[ThePurpleVixen]

When I drive, I drive hard.

I slew my cycle between buses and cabs in London with barely enough room between us for a credit card. I play golf like I'm trying to hit the fucking moon. I run like the devil's after me, and when I come in to fucking hit someone, I come in like a god-damn hurricane.

So I don't hesitate as I drive in, lunging with my left arm drawn back across my chest, fist clasped in my right hand, purple punktails streaming behind me and the red velvet strips of my coffin lining gladiatrix skirt fluttering over my thighs, ready to thrust forward for a bouncer's back elbow right into your fucking forehead. Of course, Rowan Chance isn't exactly known for her hesitation either.

You dance gracefully out of the way of the thrust of the elbow, like a dancer, your feet neatly cross-stepping. Your right hand comes up and deflects the bent elbow aside and just a little up, opening me up. And open is never a good place to be in the ring with you. It's never been good for me at any point in my fucking LIFE to be left open with you. Your left hand snakes in, driving your fingers for the nerve cluster under my arm. I know my nerves. I have to know nerves. I get on people's all the fucking time.

Your fingers SPEAR into my side, and the cold, icy lightning of sparking pain immediately shoots down my arm. The left arm unfolds, falling twitching to my side, taped hand clutching and clawing spasmodically at the air and at my hip. The pain is intense - something far beyond the normal thud and ache of impact, and screeching special fucking delivery right into the brain. My painted lips draw back in a snarl of agonized fury.

"NNNNRRRRAAGHHHHH!"

I hiss and roll my left shoulder back, my arm twitching.

LVK: And Rowan Chance with a BRUTAL nerve strike! Look at Punky's arm shiver!

RP: Looks like she takes after her master.

LVK: Lord Tantalus was Rowan's trainer, Rick.

RP: Yeah, I bet he's got a nice whip an' chair for her.

But I can't let a little thing like my arm not fucking working stop me from pounding your skull in when I've got the chance. And you're not the only one with a twisted brain full of appropriately cinematic flashbacks!

I'm barely sixteen, way too young to be training in this gym, and my trainer has been showing me the fine points of a simple armbar by holding me in one for almost eight minutes. Tears are flowing down my face as I'm bent over, hair hanging lank in my face, soaked in sweat, my shoulder feeling like it's going to twist right out of its fucking socket like a chicken leg, my skinny left arm trapped in his grip.

Finally tiring of my sad attempts to roll free, step under, plead, cry, and gnaw my own arm off at the shoulder, he slaps the back of my head, holding my arm barred out at the wrist with one hand.

"WHERE IS YOUR OTHER HAND, GIRL?"

"I ... wh-what?"

"Your other hand. I have this one. Where's THAT one?"

"I don't kn-"

"IT'S IN MY FUCKING FACE IS WHERE IT IS, CUPCAKE. HIT ME."

I don't even think about the blow that follows. It's as natural as breathing.

My right fist clenched into a hammer, looping up from the side, swinging with the twist of my hips and my boots digging into the canvas for purchase as I aim to just drive my taped and tattooed knuckles right into that pretty face as you're still extended from that evil fucking spear-hand strike.

[Rowan Chance]

The nerve strike hits and I see your arm cramp, then go limp. I hear the sound of your voice scream out in agony. And I can't help but smile. I allow myself that moment. That one precious moment of catching you off guard.

Proud little Punky. Thinking she can just throw herself at me and tear me down. But not tonight. No, not tonight. Here, in this place, I'm going to take you apart piece-by-...

That's when someone hits the "PAUSE" button. And my whole world spins. I don't feel any pain. I don't feel the jarring jolt of my head knocking backward and snapping back into place. I don't feel my knees wobble as I fall backward against the ropes—the only things keeping me up right now. My eyes are glazed over and my mouth is wide open, a small trickle of blood from the side of my mouth. I'm staring at the canvas like I was seeing a Picasso for the first time or a Rembrandt. Or tasting a fine meal or drinking a fine wine.

As Mick would say, "The lights are on, but there's nobody home."


LVK: OHMYGOD! That was an INCREDIBLE right hook from Punky! It sent Rowan stumbling to the ropes!

RP: If those ropes weren't there, Rowan would be down on the canvas right now.


The world is a blur of motion and sound. Like a bomb went off in my head, deafening and blinding me. I finally feel the ropes holding me up. I finally see a purple mess of motion moving toward me. And my instincts tell me I have to defend myself. I have to keep her from getting within arm's reach.

