[Rowan Chance]

I'm staggering up to my feet when I hear your scream and a sudden thud.

I've heard that sound before. It's the sound of your body hitting the canvas. I'd know it anywhere. I heard it a hundred thousand times on the road when we were the Daughters of Darkness, and every time I heard it, my heart ached.

It was the sound of your body hitting the canvas. Lifeless. Helpless. Beaten.

It meant it was time for me to jump through the ropes and outrace the three count, throwing my boots forward, kicking someone in the face.

I remember when you took that brutal Over and Under from that Smoky Mountain tag team, the Shitkickers. The blond one had you on his shoulders and the brunette came running off the ropes, leaping into the air and clotheslining your limp body as the blond fell back in an electric chair. You hit the canvas with that sound and everything in me--every nerve, every tiny bit of me--feared for you. I ran into the ring, the referee counting with every step. I had to make it... had to...

I know that sound anywhere. It's the sound of Punky hitting the canvas. And this time, my heart doesn't ache.

--okay, my heart does ache, but for entirely different reasons--

This time, I let loose a laugh that you've heard a hundred thousand times before. You'd know it anywhere. You've heard it when we were the Daughters of Darkness, and every time you heard it, it meant whoever was in the ring with me... was fucked. When I pulled Red off the canvas, lifting his heavy frame by his torn mask--torn by my hands--and kissed him hard before lifting him and twisting his limp body into the tombstone piledriver position. And the crowd suddenly turned ice cold, frozen by the sound of that laughter.

You'd know that sound anywhere. It's the sound of whoever is in the ring with me knowing that they are fucked.

I turn slowly. On my heels. Stalking across the canvas. One tall boot in front of the other.

Suddenly, that pain in my back fades to a dull roar. My head clears up. All of it as I see you on the canvas, struggling toward the ropes. Seeing the pain in your face. Dragging your limp leg behind you, sinking those thumbs into the knee, trying to numb the agony that must be rushing through your body.

My wickedest smile curls on my red lips. Red from the lipstick--the blood red you always loved--and from the actual blood I've coughed up since you stopped my heart.

"Did the little Purple Vixen fall down?" I whisper in my whiskey-soaked sultry voice. I bend over close enough for you to take a swing at me. But, not close enough. So your punch goes right by my nose without even dodging.

"Can the little Purple Vixen not get back up?"

Another wild swing. Another miss.

"That's strike two, Megan."

My right boot kicks out at your belly. Not with any real force at all. Just to show you, Megan, that I could.

"That's to show you who is in control here." Another light kick. "Because you love to give it to me, don't you? Love to serve it up to me and let me take it right from your little tattooed hands."

I watch you struggling. Watch you dragging your leg behind you. Stay in place long enough to watch your ass under that short skirt. It must be red and sore under that lycra. Let's make it a little more red and a little more sore.

And another SMACK on that fine ass of yours as you claw your way along the ropes. I watch your body flinch with pain and that other emotion we both know you're feeling right now.

I walk--yes fucking walk--along the side of you, avoiding your grasping hands.

Walking. Something you can't do right now.

I let you hear the clip-clop of my heavy boots as I do. Then, I get in front of you. Put my hand on the middle rope and squat down, bending my knees. The sound of my leather shorts bending with me.

Yes, I can bend my knees. Another thing you can't do right now.

Squatted right in front of your pained, sweaty face. Blood oozing from your freshly opened wound. You're in so much pain, you can't even talk. Just glare at me with those eyes of yours. Those lovely hazel eyes. Your lips are tucked in as you bite them. Your pale skin so wet. Eyes, too.

"You have tears in your eyes, Megan," I whisper as my hand wipes them away. Mock concern on my face. Amazement. "Real tears." I run my salty finger along my tongue.

"I didn't know you could cry. Maybe you do have a heart after all."

Then, I smile.

"But not for long."


You gawdforsaken vile snake. Stay away from her you piece of trash. You done hurt her enough you egg sucking dog


I hear Red's voice screaming from the front row. I look at him, just for a moment.

"Watch closely," I shout out to him. "This one's for you, Traitor Red."


I quickly snap my hand in your hair and jerk it back, trying to lift you up along with me.

Time for one...last...move.

And you'll make that wonderful sound one more time.

The sound of your body hitting the canvas. Lifeless. Helpless.

Beaten.

[ThePurpleVixen]

Yep. There's that fuckin' laugh.

