She sputtered and choked, her grip on Zendaya's waist loosening as she desperately tried to clear her vision.
Florence couldn't help but cringe at the sight of the muddy mess. "That's just disgusting," she said, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of the crowd.
Rebecca's eyes lit up with excitement, and she leaned closer to Florence. " Yeah, it’ definitely is” she whispered. But then she shouted, her voice rising above the din. "Do it again Zee!"
Zendaya's grip tightened around Anya's neck, and with a powerful thrust, she pushed her under the water. Anya's head disappeared below the surface, a plume of murky water rising up around her. For a second, it was as if time had stopped, the air thick with anticipation. Then, with a furious kick, Anya surfaced, her hair plastered to her head like a drowned rat. She spluttered and coughed, her eyes wild with fury as she wiped the grime from her face.
"Do you yield?" Zendaya shouted, her voice strained with exertion.
Anya, her eyes wild with rage, spit out a mouthful of water. "Fuck off," she screamed, the words barely audible through the cacophony of the surrounding crowd.
Zendaya, noticing the desperation in Anya's voice, took a step back and dunked her head again into the murky pond. This time, Anya was ready. She lunged upward, her hands searching for anything to hold onto. By sheer luck, her fingers wrapped around the soft, vulnerable flesh of Zendaya's mound, the fabric of the dress doing nothing to protect her.
With a roar of agony, Zendaya released her hold on Anya's neck, her hands flying to protect her exposed intimate area. The grip was like a vice, and she could feel Anya's nails digging into her, the pain shooting through her body like lightning. The crowd's cheers grew louder, the excitement of the fight feeding their bloodlust.
Florence and Rebecca both winced at the sight, their laughter dying in their throats as the gravity of the situation set in. "Ouch," Florence murmured, her hand unconsciously moving to cover her own private parts.
"That had to sting," Rebecca agreed, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and fascination. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of pain for Zendaya, despite the bet she had placed on her.
But the fight wasn't over yet. Anya, using the leverage of her hand still buried in Zendaya's most intimate place, dragged her rival out of the pond and onto the slick grass. Zendaya's legs kicked wildly, her arms flailing as she tried to break free from the painful grip. Her gown had become nothing more than a heavy, soggy burden that clung to her body, offering no protection from the cool night air.
Anya stood over her, mud-covered and panting, her eyes glinting with a triumphant malice. "You know, I always knew you were all talk," she spat out, her voice thick with spite. "You think a pretty face and a fancy dress can hide the fact that you're just a scared little girl?"
Zendaya's eyes narrowed as she lay there, the cold water and mud weighing her down. With a snarl, she managed to push herself up on her elbows, her teeth gritted against the pain. "Let go of me," she hissed, her voice a deadly whisper.
But Anya was in no mood for mercy. She leaned down, her nails digging deeper into the tender flesh. "Say it," she demanded, her voice low and vicious. "Say I'm better than you."
Zendaya's hand darts to Anya's face, her eyes burning with a desperate rage. Her finger slices through the air, aiming straight for the blue pools that had haunted her all evening. The room seems to hold its breath as the nail makes contact with Anya's cheek, the sound of skin on skin sending a shiver through the onlookers. Anya's grip on Zendaya's pussy tightens for a fraction of a second, but the shock of the near miss to her eyes is too much. She jerks back, her hand releasing Zendaya's hair with a wet pop.
The two women slowly stand up on wobbly legs, the weight of their waterlogged gowns pulling them down. The grass beneath them is a slick mess of mud and grass stains, a stark reminder of the elegant evening that has descended into chaos. They stand there for a moment, panting heavily, their chests heaving with the exertion of the fight. The crowd is a blur around them, a sea of faces that seem to judge and cheer in equal measure.
"Looks like it's almost over," Rebecca says, her voice carrying over the din. Her eyes are still glued to her phone, the screen glowing with the recording of the fight. She's been live-tweeting the whole thing, her follower count skyrocketing with every new update.
Florence nods in agreement, her eyes never leaving the mud-soaked spectacle before them. "Yes, but what an... interesting turn of events," she says, her voice laced with amusement. She takes a step closer to the edge of the pond, her heels sinking into the wet earth. "Who knew our little Anya had it in her?"
Rebecca, her own surprise reflected in the glow of her phone screen, lets out a low whistle. "Not me," she admits, a hint of admiration in her voice. "But it seems like our Zendaya isn't one to be underestimated either."
The two rivals circle each other, their eyes locked in a silent challenge. The mud and wine-soaked fabric cling to their bodies, the once-beautiful gowns now a sad parody of their former glory. The air is thick with tension, the only sound the squelching of their sodden heels in the muck. The crowd is hushed, the anticipation palpable as they wait for the next move.
Zendaya, her eyes narrowed and her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps, makes her decision. She gathers what little strength she has left and pounces on Anya with a feral scream. In a swift move that seems almost predatory, she tackled her opponent into the nearby rose bush, the thorns tearing into their already ravaged gowns. The sharp points dig into their flesh, drawing more blood to mix with the mud and wine. The thorns snag and pull, the sound of fabric ripping as the bush devours them, adding a new dimension of pain to their already bruised and battered forms.
Rebecca's eyes widen in shock as she watches the scene unfold. "Holy shit," she murmurs, her voice lost in the roar of the crowd.
Florence, standing next to her, nods in agreement. "Yep! This is what they call a 'Holy Shit!' moment in pro wrestling."