I throw a wild punch toward the blur of motion, stumbling forward as I do.


RP: Rowan is out on her feet! That punch wouldn't have hit Punky if she was sitting still.

LVK: And it looks like she's readying another one!



I try to duck, my head swimming. Duck and come up with an uppercut of my own. You'd never expect that. No. You'd...fuck why can't I see?

[ThePurpleVixen]

There's a certain feeling you get when you land a really solid punch. That feeling of CONNECTION, the shock up your arm and the compression of long muscles and the way the impact travels all the way through to your toes. I don't wanna say it's like sex - because I've had a lot of sex that was WAY less satisfying than when I hit you in the fucking face just now.

Your head SNAPS to the side, that pretty face deforming around the meteor impact of my right cross before it flaps back into place, leaving you stumbling back into the ropes. A grin stretches across my painted skull, eyes glittering hungrily when I see that trickle of blood from those kissable lips. I open my right hand and close it again tight, with a crackle of cartilage in my taped knuckles.

"Mmmmmh, yeah. Gimme more ..."

I snarl hungrily, my left arm still twitching at my side and actively not answering any calls or texts, dipping my head as I come in, purple tails hanging over my shoulders with the skull clasps grinning as wide as I am. You throw a punch at the air, showing plenty of fire if a little bit of wobble in your aim. "That's my girl ..." I growl, and close in hard and fast.

Your fists are still clenched, and dizzy or not, you're throwing fists at whatever it is those glassed eyes are seeing. And this match is not gonna be about dodging, dipping, ducking, diving or ... fucking dodging. It's gonna be about who can TAKE more. Who can ENDURE. And so I don't hesitate as you dip down with that fist - I lunge in, snatching a handful of your corset right at the center, my fingers nestled against your firm tits for the first time since that night in San Francisco. And your fist comes rocketing up.

LVK: And Rowan fighting through the cobwebs with a BIG uppercut, rocking Punky's head back!

RP: I always kinda thought Chance had noodle arms, but that wasn't too friggin' shabby.

LVK: The self-styled Human Trigger Warning looks rocked, leaning back on her boots - but she's still got a grip on Rowan's top and -

I take the shot, turning my head to take that uppercut right on the cheek, misting more spit from my black painted lips, your fist searing into the white greasepaint of my calavera. I sway back a moment - but with a big grin. You're a strong girl, Chance, but you ain't Harley Race. And I SWING forward, planting my Docs and thrusting forward off my long legs, yanking you into me by the grip on your corset as I try to CRASH my forehead right between your eyes with a Glaswegian kiss!

I learned how to headbutt in mosh pits at a young age, but I really got the hang of cracking craniums after I moved in with Gemma and started getting in fights with fucking Scots.

[Rowan Chance]

RP: Man, I wish I could get hold of Rowan's ti–
LVK: RIP!
RP: I mean, these two look like they're dancing, the way they're swaying back and forth. Yeah.


The head butt slams into my forehead, just above my nose, missing just by an inch. But still, your head hammering into my head...

There's a siren in my skull and it's telling me there's something wrong. Not ten seconds into this match and that warning klaxon is going off. Ringing in my ears. Red in my vision. I was just starting to get that back.

The impact of the strike. My head snapping back again. My body goes limp for a moment. Falling back. You holding me up by my corset. My arms falling backward. My knees buckling.


LVK: Rowan is teetering!
RP: This is gonna be over quicker than I thought.


I've got nothing. No... stop. Don't let her get into your head...

Got to make distance. Get out of range. You're too close.

I feel your hand holding on to my corset, your fingers wrapped tight. Holding me exactly where you want me. Exactly where you want me. Exactly...

...like that shower. Where you held me in place. The belt between us and...

This isn't what I planned. This isn't the strategy. Improvise. Get out of here. GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!


LVK: Rowan is taking a beating in there!
RP: She shouldn't have let Punky get close. That bitch will tenderize you like a Sunday steak.

As I'm leaning back, trying to get some sense into my head, I know what I have to do. You've been focusing entirely on my upper body. Time to go low.

As I feel you tensing for the next hit, and as I lay back seemingly helpless in your grip, my right leg kicks out at your knee. The tip of my heel aimed right at your kneecap.