Sting's got his war whoop, Megumi Kudo had her fist-pump roar, Reckless Youth had his "KING OF DELAWARE!", Adam Cole just throws up four fingers and gets the crowd to do his catchphrase for him, and Rowan Chance laughs like a sexy young Alec Baldwin playing the fucking Shadow (you end up watching a lot of old movies in Greyhound stations). Heard it dozens of times in bingo halls and armories and sporting centers all across every fucking town on the map. Even knowing it was coming, even after all the times it's rung in my ears, it still sends a thrill up my spine. It means you're ALL fired up. It means you're ready to hurt someone.

It means you think you smell blood.

I can't let my sudden surge of hot toxic glee show on my face. Not least of which because I'm actually fucking bleeding, and my knee is not THAT much less pained than I'm letting on, so I don't exactly have a lot to giggle about, but also because I want you to keep coming. And of course you don't disappoint. Rowan Chance just NEVER stops coming.

(Ha! Right?)

I drag my leg behind me, making for the ropes. Face twisted up in pain and determination with purple hair hanging in sweaty slick tangles over it like Sarah Connor crawling for the shotgun in the steel mill. You come closer, and yeah baby, there's the shit-talking, low and wicked. You're all turned on, aren't you, my little raven? 'course you are. Seeing me all hurt never fails to get you fired up, you thirsty little bitch. You come closer, leaning in, and you clearly want me to take a swing at you.

Fortunately, like my pretending my agonized knee hurts, that's an easy bit of acting, since I REALLY want to punch your fucking teeth down your throat. I release my knee and SWIPE a wild shot at you, and you smirk in a way that makes me want to hit you even harder. I could really wipe that smirk off your face, reach up and snatch the waist of your little leather shorts and jerk you into me so I could REALLY tag your pretty face - but that's not good enough.

Not compared to what I've got in mind.

Somethin' sweet.

So I swipe again, and let you chuckle your little smug fucking chuckle that I kinda hated even when we were partners. You were smug like a clown wears greasepaint, fucking smeared all over you.

A little boot to my belly. "Hunnnhh!" I jolt a little, as you keep running your fucking mouth and give me another. "Unh-!" I paw at the ropes, dragging myself along them, a snarl etched on my face after that last little comment. Fucking bitch. If I could rip back every kiss from your lips I would. My head hangs as I grind my taped knuckles swiftly into my eyes while you put on a runway walk beside me, twisting my fist into one eye after the other to make them good and watery. They're already red and wet from the ferocity of the struggle in the Nevermore. I just wanna really fuckin' sell this shit. I want you DRAWN IN, you bloodthirsty little spider. Right into MY fucking parlour.

You come down to face me, all legs and bloody smile and well-remembered curves and lush silky skin and dark hair. Fuck you for being so fucking gorgeous.

Then you lick the streak of freshly knuckled tears up like Courvoisier (knew ya'd like that, fuckin' deviant) and I hear Red bellowing in the crowd. He's in full-on Low Country mode, and I have to bite my lip HARD not to giggle when he calls you an egg-suckin' dog. Fortunately it just adds to my air of furiously defiant agony.

Reddy knows. No fucking way he'd bust out "egg-suckin' dog" if he wasn't trying to get your back up.

And it works. I HEAR the raised hackles in your voice when you hiss at him and SNATCH my sweaty tangle of purple hair. You're gonna just haul me right up for the Widow's Bite, aren't ya? That's what you've been dreaming of since I made the challenge. Hitting that fucking move on me again.

But I ain't dreaming, Rowan. I'm remembering a road trip, from a run in a local fed near you in Arizona up to a show in Nevada. The sun was a blazing glare in an endless blue sky and all around was just endless red, and we'd been talking about the match the night before.

You'd been getting worked over pretty hard by Lucky Petra and La Titillier, a couple of Eurotrash girls with shameless sensuality and overly revealing attire. They might've been tarts, but they were tall and strong, lithe and powerful, and they'd been cutting the ring in half all night, beating you down whenever I stretched for a tag. I was frothing at the fucking mouth when they were setting you up for some sort of spike piledriver - and when I saw their manager Mssr. Pierre up on the apron distracting the ref so they could hit the doubleteam, that fucking tore it.

