**Chapter 1: Digital Sparks**
In the east of Cardiff, in a terraced house with fairy lights permanently strung in her bedroom window, Carys scrolled through her phone, a smirk playing on her lips. She was a pocket-sized force of nature, her pixie cut a dark, messy halo, currently dressed in skin-tight black PVC trousers and a faded, cropped Misfits tee. A year out of school, a year of temp jobs and late nights, she was a magnet for chaos, believing fervently that a quiet life was a life wasted.
Twenty miles to the north, in a village clinging to the hills above Caerphilly, Jess stared at the same screen in her dimly lit room. Pale and slender, her long brown hair a curtain around a face often described as plain until it was animated by mischief or music, she wore grey joggers and an oversized hoodie. Her life was a cycle of supermarket shifts and seeking escapes from the monotony. For both, the escape was found in the distorted chords and furious drums of music their other friends couldn’t understand.
Their bond was forged in the digital pits of an obscure alternative music forum. Usernames became confidantes. A shared love for Japanese hardcore, Norwegian black metal, and anarcho-punk became a private language. They’d met a handful of times—sweaty gigs in Bristol, a rainy Comicon in Cardiff—but their true intimacy lived in the glow of their phones, a continuous stream of DMs that chronicled their misadventures.
The stories were their currency. Carys’s legendary tale of drunkenly tripping on Newport Road and becoming a human traffic island, waving traffic to go round her as she was too fucked to get up. Jess’s confession about a bad psychedelic trip where her best friend morphed into a horned demon. Carys’s home video-worthy account of ‘oven glove boxing’ with her mates after a big fight night on TV. Jess’s story of a botched shoplifting attempt that ended with her gang being chased out of Tesco, only to find they’d risked arrest for alcohol-free cider.
And then there were the fights. Not the stories of being victims, but of being participants. The thrill of the clash. The stories were always framed the same way: *for their size*.
**The DM Chronicles: The Moshpit Baptism**
*[3 months ago, after a ‘Carcass’ tribute band gig in Newport]*
**Carys:** OMG. I am literally one giant bruise. That pit was SAVAGE.
**Jess:** Tell me about it. I think someone’s elbow is permanently imprinted on my ribcage. Worth it tho.
**Carys:** When that wall of death split? I ended up on the other side SLAMMING right into you! I saw stars!
**Jess:** That was you?? I thought I’d been hit by a cannonball! I just remember this tiny blur in a Slayer shirt flying at me.
**Carys:**
? That’s me! Pint-sized but potent. You held your ground though. For a skinny thing, you’ve got a solid shoulder charge.
**Jess:** Gotta have some advantages. Can’t all be built like pocket rockets. You okay though? Your neck looked bent at a funny angle.
**Carys:** All good! Just a stiff neck. Battle scars. Proof we lived it properly.
**Jess:** Properly is an understatement. My knees are shredded. Got a proper egg on my forehead too. Mum’s gonna freak.
**Carys:** Pfft. Tell her it’s modern art. A moshpit impressionist piece.
**Jess:**
? She’d call it an impression of stupidity. But yeah… it was epic. Felt alive.
**Carys:** Always do after a proper slam. Nothing like it.
**Jess:** Nothing. You’re a mad one, Carys.
**Carys:** Takes one to know one, Jess.
**(15 more messages continue in this vein, comparing specific bruises, laughing at the chaos, and replaying the best moments of collision.)**
**The DM Chronicles: Fight Club Confessions (Incident 1 – Carys’s Tale)**
*[2 months ago]*
**Carys:** Remember I told you about that dickhead Ryan from the kebab shop?
**Jess:** The one who short-changed you?
**Carys:** Yeah. Saw him outside Spoons last night. Mouthing off. Called me a “little girl”.
**Jess:** Oh no he didn’t.
**Carys:** Oh yes he did. So I “little girled” my pint over his head.
**Jess:** NO WAY! What did he do??
**Carys:** Went for me. Big swing. Missed. I ducked under – you know I’m low to the ground – and just drove my shoulder into his gut. Winded him proper.
**Jess:** GET IN!
**Carys:** He grabbed my hair, tried to yank me. Bad move with the pixie cut, not much to grab. I just spun and caught him with my elbow. Right on the jaw. *CLACK*.
**Jess:** Jesus. Then what?
**Carys:** His mates pulled him back. He was holding his face, swearing. I just stood there, told him to mind the change next time. Heart was going like a drum machine. Felt… amazing. For a little girl.