[ThePurpleVixen]

The way you sway backwards, your dark eyes crossing just a tiny bit, your lips parted. There's something so damn satisfying about killing brain cells, whether it's through booze, or air deprivation, or the delicious crack of skull on skull. My painted forehead is criss-crossed with light scars - I don't have Abdullah's fork-deep crevasses or Dusty's roadmap (Rhodes-map?) of welts and slashes, but I've been busted open more than my fair share of times - and as a result my forehead's like old boot leather when it cracks against your head.

You're limp, for just a moment, and the delicious shudder that goes through me when that happens - there are few things in my life I've loved as much as the times I've left you limp and still, Rowan. My knuckles are white under the wraps of black and red tape, clutching the lacings of your corset tightly. Your arms drape back over the top rope, your long legs fold just a bit. Pierced tongue tasting the black enamel on my lips, that tang of beeswax and butylated hydroxyanisole.

I'm gonna crack you again. I'm gonna splatter that pretty nose of yours all over your face.

It's a good fighting strategy. It'll make it hard to breathe. It'll hurt, and make your face much more painfully vulnerable to pretty much any strike that lands on it.

But more than that - I took this match because I'm like Tyler Durden. I wanted to ruin something beautiful.

Oh, how I fucking want to ruin you, Rowan.

I tense up to drill my head into you again, pulling you into place with my right hand as you sag on the ropes - and then your leg comes up and your big domme boot DRILLS down, the heel just SMASHING into my knee, crumpling the grinning skull on my black stocking. My face contorts, twisting into agony as I stagger back, releasing you and dropping down, my leg kicked clean out from under me. I land heavily on my left knee, cradling my right as I slam kneeling to the canvas, holding my suddenly agonized knee an inch or two above the mat, balanced on my left knee and the toe of my right boot, ass resting on my calves as I grit my teeth with a furious snarl of pain.

"AAAARRRRRRHHHHH!" The roar's a feral one, the pain immediate and intense. The knee is full of little parts that all hate being kicked.

LVK: Oh, a BRUTAL shot from Chance there! Punky had her literally on the ropes and Rowan kicked her leg out from under her!

RP: I'm not sayin' I don't wanna be on my knees in front of Rowan, but I'm bettin' that's not where Punky wanted to end up ...

[Rowan Chance]

I feel you let go of the corset and fall back. I've got my arms over the top rope: the only way I'm standing. I blink a few times. Shake my head. And I see you, on your knees.

On your fucking knees.

Holding your leg, your skull face twisted and contorted.

I don't hesitate. Even though my head is on goddamn fire and even though I can barely see, I know what I have to do. The plan. Keep to the plan.

I rush forward. Almost stumbling. Almost falling over myself. Running straight at you. Don't give you a second to think. Don't give you a second to react.

And when I reach you, my body twists. My arm hooking your neck. My own knees skidding across the canvas. I feel like I'm going to throw up, but I keep it down.

And here we are. You on your knees. Me next to you, facing the opposite direction, your head hooked in a cravat.


LVK: Rowan has Punky locked in a reverse kneeling DDT!
RT: Hold on to your skull, Punky.
LVK: If Punky isn't ready for it, that could put additional damage on her knee!

And in the span of a second, I get to show off my famous flexibility. Slamming my body backwards while kneeling. All those years of yoga and belly dancing and...other dancing. Slamming it back with your head under my arm, hoping I can pull the back of your skull back into the canvas, catching your body off guard, and maybe—since you're kneeling—put some extra hurt on that knee of yours.

[ThePurpleVixen]

You move in swiftly, staggering off the ropes while I'm still cinched around my knee. There's something about a kick in the knee, a shock to the patellar nerves - it inspires the autonomic response to grab, cover and protect almost as immediately and intensely as a shot in the groin does. Your body depends on the fine machinery in the knee to keep upright and keep moving, and those little hinges can break all too easily. So I can't stop myself from grabbing at my knee as your boot drills it viciously and sends me plunging to the mat with that wounded leg kicked out from under me. Fingers laced across the bruised ache under my thick skull-faced Lycra stocking.

And you might be slightly concussed after the brain-rattling right cross and skull-crunching headbutt, but you still have the instincts of a viper. A pit viper will strike even if mortally wounded, just out a cruelty of spirit. You're basically a pit viper with great legs.

You cinch my head up, moving swiftly, trapping me under the heat of your arm. I can smell your heated skin, the faint flush of sweat from the ring lights and the tang of your perfume, the hint of powder from sliding into your gear, filling my head with brief visions of your naked body fitting into that taut black leather in the close wood and rosin scent of the Parisian dressing room.