I'd stampeded into the ring and SHOULDERCHECKED the ref hard into Pierre so their heads clonked like coconuts, sending the Frenchman in the long blue coat tumbling to the concrete as the ref staggered and fell, not knowing what just happened. And I'd gone racing over, Docs airwalking the mat and punktails streaming behind me and SLAMMED an uppercut up between Lucky's thighs to pound her fucking mound as she was perched on the middle rope before giving her a pieface shove over the ropes to the outside to land with a boneshaking thud. La Tittilliere had dropped you from her standing headscissors and came and grabbed my shoulders from behind, so I mule-kicked my heel up into her cxnt as well, then turned around, yanked her hands off her aching crotch and hoisted her up for an atomic drop to finish busting her up before I shoved her down and took you by the wrist and the back of your shorts as I guided you as gently as I could to our corner, where I resumed my spot on the apron. I was holding the tag rope all nice and legal, reaching over the top for your hand as the ref shook his aching head and looked around at the moaning French chicks clutching their cootches on the mat, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

We'd been laughing about that, and it'd come up that you'd never really taken a fucking mound pounding in the ring.

"Nobody's ever fuckin' crotched you? EVER?"

My eyebrows were halfway to my hairline. You just smiled, driving the big ol' comfy Caddy. I had to admit this was better than the Greyhound.

"Nope. They just assume a sexfighter like me...well, it'd be like trying to headbutt a Samoan."

I laughed, draining off some Sonoran root beer.

"Well ... I mean, sure, a big blind uppercut to your goodies is probably just gonna feel like that dude from New Mexico who kept his cowboy hat durin' the sexfight and didn't have any moves except rammin' you, but like - what if it was more ... precise?"

"Boys," you'd said, just laughing. I loved listening to you laugh back then. You'd kept your hands on the wheel at 10 and 2. "They think they can just hit you with 'MY BIG NINE INCH' and you'll just melt."

I tilted my head back and tore off a hunk of pemmican in my teeth, contemplatively. You heard the silence from the other side of the car and added softly: "Yeah. Sorry. That must be kind of gross, huh?"

"Naw, I'm just tryin' to figure out if nine inches is actually big or if you're bein' ironic." I'd grinned, chewing the peppered dried meat, my bare tattooed feet up on the big hot dashboard.

"But I'm sayin'," I'd turned towards you, drawing a leg up under me. "Like one time I fought this tiny chick, Princess Something or Other, right? Super flyweight, all aerial shit, I wrecked her up for 2 out of my 3 dates with the fed and she got so pissed off she demanded we go NHB for my last appearance. She ended up being stretchered outta there that night, but before that she hit me with this SHOT ... she had her middle knuckle out like she was froggin' someone's leg in middle school, right? Spread my legs and just DRILLED me on the mat with it."

I shivered a little bit, despite the desert's furious heat. "Just fuckin' NAILED my clit because she's either a fuckin' pussy assassin or I had walked under two fuckin' ladders and stepped on a black cat that night."

You'd grinned at me. "You sure that was bad luck?" Your dark eyes were wicked ... but you weren't answering my question.

My cheeks colored up hotly and I'd first punched your arm hard enough to bruise and then lunged over to suckle your earlobe, my tits pressed to your bicep before I remembered if I kept pressing to you I'd swerve us off the road and we'd die.

"Bitch! And ... I MIGHTA soaked my shorts a TINY bit ... good thing, though, was she was so fuckin' smug about that she decided she'd climb a ladder and hit a 630 on me. And there was no ladder set up in the fuckin' ring yet. Gave me plenty of fuckin' time to recover while she was wrestling the damn thing into the ring and getting it up and climbin' it. Let me tell you how well that went for her."

I propped my left elbow on my right palm, inked forearm straight up, and then I mimed it falling over with a little cartoon scream. "Aaaaaaaaahhhh - pppbbbttthhbbt." I added a pierced-tongue raspberry to indicate the sound she made hitting the concrete.

You were taking a sip of hot tea when I did that. Then it was it was dripping off the windshield and steering wheel as you snorted laughter.

"BUT," I'd added, "Point is, this little 4'11 hundred-pounds-soakin'-wet flippy-shit fairy princess COULD'VE fuckin' pinned me. My eyes fuckin' rolled like spinning jackpot wheels when she tagged me."

You'd gotten your breath back, and regained your grip on the tea-soaked steering wheel. "Sounds like something I should avoid," you'd said. Oh, so carefully you'd said it.

"Mmmmmm ..." I'd leaned in close, nestling up as you drove, and murmured in your ear, low and secret and teasing because I hadn't missed how much you DIDN'T want to discuss this. "... good thing no one is dumb enough to try to mound pound Iron cxnt Rowan Chance, huh?"

Your eyes came off the road for a second. Just a second. So you could look at me. "I make half my living pounding my pussy on things, babe. Even if they were able to...I'd just look back at them and grin."