**Jess:** That’s insane. You’re actually nuts. He’s twice your size.
**Carys:** Size matters not. Look at Yoda. Also, I’m quick. And I hit harder than people think.
**Jess:** Clearly. I’d have probably frozen. Or kicked him in the nuts and ran.
**Carys:** You said you had a scrap last summer though. With that girl at the bus stop?
**Jess:** Yeah… different though. That was just hair-pulling and slapping. Messy. Yours sounds… technical.
**Carys:** Nah, not technical. Just angry and pointy.
? You’d do alright. You’ve got that look. Like you’ve got a spring coiled tight inside.
**Jess:** A spring that usually just makes me run my mouth. But yeah… the adrenaline after. Nothing like it.
**(25 messages detail the aftermath, the police being called but not pressing charges, Carys’s pride, and Jess’s awed, probing questions about how it *felt*.)**
**The DM Chronicles: Fight Club Confessions (Incident 2 – Jess’s Tale)**
*[6 weeks ago]*
**Jess:** So. My turn. Remember I said I worked with a proper creep, Darren?
**Carys:** The one who “accidentally” brushes past you? Ugh.
**Jess:** Yeah. He followed me out to the car park after close. Dark. Started saying proper gross stuff. Backed me against my car.
**Carys:** Jess. What did you do?
**Jess:** Panicked. For a second. Then got proper angry. He put a hand on my waist. I just… snapped. Brought my knee up. Not even aiming, just panic.
**Carys:** DID YOU GET HIM??
**Jess:** Got him. He squealed. Like a pig. Doubled over. I didn’t stop. I was so mad. Just started hitting the top of his head, his back. My fists were tiny but I was putting everything into it. Felt like I was hitting a sack of spuds.
**Carys:** YES JESS! GO ON!
**Jess:** He stumbled back, fell over a kerb. Just lay there groaning. I got in my car and left. Shaking for an hour straight.
**Carys:** That’s not a scrap. That’s a righteous battering. Are you okay? Did he report it?
**Jess:** Nah. Too ashamed, I reckon. Called in sick for a week. I’m fine. More than fine. Felt powerful. For a minute, I wasn’t just the quiet, skinny girl on the till.
**Carys:** You’re a dark horse, you are. That’s proper fighting spirit. Not just swinging. Defending your ground.
**Jess:** Felt different to your fight. Messier. Angrier.
**Carys:** All fights are messy. But you held your ground. That’s the main thing. For your size… you’ve got serious fire in you.
**Jess:** You think? Sometimes I wonder if it was just a fluke.
**Carys:** No fluke. That’s in you. I can tell.
**(28 messages follow, dissecting the emotions, the fear turning to fury, the lingering thrill. The conversation edges, subtly, into hypotheticals.)**
**Jess:** Wonder what would happen if two people who knew how to handle themselves *for their size*… actually went at it. Not in anger. Just to… see.
**Carys:** …See what?
**Jess:** I dunno. See what happens. Where the limits are.
**Carys:** Would be a proper fight, that. No hair-pulling. No cheap shots.
**Jess:** Yeah. Just skill. And heart.
**Carys:** It’d be brutal.
**Jess:** It’d be beautiful.
**Carys:** …Yeah. It would.
An unspoken challenge hung in the digital air between them, a shared, thrilling secret.
**Chapter 2: The Invitation**
The digital tension simmered for weeks, peppering their normal chats about music and memes with loaded compliments. *“You’d be a nightmare in a proper scrap.” “You’ve got a killer instinct, I reckon.”* It was a game of invisible dares.
Then, a week before Christmas, a new DM chimed on Jess’s phone.
**Carys:** Yo. You doing anything Boxing Day?
**Jess:** No, nothing planned yet.
**Carys:** Remember that time I told you about me and pals boxing in oven gloves?
**Jess:** Yeah
? The legendary oven glove bout.
**Carys:** We’re doing it again on Boxing Day. But with proper gloves this time.
**Jess:** Wow sounds mental
**Carys:** yeah. Wanna come?
**Jess:** Where about? Who’s gonna be there?
**Carys:** My place. Should be 10 to 15 of us. You can bring some pals along. Just make sure they ain’t psychos that will trash the place. My parents got a last minute deal for a holiday leaving that morning so u can get a taxi down then crash here. Bring your own booze tho.
A pause. Jess’s heart did a strange little stutter. This was it. The unspoken thing was being spoken, in code. A few minutes later, another message.
**Carys:** and come dressed for it. Shorts n gym vests or whatever.
The code was cracked. Jess stared at the screen, a slow grin spreading across her pale face.
**Jess:** What sort of gloves? Proper proper?
**Carys:** 16oz. Big and puffy. Hurt less, last longer.
**Jess:** Smart. Rules?
**Carys:** Basic. Rounds. Timekeeper. No headshots on the ground. We’re not animals.
**Jess:** Just civilised violence then.
**Carys:** Exactly. You in?
**Jess:** Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll bring a crew.
The following days were a flurry of subtle, electrifying preparation.