And then there's a JOLT as you drop backwards, crashing me to the mat!

LVK: Good LORD, what impact! A brutal kneeling DDT that folds Dow over her own knees!

RP: In the wrestlin' trade we call that hyperextension, van Keel.

LVK: I think that's what doctors call it, too.

RP: Don't correct me. It sickens me.

My body SLAMS to the mats, leaving me folded over backwards as my left hand clutches at my tensed, shuddering quad muscle, my knee brutally stretched out by the landing, and my other arm cradles the back of my head, leaving me arched and bent in fucking half on the canvas, momentarily at your utter lack of mercy with a snarl of pain etched on my skull-painted face.

[Rowan Chance]

When my back hits the mat, my head aches. But the ringing in my head is probably a lot less painful than what's going on in yours. I take a moment—but just a moment—to catch my breath and let the fog in my brain settle. I see your body bent over backward, hear the scream and growl from your throat. Some may go for the pin right about now. Some may feel that little maneuver was enough to put you down for the count.

I don't. Because I know you.

I slowly get back to my feet, looking down at you bent over backwards. You're flexible...but not that flexible. Not like me.

"Oh, Punky, Punky, Punky," I say, a breathless gasp of amusement in my voice. "That leg of yours must be screaming right about now."

I grab your ankle and pull it out from under you. Both hands. I put one leg above it and one leg below. Then, I smile at you.

"Let's see how loud we can make it scream."

And I drop down, pulling a card from Mr. Perfect's deck. One leg above your knee and the other below. Slamming hard down on the mat.

Your little knee right between my shins.

[ThePurpleVixen]

Bent back over my own fucking knees, my calves pinned under me and the tendons in my knees brutally stretched taut, I dig my fingers into my right quad, kneading the pale skin as it twitches and jumps with the ferocious tension of the thick muscle as it works like a live wire. "Fffffuck," I growl, my eyes narrowed intensely, the thick black and violet paint around them making me look more like a revenant than ever.

Having a wounded limb is not a thing you're ever going to want in a wrestling ring. Even the greenest rookie learns how to kick a knee a second time if it worked the first, and I'm in here with a fucking unlicensed surgeon who only wants to perform radical procedures on me without anaesthetic as soon as she gets the fucking chance.

And here's you already using your breathy excited voice on me. Oh, you're hungry for blood.

I don't answer right away, just baring my teeth behind my glossy black lips, snarling at you like a maddened dog who's currently leashed by gravity - and you move quick, reaching under my ass and yanking my leg free. My hips come up, taking the chance to free my other leg as well, unfurling my aching legs as a hand still cradles the back of my head, fingers pressing the base of my skull to soothe the pain there like I'm trying to clutch the lip of a bell to stop it from ringing.

My left foot rests on the heel of my blood-red Doc Marten, my right leg angled up in your grip. You have my leg tight, gripped expertly - and even knowing what you intend for me, knowing how fucking merciless you are, I can't stop a tingle of excitement from running over my skin like electricity. Fuck, I hate that.

I wish I could hate you enough to stop loving the way you touch me.

Your legs slip over mine, trapping the knee. My hands drop, slithering to the mat, fingers splaying to press to the canvas behind me. I push my hips up, and shift my weight to my right side, leaning on my elbow, bracing against the pain. My teeth gritted.

And when you drop down in that shin-scissored kneedrop, the grit becomes a crunch of mashed molars.

"NRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHH!" I roar behind locked teeth, my tendons standing out on my neck. The pain is immediate and intense, searing my knee, making it pulse. My quad jumps and twitches, my calf bunching to the size of a handball, the rush of hot blood searing the compacted joint.

But you have to drop down and put your weight on my knee. Your knees have to hit the mat to deliver the move.

And my knee hurts, but the night is still young, my darling, and I've got LOTS of miles left in my fucking tank.

So as you plant down on my knee, I respond almost immediately, chambering my left leg and DRIVING it up and forward, aiming to plow the waffled heavy patented Airwalk™ sole of my Doc Marten right into the side of your fucking head as you're planted on my scrunched right leg.

"RRRRRRAH!" It's not the most articulate comeback, but I've always leaned towards physical comedy.

[Rowan Chance]

I hear and feel the CRUNCH of your knee under my shins. Back on the plan.

If you can't stand, there's no Doll Breaker.
If you can't stand, there's no Punky Driver.
If you can't stand, there's...