I'd arched an eyebrow - and then my eyes got that gleam in them. And I got that smile. The mischievous one. The fuckin' dangerous one. I glanced at the road to make sure no trucks were coming and then curled up against your side, breasts warm on your shoulder, my left arm sliding behind you to stroke your hair, my right hand slowly running over your thigh ... running in silky snaking brushes inwards and upwards.

"H-h-hey!" You gasped. Gods, that sounded so fuckin' sweet. I had just one fingertip tracing your jeans, up the line of your hidden petals that I knew even through denim. Your legs squeezed on my hand and your cheeks flushed. THAT was new. Rowan Chance getting hot-cheeked at a little heavy petting ...

"You'd just look at them and grin ..." I purred.

"Stop that. MEGAN. I'm driving!"

My breath was hot and teasing on your ear, soft lips brushing it.

"But what if ... they knew just where ... "

My fingertip brushed you, just there. You grabbed my wrist, pulling us to the side of the dusty desert road one-handed in a cloud of red. Your voice was stern - but breaking.

"If you did it...yes. Absolutely yes."

You'd look at my deep dark eyes.

"But only you."

Things got interesting after that. We hadn't gotten much further that day, since that little pit stop on the roadside ended up lasting until sundown before we got dressed again.

But I never forgot.

And as you drag me up from the mat by my purple tangle of hair - loose from my punkytails, just dragging me up like we're in a hotel room and you're pulling my face up your bare glistening body, I end up on my knees, and my right knee screeches nails-on-chalkboard pain through my leg as my weight settles there.

And I crane my head up at you, and smile that smile. The dangerous one. I purr breathlessly up at you, face blood-streaked and glistening sweat.

"I ... remember EVERYTHING."

And I SWING my right arm up between your smooth olive thighs, my hand curled into a brutally tight fist with my taped thumb JUTTING out from it.

Aiming to just fucking DRILL a Stumptown Spike right into sexfighting champ Rowan Chance's iron cxnt ... the vicious dagger of my thumb driving right into the delicate peaked spot that a lover knows best.

That only I could hit.

[Rowan Chance]

LVK: Rowan is making the sign for the Widow's Bite!

RP: That move is banned in seventeen countries. But not France.

LVK: No. Not France.

LVK: Me--Punky looks helpless. This is--


(a sudden pause. then... simultaneously, both men make a painful GROAN and the audience makes a single unified "OOOOOOOOO!")


RP: Did she just...

LVK: Yeah.

RP: In the...

LVK: Yeah.

RP: Holy shit.

LVK: Oh, yeah.


The shot hits exactly where you aimed. Exactly.

My body STOPS. Just. STOPS.

I was leaning over to pick you up. My hand in your hair. I stay there. For at least three seconds.

My eyes open wide. Pain. Surprise. And something else.

Something...else.

My lips tremble. My head, too. My eyes flutter and close.

My hand--my shaking hand--loses its grip on your hair. Fingers splayed wide open.

My voice makes a soft, high sound. You've heard it before. You've heard it a thousand times before. Like me trying to breathe, but I can't because my body won't work because of what you're doing to it. It's what you liked calling "The Herald of Rowan's Big O."

My body starts to shake. My face twists.

I fall to my knees. Hard. Fucking HARD.

The hand that was on your head lands on your shoulder. My other hand just clenches into a claw. Then a fist. Then back to a claw.

My head falls forward, landing on your chest, just between and above your breasts.

The hand on your shoulder slips and falls. Down to my side.

My other hand falls, too.

That's when you realize...all this time...I haven't been able to breathe.

You hear tiny gasps that reach the back of my throat and stop.

Like a woman with asthma.

You know exactly where I am. You've seen me in so many sexfights. Even got me this far once.

Once.

I'm doing everything in my power to hold it back.

And I can hold it back. You know I can.

But...I'm...failing.

And that is all I can do.

[RedEnforcer]

I finish yelling and I see the subtle shift in Rowan's body language. I knew that line from the Funker would strike home. As much as this match has been about both of you working out your personal issues, you've both made it clear that you want to destroy the other in front of the people they care about.

So yes, I play the Adrian to Megan's Rocky and like expected you whirl on me. You think I betrayed you, but what you don't see is that you've betrayed yourself. Yes Megan hit you with the Heartbreaker. But it was in the ring and a wrestling move. But you, you took it far beyond the confines in the ring when you tried to permanently mutilate Megan in front of Gemma.

Maybe also when you stripped off her shirt and her braids it reminded me of the time you ripped my mask off of me. For all the love you have in you, when you strike in anger, you strike to kill. There's just something demeaning in ripping someone's identity from them. The whole lucha tradition of the mask is more a commentary on the larger idea of identity. There is power in the mask, in the legacy that one imbues the mask with. To strip that away is as much the death of a persona as it is a physical removal and reveal.  Perhaps that's another place where I felt like you went too far.