**Jess:** Packing my bag. Got my shortest shorts. Don’t want anything restricting.
**Carys:** Good thinking. I’ve got this old racerback top. Easy to move in.
**Jess:** I bet you’re fast.
**Carys:** I bet you’re deceptively strong.
**Jess:** I’ve been… keeping up with my cardio. For this.
**Carys:** Yeah? I’ve been shadow-boxing in my room. Dad’s old skipping rope.
**Jess:** This is gonna be the main event, isn’t it?
**Carys:** …What is?
**Jess:** You know.
**Carys:** …Maybe. If you’re up for it.
**Jess:** Try and stop me little girl
**Chapter 3: The Garden of Earthly Delights**
Boxing Day arrived, grey and cold. A people carrier pulled up outside Carys’s terraced house, disgorging Jess and five friends: Meg and Chloe, two giggly but tough-looking girls, and Tomos and Rhys, lanky lads with mischievous eyes. They hauled crates of cheap lager and vodka. Possibly removed from the warehouse cage at Jess's Morrisons.
Carys’s house was already pulsing with bass. She greeted them at the door, a vision of controlled energy in tiny black athletic shorts and a tight, sleeveless grey vest that showed off lean, defined arms. Her eyes immediately found Jess, who was dressed in similar uniform: maroon shorts and a loose, white gym vest. They shared a nod, a smile that was all teeth and promise.
The house filled. Music blared. Furniture was pushed against walls. The air grew thick with the smell of beer, sweat, and anticipation. After an hour of drinking and loud chatter, Carys’s mate Liam, a hulking rugby player, climbed onto a chair.
“OI! Let’s get ready to rumble!”
A cheer went up. The two sofas were dragged to face each other, five meters apart, creating a makeshift ring. The crowd formed a human cage around the space. Liam, appointed referee, held a list.
“Right! Rules! Five rounds, two minutes each, one-minute breaks. No biting, no gouging, no hits below the belt. If you go down, you get up or you’re out. We stop if there’s too much blood or someone quits. Any questions?”
There were none. Only eager silence.
“Who wants to go first?”
Carys didn’t hesitate. Her beam was blinding as she pointed a finger directly at Jess across the room. “Her.”
A roar of approval. Jess’s grin was feral. She stepped forward, not breaking eye contact, and drew a finger slowly across her throat in a playful, deadly pantomime. The crowd went wild.
They were helped into the 16oz boxing gloves, giant red pillows on the ends of their arms. They touched gloves in the centre. The timekeeper, a lad with a phone stopwatch, yelled “GO!”
**Round 1:** It was a blur of??. They circled, gloves high. Carys, true to form, was a darting wasp. She feinted left, then jabbed right, the glove *thwacking* against Jess’s raised guard. Jess absorbed it, her stance solid. She wasn’t as fast, but she was planted. She threw a straight right that Carys slipped, the air whistling past her ear. Carys countered with a lightning one-two to Jess’s torso. *Thud-thud*. Jess grunted but fired back, a wide hook that caught Carys high on the side of the head, snapping it sideways. The crowd gasped. They broke, circled again. Both were breathing hard, eyes alight with pure, unadulterated joy. “TIME!”
**Round 2:** The respect was gone, replaced by competitive fire. Jess came forward, pressing the attack. She caught Carys with a stiff jab that bloodied her nose on the spot. A crimson trickle painted Carys’s lip. She didn’t wipe it; she smiled through it. Enraged, she swarmed Jess, a flurry of body shots. Jess covered up, but a vicious uppercut found its way through her guard, snapping her head back and splitting her lower lip. They clinched, arms tangled, breathing each other’s air, before being pulled apart. “TIME!”
During the break, their friends frantically mopped blood with damp towels, offering water. They didn’t look at each other, staring into the middle distance, minds replaying, recalculating.
**Round 3:** This was the war of attrition. Both were marked. Carys’s nose was a red mess, Jess’s lip swollen and glossy. They traded blow for blow in the centre of the ring. *Crack. Thump. Smack.* The sounds were sickening and rhythmic. Jess landed a perfect right cross that landed with a dull *crunch* on Carys’s right cheekbone. Carys’s eye instantly began to swell and darken. In retaliation, Carys unleashed a furious combination, ending with a left hook that caught Jess flush on her left eye. Now they matched: both with one eye swelling shut. A wild swing from Jess missed, and she overbalanced. Carys tackled her, and they tumbled to the carpet in a heap of limbs and red gloves, continuing to swing short, brutal punches at each other’s heads and ribs until Liam and two others waded in, hauling them apart and back to their feet. One of them was heard to ask "i thought these two were supposed to be friends?" “TIME!”