... a boot slamming into my...

... jamming my jaw and making my head...

RRRRRIIIIINNNNNGGGGG

My head spins to the side as your boot kicks up. On my knees, my body lists to the side, arms askew, fingers wide. I look like a marionette who suddenly had her strings cut. I manage to get one hand out to stop from falling all the way to the mat, but my eyes are unfocused and someone needs to get the license plate on that bus. You know. The one that just hit me. I'm just staring, wide-eyed. Blinking. I shake my head, trying to get some sense back into it...


LVK: Punky retaliates with a HARD KICK to the jaw!
RP: Rowan's dentist should be sending Punky Christmas cards.


I manage to get enough sense to reach forward and grab your hair. One of your purple punky tails. Me on my knees, you on your ass. Pull it right up to my face.

Face-to-face. Our breasts brushing.

My fingers curl into a fist. Tense and hard. I may not have a punch, but I don't need one with you. Because I know the right place to land my knuckles to make you squirm.

You don't stay down until you're down. I know this. Everything I throw at you, you throw something back. Until you're done. Fighting you isn't a fight. It's a war. And every victory is a pyrrhic victory. Beating Punky isn't about winning. It's about what you're willing to lose to win.

Looking into your eyes, I know you're thinking the exact same thing. The same words in our heads. The weird telepathy we have after so many battles, so much lovemaking, so much raw fucking. So many promises. So much sweat and heat and your lips on mine and your body moving in motion with mine as we both rush headlong to a mutual scream. The same exact words in both our heads.

What am I willing to lose?

With my fist cocked and that growl in my throat, my lips curl into my wicked smile that I know you love. And I answer that question with one word.

"Everything."

That's when I send my fist low. Down low. Exactly where I know where my weak ass punch will do the most damage.

[ThePurpleVixen]

I manage to fucking DRILL you in the face with one heavy boot, rocking you on your moorings and sending you toppling towards the mat. You catch yourself before flopping down entirely, but I manage to snake my legs back a little. Sitting on my ass, my paneled skirt of tattered velvet strips draped over my splayed tattooed thighs, I flex my right knee to ease the ache as I draw my left boot back like a dagger withdrawn from a wound. I love that glassy look you get in your beautiful dark eyes when you take a really hard shot to the skull. I love it so much I keep trying to get it to appear again, but each time I need MORE. I'm like a junkie for kicking you in the fucking head.

You reach out and snatch a fistful of my thick purple punktail, a gleaming steel skull clasp cool against the edge of your hand as you drag me closer to face you. With you kneeling and a little taller, it cranes my head back, snarling up at you as you glare glassily down at me. My neck burns a little as you clench your fist - and even staring into those glazed dark eyes of yours, I don't miss that. I never miss the curl of a fist.

And I don't miss the way your eyes lock onto mine. The way we stare into each other.

Ever since the very first time we were in the ring together, I felt this. Magnetism, chemistry, electricity, whatever fucking branch of physics you want to use to try and fail to describe it, it's two souls locked together like two stars burning too close to each other, a binary system that inevitably ends in a beautiful explosion that rips apart time and space.

We made almost perfect lovers, Ro. But we were never gonna survive it. So I broke free and found my Gemma. And now all that's left for you and me is fucking ruination.

Your lips curve in a teasing smile that made my knees so weak one night in Seattle that I felt like I'd never get up out of that hotel bed again. And that fist you've got locked and loaded comes snaking in.

But I know every inch of you as well as you know me, you heartless tart, and my hand lashes out hard, crashing into your wrist, slamming your fist to the canvas and bracketing it, pinning it down.

"More than that," I hiss back at you, lips close enough to kiss.

RP: Ooooooh, I've had dames catch my hand JUST like that in the back row at the movies.

LVK: I hope you weren't trying to blatantly punch them in the crotch like Rowan was attempting.

RP: Not until we'd had a few drinks.

My left hand curls into a fist at the outside, squared black nails digging into my palm hard enough to leave crescents, extending my thumb and locking it hard as I lash arm out in a bullwhip arc, aiming to just fucking DRILL my stiff thumb into the side of your windpipe with an Asiatic spike. The Anoa'i clan calls it the Samoan Spike - but fuck it, I'm from fucking Portland.

It's a STUMPTOWN SPIKE.

[Rowan Chance]

As soon as you catch my fist, I mutter a little curse under my breath. Because I know what's coming next. Not the exact move, but something that's going to hurt so bad, I'm going to be feeling it in September of 2018. I see your fist clench and anticipate a blow to the face, but then your thumb sticks out and...