I'm a heel. I'm better at it than being a face. I cheat. I overstep bounds. But there's always that one caveat. It's all in the context and the rules of Wrestling. Wrestling is its own universe with rules and laws and tropes. And within those boundaries, you can do a lot of evil shit. Paul Heyman was the master of blurring that line, but always so very careful never to cross it. In my mind, even if not in yours Rowan, you crossed that Rubicon and what happens to you now is fully on you.

And if I can get your sexy back raised up at me long enough for Megan to hatch whatever plan she's got up her taped sleeve, well that's bonus. 
I know if it were me pulling this move, I'd go for something soft. Something delicate and something vulnerable. Two thumbs to the eyes will stop you in your tracks and give her time to rest up.

I half listen to your hissed venom launched at me and pay attention to what Megan's doing.  I know she's got a heel move coming. I sure as hell taught her enough.  The eyes, the ears, something soft...something vulnerable...

Well fuck me

I didn't teach her that.

Much more effective than an eye gouge.

Holy shit.

That reaction...

The way your body just...just shuts down...
That sound you make...I've heard an echo of it before...
Are you breathing?
You're right there aren't you?
Megan has you on the edge....and your grip is slipping...

You're about to fall...

Spectacularly

[Vivianne]

Here it comes! I inhale sharply, holding my breath as I watch Rowan start to pull Punky up, certain we?re about to see that purple head spiked through the boards in Rowan?s deliciously vicious Widow?s Bite. Yesss!

NOOO!!!

The breath I was holding explodes from my lips in a wail as Punky?s thumb spikes Rowan in just the right spot, reducing her to a quivering mass seeming unable to move. This can?t be good.

Gawd Rowan...

[Lord Tantalus]

Quentin Tarantino says his characters wear "uniforms" that identify their roles to the audience. If you see a man or woman in a black suit in a Tarantino film, you know exactly what they are. When I met Rowan, she wore a thin leather jacket over a black tank top and jeans. She had a pair of boots on that came up to her middle shin. Leather boots. There was no bra under the tank top. I quickly learned this was her uniform. It let me know exactly who she was--and what she was. She sat in the coffee shop with her hot tea, reading a Psychology textbook. Everyone was watching her. And when she used a finger to pull a strand of hair over her ear, I had no choice. I got up from my seat and asked, "Can I sit here?"

She looked up and then around the coffee shop, looking at all the empty chairs. She smiled at me. "Sure," she said.

We talked for a while. She told me she was studying to be a therapist. I told her what I was doing.

Then, she saw the ring on my finger. The triskelion ring. She said, "Is that what I think it is?"

I nodded. "Yes."

She said, "Can I see it?"

I held my hand out, not touching the ring, giving her the opportunity to take it off herself. She didn't hesitate for a moment. That was something I learned quickly about Rowan. When she wants something, she doesn't hesitate.

She held the ring in her hand, turning it over. "The way you're wearing it--on your hand that way--means something, doesn't it?"

"It does." I asked her, "How do you know that?"

She continued looking at the ring. "I'm studying to be a sex therapist. Specializing in taboo normalization." She looked up at me. "Helping people feel okay about their fetishes." She kept moving the ring through her fingers. Touching it. Rolling it. Watching me.

"That must be exciting work," I said.

She smiled. "It is." Then, she put the ring on her own hand. On the same hand. On the same finger.

I said, "That's my ring."

She clenched her hand into a fist. Her voice changed. Her tone dropped. And her dark eyes shined under her black hair.

She said, "Come and get it."



That night, I learned first hand about the now-legendary endurance of Ms. Rowan Chance. I can assure you, the legends are false. They don't match up with reality at all. She exceeds the legends.

She runs marathons to stay in shape. She practices yoga and belly dancing. When she was in college, she took classical dance training to add to her skills. And every once in a while, she grabbed a bag she kept in her closet and went out to a local club and danced for men with wide eyes and gaping mouths. Because she liked them watching her. And she liked being in control. They weren't in control of the situation, she was. And she liked denying them what they wanted.

"It's like paying to window shop," she told me once as we ate on the sidewalk outside the Italian restaurant. She was bulking up on carbs for the marathon next week. "They're paying to look at something they can't have."

"That's rather wicked," I told her.

She laughed. "You're one to talk."

We had been together for a month, although not truly together. She explained polyamory to me, something I thought I understood until I met her. "Polyamory isn't swinging," she told me. "I don't just fuck anyone."