**Round 4:** They were slowing, but the intensity was primal. Every shot now carried the weight of the previous rounds. Carys, fighting through the fog in her right eye, saw an opening and landed a clean, devastating right hook to Jess’s temple. Jess’s legs buckled, and she went down hard onto one knee—the first knockdown. The count was shouted. At ‘seven’, Jess surged up, fury in her one good eye. She launched herself at Carys, a wild, desperate attack that drove Carys back onto the sofa-boundary. The crowd screamed. Just before the call, Jess connected with a looping left that sent Carys stumbling. “TIME!”
**Round 5:** The final round. Both were monuments to punishment. Blood smeared their faces, their left eyes were purpling slits, their bodies a canvas of red welts and future bruises. They met in the centre and simply threw everything that was left. It was ugly, glorious, and profoundly intimate. Carys, summoning a last reserve of speed, slipped a jab and landed a perfect three-punch combination to Jess’s body, driving the air from her lungs. As Jess folded, a final right hook caught her chin. She dropped to both knees, glassy-eyed—knockdown two. She got up at ‘nine’, swaying. Thirty seconds later, a desperate, lunging jab from Carys connected with Jess’s already damaged nose, and she went down for a third and final time. She didn’t get up before “TIME!” was called.
Silence, then deafening noise. Liam raised Carys’s glove. The winner by knockdowns.
They were led to opposite sides of the room, collapsing into separate sofas, heaving, ruined, and exhilarated. They didn’t look at each other.
The night rolled on. Three other fights followed: a clumsy, shoving match between two of Jess’s lads, Tomos and Rhys; a fierce, bout between Carys’s friend Nia and Jess’s friend Meg that ended when they threw the gloves off and started scrapping on the floor; and a hilarious, sloppy heavyweight clash between Liam and another big lad that mostly involved leaning on each other.
**Chapter 4: The Unspoken Thing, Spoken**
The last fight ended. The party energy began to dip, shifting towards drunken conversation and passed-out bodies on scattered cushions. Carys felt the adrenaline crash, leaving a deep, satisfying ache in every muscle and a throbbing symphony in her face. She needed air.
She slipped out the back door into the small, frost-touched garden. The cold was a shock, a balm. She sank onto a cold rattan garden sofa, tilting her head back to look at the few visible stars, her breath pluming in the air.
The door creaked open a minute later. Jess stepped out, hugging herself against the chill. She had a fresh towel pressed to her nose and her good eye scanned the garden, finding Carys.
“Hey,” Jess said, her voice husky from shouting and damage.
“Hey.”
“You… alright?” Jess asked, hovering a few feet away.
Carys let out a pained, wet-sounding laugh that hurt her ribs. “Why wouldn’t I be? Never better.”
Jess gestured vaguely with the towel. “Just… all this.” She pointed at her own face, then at Carys’s. “The nose. The eyes. The… everything.”
Carys turned her head to look at Jess properly. In the dim orange glow from the kitchen window, they were a matching pair of wrecks. Jess’s long hair was matted with sweat and blood, her pale skin a landscape of violent colour: the busted lip, the grotesquely swollen black eye, the lump on her cheek from Carys’s first clean knockdown. Carys knew she looked the same—the bloody nose, the throbbing cheekbone, her own matching shiner.
They had done this to each other. Deliberately. Beautifully.
All the DMs, the shared stories, the unspoken dares, the subtle hints, the thrilling violence of the moshpit—it had all been a winding path leading to this exact moment, to these two broken, breathless girls in a cold garden.
Carys looked at Jess, really looked. Past the bruises, past the wildchild persona, past the digital avatar. She saw the fire, the strength, the coiled spring, the one person who truly understood the language of her chaos. The one person who wasn’t afraid to meet her, blow for blow.
A profound, simple certainty settled over her.
“Jess,” Carys said, her voice quiet but clear in the frozen air.
“Yeah?”
“Shut up,” Carys said, a slow, painful, genuine smile spreading across her battered face. “And kiss me, you crazy bitch.”
For a heartbeat, Jess just stared, her one good eye wide. Then, the same feral grin from before the fight returned. She didn’t hesitate. She crossed the space, dropped the towel, and leaned down.
The kiss was careful at first, avoiding busted lips, a tender press amidst the ruins they’d built together. Then it deepened, a release of everything—the competition, the tension, the admiration, the shared, brutal joy. It tasted of blood and sweat and cheap vodka and something entirely, uniquely theirs. It was the final, perfect collision.
When they broke apart, foreheads resting together, breathing each other’s pained breath into the cold night, Jess whispered, “Told you it’d be beautiful.”
Carys, her good eye shining with tears of pain and something else, something brighter, just nodded. “Main event,” she breathed.
And in the quiet garden, surrounded by the distant thump of dying party music, they stayed there, two wild things finally, peacefully, home.
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