...fuck...

I try to tuck my chin, but it's too late. The blow hits hard and my free hand immediately flashes up to my throat. My eyes go wide and my mouth opens. Desperate, windy sounds from my lips.

I kick back fast, trying to pull my wrist from your grip. My eyes watering. Mouth trying to breathe. I smash my hand on your hand holding my wrist, trying to get it free as my legs are pulling me up to my feet.

And then...

And then...

I remember the thumb thrust isn't just designed to fuck up my windpipe. A sudden surge of pain in my head as my blood flow surges after the impact. My eyes blink and flutter. My body swaying on my knees as I try to keep my balance.

I'm teetering. The only thing keeping me up is you...again. Your hand on my wrist.

I start to fall. Straight down to the canvas. My lips muttering nonsense... my eyes closing...

* * *

And I remember showing up on your doorstep, soaked in rain. My travel bag in my hand. The place is a dump. Barely standing, barely legal. A absentee landlord's dream. I ring the doorbell a dozen times, not even knowing if it works. I knock. I keep knocking. Finally, you open it, all rumpled. There's red around your eyes. Probably from the sleep and the Jack Daniels. But you don't smell like sex, so I know you're alone.

Lucky me.

"You look like a drowned rat," you say.

I nod. "I feel like one."

"Still slumming it on the indies, Miss Chance?" you ask. "Why don't you use your diamond credit card and get yourself a hotel room?"

That cuts deep. We've been wrestling on the same shows for about a month, sometimes against each other, sometimes in tag teams. You were the pro. I was the rookie. Well, not the total rookie. You assumed that and I let you assume it. Like I let you assume a lot of things.

And there was the one night you woke up in my bed and you found my credit card on the table. And that changed everything. You were gone before I woke up and you booked yourself as far from Southern California as you could.

Now, it's Portland. And I'm on your doorstep.

You cross your arms over your torn RAMONES t-shirt that goes down just far enough so I can't tell if you're wearing very short shorts or underwear or nothing at all.

"You still here?" you ask, almost impatiently.

"Yeah," I whisper. I look down at your bare tattooed feet and I'm quiet for a second.

"I lied," I say. "I'm not a street kid fighting for a couple bucks and a hot dog a night. I've got money. I've got family. I could have made a call for someone to pick me up."

"So why are you here?" you ask.

I hesitate. Then, I look up, looking into your eyes.

"Because I want to learn. Tantalus can only teach me so much. And there's no better place to do it than here." I pause. "And..."

"And what, Chance?" you ask, your voice edging on anger. I see your fingers clenching.

I look at you through the rain. "Because you're here."

Your face transforms. Softens. A small curl on the side of your lips.

"Get in here."

I step up into the doorway and you grab me by the wrist...

...by the wrist...

...and pull me out of the rain, wrapping your tattooed arms around me.

And I'm home. All the hurt and pain in the world vanishes. Tonight's match is forgotten. The ache in my shoulder, the fire in my spine. It's all gone.

All the pain is...

* * *

LVK: The patented Stumptown Spike lands and Rowan looks KNOCKED OUT!
RP: Looked like she was scouting a punch but Punky outsmarted the snaky b--
LVK: RIP!
RP: I just calls 'em as I sees 'em.
LVK: Rowan is completely at Punky's mercy! She's defenseless!
RP: Whatever's coming next is gonna hurt...

[Vivianne]

I blame Gemma for this. Gemma Rox. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't be sitting here. Wouldn't be hungry after going a day and a half without food. Wouldn't be losing my mind watching this match.

It's because of Gemma that I met Rowan. If I hadn't met her I would never have become so infatuated with her beauty that I would be unable to stop thinking of her. Feelings would never have grown inside of me that I knew I could never act upon. Simply too many obstacles, put in my way by people who do not even know me and have no idea how I feel. Tantalus. Punky. Even Gemma. What chance would I have knowing how Rowan feels about them? None...absolutely none. So what did I do? I became one of Rowan's biggest fans, following her and cheering for her whenever she fought. I did not know her the last time she faced Punky, and I am thankful. I do not believe I would have survived watching Rowan take such a beating...win or lose.

As if my feelings for Rowan were not enough, thanks to Gemma I recently met Punky too...and my feelings for her were instant. Who will I pull for? That's easy...Rowan...always Rowan...but whereas a month ago I would revel in her destroying Punky, tonight I am now conflicted...wanting her to win but not handling the realization of what her winning will mean.