"Were we even on a date that day in the coffee house?" I asked, my voice with a hint of tease to it.

"I knew I wanted you the moment you asked to sit down," she said. "I wanted that ring. And I wanted to see if I could take it."

I held up my hand, the ring settled on m finger. "And see if I could take it back?"

She didn't answer. She didn't need to. She called it "Top vs Top." A little game she thought she invented until I introduced her to the world of sexfighting. And since then, she was hooked.

But that wasn't her first love. Her first love was professional wrestling. Something I just didn't understand until she explained it to me.

I taught her sexfighting and she taught me wrestling. It was a fair exchange.



That was years ago.

Now, I'm watching from the front row, my thumb on the ring, twisting it around my finger. A nervous habit I thought I had vanquished. Apparently, I have not.

When Megan thrust her hand up between Rowan's legs, a part of me almost laughed. A part of me expected Megan's thumb to snap. But that's not what happened. Rowan's body just collapsed. Falling forward, falling into Megan's chest. Like a scarecrow falling from his perch. Limp limbs full of straw, his head kept on with twine. I see her eyes shut, her mouth open and lips dribble with saliva.

I have seen Rowan Chance in many predicaments, but not like this. Not like this.

The heart punch, I thought, was the end. I was wrong.

This. Right here. This is it.

If Megan can hurt her that badly and that easily...

Oh, my Rowan. My proud, strong Rowan. Seeing you limp and helpless.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.



And I see Megan. My Rowan limp against her body.

The Foxglove Queen's beauty is only matched by her merciless revenge.

I heard so much about her from you, Rowan. You came bounding to me, your eyes full of light and your lips singing songs. "Her name is Megan!" you said. "And she's incredible! We spent hours just talking and..." you paused. "You know."

And you blushed. You actually blushed.

"You're going to love her," you said. "She's a poetess. Everything she says is beautiful." And you went on. You didn't stop. Telling me about how she mixed pop culture with literature with mythology with street slang with kayfabe with punk rock lyrics. "She comes up with connections...she's like a punk rock pro wrestling Chuck Palahniuk!"

"She sounds fantastic," I said.

"I've got to get you two to meet." You were ecstatic. Jumping. Then, you said, "OH! I've got to go! Residency!" And you started bounding away.

"Didn't you just get off shift three hours ago?" I shouted at your back.

You spun around, dancing as you walked backward. "You're gonna love her!" you shouted. "And she's gonna love you!"



In a darker place. The door opens and a purple-haired vengeful spirit enters the room. Carrying a wooden mallet in her hands.

I sit calmly. If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn't be waiting. You'd be doing it.

Words were exchanged. Some angry, some calm. Hours later, you left, that mallet still in your hands.

Then, months later, your second visit.

"I want it," you said.

I raised an eyebrow. "Exactly what would that be?"

"She said you never taught her the Heart Breaker."

I nodded. "I haven't."

You stood still for a long moment. "Teach me," you said. Like a command.

"Like all things," I said, "there's a price."

You didn't hesitate. Like Rowan, when you want something, there's no hesitation. "Name it."

I did. And you didn't hesitate. You pulled your shirt over your head...



...and now I see your naked shoulders again. As my Rowan lies in your lap.

I gave you the power to do this. You couldn't have done this on your own.

Beaten her? Yes.

But you did more than that.

I taught you the Heart Breaker for two reasons. One, because I wanted what you were willing to give.

But second...you needed to break her heart. For her to become what she wanted to be. I couldn't give her that. I loved her too much. No, in order for her to finally embrace the wrath and fury in her heart, she had to be hurt by someone she loved.

She had to be wounded.

She had to have her heart broken.

You did that, Megan. You did that.

And when I saw her destroy you, I saw the woman she always wanted to become. The dark and powerful weapon. The angry goddess of destruction.

Before she became the Goddess of Sun and Moon, Inanna needed to suffer death. True death. At the hands of the God of Death. Before that, she was incomplete. A wanton war goddess who wandered the streets of Babylon pulling soldiers out of taverns and fucking them in the streets.

That was my Rowan. A Goddess of the Moon. Powerful, but incomplete.

And after that heart punch, she faced the True Goddess of Death. Her death. Her symbolic death. A death more powerful than any physical one.

You destroyed her. You broke what Rowan Chance was. And helped forge what she is.


But I watch her, on your lap. Weak. Vulnerable.

And I know the transformation is not yet complete. Some of that girl I met in the coffee shop is still there.