Anya's scream pierces the night as the thorns bite into her, the pain so intense it feels like a thousand needles piercing her skin. Zendaya, though she feels the thorns too, has the advantage of being on top, her body shielded by Anya's beneath her. She uses the momentary shock to her advantage, her hands wrapping around Anya's wrists, pinning them to the ground.
With a snarl, she begins to rain slaps down upon Anya's face and body. Each hit resonates through the stillness of the garden, a symphony of anger and humiliation. Anya, paralyzed by fear and pain, doesn't even try to defend herself. Her eyes, wide with terror, dart around the bush, searching for a way out, for a miracle that won't come. The thorns dig into her back, a constant reminder of the hell she's found herself in.
"Stop," Anya manages to croak out, her voice trembling with pain and fear. "I'm sorry, I give up."
But Zendaya doesn't care. Her rage is a living, breathing entity now, a force that has taken over her body and mind. She keeps slapping and scratching Anya, her nails leaving deep gouges in the other woman's skin. The smell of blood mingles with the scent of the crushed roses, their petals sticking to their mud-covered forms like a morbid bouquet. The crowd, once enthralled, now watch in horror as the fight turns vicious.
It's only when a burly security guard, his face a mask of concern and determination, wades through the mud and grabs Zendaya from behind that the assault ends. She kicks and screams, her eyes wild with a fury that seems almost supernatural. The guard's grip is firm, his muscles straining against her flailing limbs, but he doesn't falter. He lifts her away from Anya, who lies limp and broken in the thorns, her chest heaving with sobs of pain and defeat.
The silence is deafening as the reality of what has just happened starts to sink in. The partygoers, their faces a mix of shock and disbelief, slowly lower their phones. The music, which had been playing unnoticed in the background, cuts out abruptly, leaving only the harsh sound of Zendaya's ragged breaths and Anya's muffled cries. The moon casts a cold, unforgiving light on the scene, highlighting every bruise and scratch, every tear in the fabric of their once-beautiful gowns.
Zendaya's eyes, still wild with rage, slowly begin to clear. The guard's firm grip loosens as he sets her down, his question echoing in her ears. "Are you okay?" His voice is calm, a stark contrast to the storm within her. She stumbles, her legs shaking like those of a newborn fawn, her eyes darting to Anya's crumpled form.
The other guests, their faces a mix of shock and morbid fascination, part like the Red Sea as the security team moves in. Two more guards carefully lift Anya from the thorny embrace of the bush. Her gown is shredded, the white fabric now a tapestry of crimson and brown, clinging to her in places where it should not. Her skin, once pale and perfect, is marred by deep scratches that ooze blood, mixing with the mud to form a gruesome paste. The thorns have left their mark, digging into her flesh as if claiming her as their own.
Meanwhile, Zendaya wabbles on unsteady legs towards Rebecca and Florence, her eyes glinting with a mad victory. "Look what I did to her," she slurs, her voice thick with pride and adrenaline. "I taught her not to fuck with me." Her breath comes in heavy gasps, the effort of the fight and the weight of her mud-laden hair leaving her panting like a bull after a matador's dance.
Rebecca, her expression a masterpiece of feigned horror, raises a perfectly manicured hand to her mouth. "Oh my god, Zendaya," she gasps, her eyes wide with exaggerated indignation. "I never expected something like this from you!" The words hang in the air, a punchline to a joke that had gone too far, too real.
Zendaya, her chest still heaving from the exertion, looks at Rebecca with a mix of confusion and defiance. "But... but you said..." she stammers, her thoughts racing to the conversation they had shared earlier in the evening.
Rebecca's eyes narrow, the amusement in them replaced by a steely resolve. "I told you to show her who you are," she says, her voice tight and clipped. "Not to turn this elegant soiree into a gladiator's arena. What the hell is wrong with you?"
Florence, her expression a masterclass in feigned shock, shakes her head sadly. "I'm... I'm just so disappointed, Zendaya," she says, her voice trembling with the effort of keeping the smile from her lips. "This isn't what we do here. This is a place for art, for sophistication. And look what you've turned it into." She gestures to the wreckage around them: the shattered vase, the ruined dresses, the bloodstained pond.
Rebecca nods solemnly in agreement, her eyes flickering to her phone to capture the final moments of the confrontation. "Florence, darling, let me walk you home," she says, placing a comforting hand on the other woman's arm. "You've had quite the evening."
Florence smirks, her eyes glinting with the thrill of the drama. "Indeed, I have," she agrees, her heels clicking against the cobblestone path as they walk away, leaving Zendaya standing in the mud, her victory feeling more and more hollow with each passing second.
The partygoers, their laughter and chatter muted by the aftermath of the fight, exchange glances of disbelief. Some whisper in hushed tones, sharing their shock at the unexpected turn of events. Others, like vultures, hover around the edge of the bush, snapping photos and videos of the carnage.
Zendaya stands there, an empty look in her eyes, her body heaving with the last gasps of adrenaline. The mud that clings to her is a stark contrast to the gold of her gown, now a mockery of the glamour it once held. She watches as Rebecca and Florence, their expressions a picture of feigned concern, make their way through the crowd, their giggles echoing back to her like taunts.
Her gaze drifts over to Anya, who is now being tended to by a group of concerned partygoers. The flash of cameras continues to light up her face, the pain and humiliation etched deep into her features serving only to make her look more compelling. Zendaya's heart sinks as she realizes that, despite her victory in the fight, she's lost the battle for the evening's attention. Anya, even in defeat, has managed to capture the audience's sympathy.