I almost didn't make it. I simply don't have the money to allow me to buy a last minute ticket to Paris and book a hotel. Hell...just the ticket price posed a challenge these days. Still, I scrapped together everything I could, borrowed money from a friend, and got myself here. I only landed this morning and my flight leaves tomorrow, not being able to afford a hotel room or even a meal while I am here. I got the cheapest ticket I could...last row. And here I sit, seeing Gemma in the front row and losing my mind as two women I care about are ripping each other apart. Even worse...I am starting to realize that I am craving to see what I know is going to happen...

[ThePurpleVixen]

The stiff spike of my extended thumb drills into the softness of your neck, just before you can flinch enough to tuck your chin. I feel it plunge into that silky skin, drawing it back as your esophagus is crunched shut and pulls those sweet breezy gasps from your lips. Your olive cheeks color as you try to get free of my grip, my right hand wrapped over your wrist, taped grip biting into the skin. You smash a fist into my hand as you start to get to those big tall black domme boots of yours -

- and then the bubble hits. Because the Asiatic spike doesn't just make breathing an unimaginable horror for a bit. In my younger days training in Portland, I was in a school run by Pacific Northwest Wrestling alumni, including the Mega Maharishi Imed and Crippler Oliver - and Roddy Piper would drop in whenever he was in town. Piper was the one who taught me how to properly throw a punch and how to talk enough shit to need to throw one properly in the first place. But Crippler ... that old bastard showed me the finer details of old school shit like the gordbuster, the iron claw - and the Asiatic spike.

"Like this, girl. Look." He'd taken the hose from me - I was washing off the gym mats out in the alley when he'd come out for a smoke. I learned more from that cigarette-voiced old bastard under a sliver of gray sky between two brick walls than I did in my first year on the indies proper. He gripped just under the mouth of it and jammed a callused thumb into the hose, holding it a moment and pointing it upwards, the flow of water falling to nothing, a little gurgle. Then he let his thumb go. Nothing happened for a moment - then a GUSH of water shot upwards, spattering an old Guinness toucan sign up on the third story. He'd grinned, flashing busted and nicotine-gold teeth. "Muraco one time jabbed Barry Windham so hard, Windham forgot his English for a week."

So you don't get a chance to bash your way free of my grip. In fact, as I draw my legs up and hiss at the tangle of pain in my right knee, you don't get a chance to finish standing on your own. You're slumping down, eyes going soft and lips speaking in dreams. I put my weight on my left leg and force myself upright, already feeling the delicious bite of the pain that we're going to feast on tonight. My right hand wrapped around your wrist, fingers sunk in. As I come upright, my left arm slips around your slim waist, and cradles you close.

I remember when you tried to teach me to dance in way suitable for formal settings. We were gonna go to a big formal sort of party thrown by the Great Sasuke - that was the first time we went to Japan together. And while I'm pretty fucking great at lapdances and I'll put any motherfucker alive into the wall in a mosh pit - my formal dancing training experience was kinda limited. So we were down in the bar of the Koraku Hinkan Hotel, the only ones there except for a steadily drinking man in a rumpled suit who did not appear to notice the purple haired tattoo gallery and dark-haired leather vixen swaying near the back of the joint.

"I just keep one hand on your waist here, and one hand holds yours like this, see? No need to make it too complex."

"Okay, but ..." I kind of growled a little, irritated with myself for not getting this right away, and a little irritated that we were doing this at all instead of just going to the party so I could stare at the Great Sasuke like a total spaz fangirl and drink Hibiki whiskey until the room was spinning. My cheeks were flushed as I watched my feet - I was wearing mostly Converse back then. I was already annoyed I'd spent pretty much all the money I'd been paid on this tour on an indigo and black suit I could wear to the party, after refusing sixteen times to let you buy me a dress.

"... but this is like you're leadin' me around or somethin'. An' that kinda thing is fun when we're in the mood to play that game ... " I'd half-grinned. We had been playing a lot of games.

You'd watched me with those dark eyes, your face carefully cool in that way you had when you were figuring out a way to say something without pissing me off. That could be a real trick sometimes. You were mostly pretty good at it.

"I *am* leading, Megan. I know how to dance."

My brows had lowered, deep and fierce.

"Fuck that! You're gonna be the one wearin' a dress! I should be fucking leading ..."