She needs only a little more fire to purge it. To burn that girl away.

And you're going to give it to her, Megan.

The heart punch wasn't enough.

She still has to hang on the cross as Inanna did, hang on the Cross of the Goddess of Death and suffer until all of that Rowan was is gone. Stripped away.

Then... and only then... will she embrace what she is to become.


Give it to her, Megan.

Transform her.

Make her suffer.

And then, she will destroy you in heavenly hellfire.

[ThePurpleVixen]

Back at the gym on Hawthorne and Cesar Chavez, Squire O'Dwyer used to have a thing he'd say when we got a move right. When you tagged a kick just where he wanted it thrown, when you pulled off an armdrag to drop the small of your opponent's back right onto a little X Squire had duct-taped on the scrummy canvas, when you hit a European uppercut that knocked someone's lights out briefly as the inside of our elbow hit them flush on the point of the jaw - he'd laugh his whiskey-roughened Irish laugh and say "Right on the button!"

He'd have fucking loved this shot.

Because this Stumptown Spike hit you RIGHT on the fucking button.

Funny. Normally this button turns you on, but it seems to have powered you off. Maybe Thomas should call tech support and let them know his TOY is broken.

You collapse down slowly. So exquisitely slowly, it's like the drop of a curtain after the lights go dark on the climactic scene of some fucking play about love and hate and betrayal and bloody cruel brutality. You don't topple, you don't cry out like you've been gut-shot ... you just sort of melt down into me, an ice sculpture getting hit with the slow kiss of a flamethrower, which kinda sums up our whole past pretty neatly.

There's that lovely high sound from your throat. Fuck, you even get your fun bits punched prettily. Your knees his the canvas with a satisfying thud even as it sends a cracked-tooth jolt through my own knee. Your hands drop from my tatterdemalion purple hair to my shoulder, and then to your sides as one convulsively clutches at nothing. And as your head slumps down to rest against my sweaty tits with the embroidered SPLX emblem pressed to your cheek, I keep my right hand just where it is, my thumb buried in your leather shorts, deep enough that it makes a soft creak with every slight move I make. Each little breath you draw presses you harder into the unbearable pressure of my thumb drilled into you at your softest spot as I keep my taped fist locked tight.

You gasp those sweet little gasps. I've heard those before, watching you with my lip bitten and my nipples stiff as some dusky tigress or smooth-shouldered man-beast took you to your limits. I even got you there myself once.

(No, it wasn't a league sexfight. I'm not a sexfighter. DAMN YOU, FUCK-PROMOTERS, STOP TRYING TO BOOK ME ON YOUR FUCKFESTS, GOD DAMN IT.)

But you're quivering on the edge right now, aren't you, Ro?

I could take you over.

I know I could. And as I shift my fist a tiny bit and the leather of your shorts creaks wetly and I feel your body quiver, slumped against me, I know that you know I could.

My left hand comes up, stroking your hair back, almost gently. My head dips, lips brushing your ear. My facepaint has been washed away, leaving them soft and pink, glistening with sweat and whiskey and blood.

"I could let everyone see you get fucked, Rowan. Isn't that what you want? Isn't that why you became a sexfighter? Because you wanted people to SEE you get fucked into a shuddering ruin? Wanted to hear the announcers call it?" I purr, soft and secret. Just you and me, close up. Breathing your scent as I cradle you against my chest - and I give my thumb a twist against you to jolt you.

"What do you think Larry and Rick would say, watching Unbreakable Chance spasm and drool? What do you think Red would do? Do you think he'd get hot, Rowan? I know Gemma would."

My voice is sweet purring poison. I grin against your ear.

"What about Thomas?"

A twist again. Another jolt. That high soft sound. Shuddered gasps. Your hands twitch at your sides.

RP: Is she WHISPERING to her? The hell are they doing?

LVK: It's just more ... of what these two women want to do to each other. I almost wish they'd just take chairs and take turns hitting each other like Axl Rotten and Balls Mahoney, may they rest in peace. They'd break each other's skulls but it'd be less brutal than what they've done to each other.

RP: They've really taken ya to a dark place when you're unfavorably comparin' 'em to Axl Rotten, van Keel. Jeezus. But seriously ...

LVK: Seriously?

RP: ... is Chance gonna cum or what? I got a fiver ridin' on this as a sidebet.

LVK: Young man, please bring me whatever whiskey they're serving. In a water glass.

"But there's just one problem with that sweet wicked dream of shame and pleasure, darlin' ..."