You'd just smiled, and tugged me closer, your hand at the small of my back, slipping under my shirt to tease the soft skin, tracing the base of my spine with your nails in a way that made me gasp softly as the digital jukebox played Chairman Kaga singing "Gethsemane", and your hand had tightened on mine.

"Me in a dress just means you'll be so busy watching me that I'll HAVE to lead, my love."

It had been a good night.

But that was long ago, and in another country.

Right now I'm on my feet, my right knee protesting fiercely as I slip my left arm around your waist, and hold you close, our breasts crushed together in a supple kiss. My right hand around your wrist extends your arm to the side as I lean in and brush my cheek against yours.

"Follow my lead, sugartits," I purr in your ear venomously, sliding my taped hand down your arm to wrap around my tattooed arm your ribs underneath it, clasping my fists at the center of your back as I twist us around with a growl of pain at the flare from my knee, putting my back towards the turnbuckles, swinging us into a cruel waltz.

RP: I'm never going dancing with Punky.

LVK: That's literally the smartest thing I've ever heard you say.

RP: Unless she's naked.

LVK: And now she's going to kill you.

RP: Only if she survives!

And I flex my legs low, snarling against the pain in my right knee, biting back the pain of everything - including how it feels to hold you close - and ARCHING back as I throw myself backwards, aiming to TOSS you over me with an absolutely brutal Overhead Release Belly to Belly Suplex - aimed at crashing your back into the fucking turnbuckles.

[Rowan Chance]

One moment, she's holding me. Holding me close. I can smell her sweat on her skin. Almost taste her lips. The next, my feet are off the ground and I'm flying through the air. My spine hits the turnbuckles and my body nearly snaps in two. A rush of crimson hate runs through my back.

Some wounds never heal. Remember this. It will be important later.

I tumble forward, falling face first onto the mat. Motionless there, my raven hair a piled mess on my head. Arms spread. Legs bent. I don't move. I can't move. Nothing moves. Nothing works.

I push my torso up by my elbows and see your boots stomping toward me.

Get out of the ring. Get the FUCK out of the ring.

My arms push against the canvas and my body slides backward toward the apron. My eyes looking at those boots. I collapse on the outside, the pathetic excuse for pads outside this ring. My toes are tingling. Already. And my back is screaming at me like a banshee. My hand reaches behind me, instinctively. Reflexively.

I look up, trying to get a hold of the metal railing between us and the crowd. Reaching up, grabbing the cold metal and...

...he's there. Right there.

I meet his gaze. His placid face. Showing nothing.

I almost snarl.

I hear his voice. Remember being in a dark room, my arms above my head. Wrists tied together. Held up for so long, my shoulders were red hot.

Dark room. A spotlight on me. He stood on the edge of the light, a lash in his hand.

"Pain is not your enemy, Rowan," his voice tells me from the darkness. I hear the crack of the whip and feel the pain on my flesh. "It's your friend."

I bite down on my lip. The pain he gives sets fires inside me. A tear in my eye rolls down my cheek.

"And when you feel pain," he says, giving me another lash, "you'll remember this moment. Here. In this room."

Another crack. I almost laugh, gasping out loud.

"You'll remember the pain you suffered here," he says, behind me now. "And you'll know...that no pain can measure with the pain I gave you."

He grabs my hair from behind and pulls it tight in his fingers. "Isn't that right?" he asks me. My head pulled back, his voice in my ear.

"Y-yes..." is all I can muster.

"No pain is greater than the pain I can give," he says again, wrapping the whip around my throat, squeezing it...just enough.

"No pain," I tell him.

He uncoils the whip and I feel its leather hit my back. I scream. And I orgasm. My hands clenched tight in the bonds above my head.

"Any pain you suffer will pale in comparison to this." Another lash and I scream again. "And you will be able to suffer agony from anyone. For no one can give you as much pain as I do. Can they, Rowan?"

I shake my head, wet hair on my face. "NO!"

Another lash. And I can't help but laugh.



And in another place, another time, I ask him, "Why did you do that for me?"

He says, "Because I wanted to help make you into the woman you wanted to be, Rowan." He touches my cheek and I smile.



Now, on the thin mat, looking up at him, my spine screaming bloody murder, my lips curl into a cruel, wicked grin.

"No pain," I say, slowly shaking my head.

I hear Punky's feet hit the mat just behind me. And I see the tiniest hint of a smile from his lips.

No pain.