I give my thumb one last PRESS into you, with a soft squeal of damp, slick, hot black leather - and then my left hand TWISTS in your dark hair and YANKS your head back off my chest, cranking your neck back viciously as I snarl into your face.

"I DON'T WANT TO FUCK YOU, ROWAN."

The roar is loud enough to be heard all the way to the cheap seats so your fan boy can gasp in horror over it as my right hand yanks out from between your thighs and closes into a full fist, driving forward in a brutal cross aimed to just absolutely clock the FUCK out of your jaw. I don't think you're gonna be able to do much to defend yourself from it in the state you're in.

And then I move, dragging myself up to my feet on the ropes, and NOW I'm forcing the pain back down where it belongs, forcing it deep and stomping on it, internally snapping at my swollen and throbbing knee to shut the fuck up as it squeals in protest. I grab your dark hair and drag you up, to your knees, hauling you forward to hang you like a fresh kill over the middle rope, letting it bite into your belly. I make sure we're on the side facing Gemma. She'll want to see this.

I step forward, straddling your back, my long legs hanging over the rope and BLISSFULLY taking my weight off my knee, letting me sigh in relief and warm pleasure as I get to soothe my still-aching cxnt by pressing it into the hot sweaty smoothness of your bare lower back. My weight grinding you into the rope, crushing into your belly. I reach down over the top rope, sweaty hair hanging in long twisted tangles, and grab your wrists, dragging your arms up, hooking them over the top rope.

I can hear the crowd start to buzz. There's no 5-count here. No rope breaks.

Ha. Rope breaks.

You'll get it in a minute.

"I can do whatever I want to break you, Rowan," I grin, securing your arms your hands dangle inside the ring, swaying above the middle rope. I lock my thighs around your waist, securing my seat on your back.

"And I'm not in the mood to break your spirit or your heart or your love or any fucking metaphorical thing anymore."

I reach down, stretching my arms with a growl, my red boots swaying just off the ring apron as I drag my taped hands over your cheeks, lift your face ... and lace my fingers under your chin.

"I'm gonna cut to the fucking chase and JUST BREAK YOUR FUCKING BACK."

I snarl as I LEAN back, throwing all my weight back with my legs locked around your waist. YANKING you up to haul your head up to the top rope and crank your neck against it. Your arms trapped over the top rope. Thrusting my hips to force your fucking spine to bend the wrong way as I use the ring ropes to try to shatter your body.

I don't have a name for this rope-hung Camel Clutch. Beause I've never used it before.

Because I've never decided to just break someone's back with a whole audience watching before.

You said you wanted Thomas to remake you? Fine.

NOW HE'LL HAVE LOTS MORE LITTLE PIECES TO WORK WITH.

[Rowan Chance]

That story about the ring isn't true. I actually talked to him for a whole hour before I asked to look at it.

But the rest is true. All of it. Every word.

And after that sledgehammer hit me in the jaw, I didn't see or feel or think very well. Just blurs of motion and sound. I don't know if she could have pinned me or not. I honestly don't know. But I don't think this is about pinfalls anymore. It isn't about putting someone's shoulders down to the mat for three seconds.

This is about something else now.

I feel rope being stretched across my belly and I think back to the first time Tantalus put rope across my belly. Then, around my back. My wrists. I was blindfolded. He kept asking me, "Are you all right?" And I kept nodding and biting my lip. I didn't need a blindfold because I was too excited to open my eyes.

Nobody is asking me if I'm all right now. Not as rough, taped hands wrap my arms over something hard and...is that a ring rope? Cable? Cord? And now lifting my chin. Pulling it up.

I feel that same cord on the back of my neck. The inside of your wet, sticky thighs on my back.

Only now am I beginning to understand.

And then... you WRENCH your arms, pulling my neck up. Arching my spine.

You know exactly how far my back can go. Years of yoga and belly dancing training have made me very flexible. One of my greatest weapons as a sexfighter and a wrestler. You know exactly how far I can bend...and you know exactly how far I can't.


RP: WHOAH...

LVK: Punky has put Rowan in a camel clutch that...to be honest ladies and gentlemen, I don't...I mean I can't even begin to know how to call.

RP: I can. I'll call it the JEEBUS GOD I HOPE I NEVER GET PUT IN THAT KIND OF HOLD EVER Camel Clutch.

LVK: You're a poet, Rick.

RP: You know it.



You bend my spine back so far, my face is turned up to the spotlights. I look like Stretch Armstrong or Mr. Fantastic. And I'm screaming.

"AGHH...FUCK! FUCKING...YOU BITCH! YOU FUCKING BITCH! I...I..."

The referee asks if I want to quit.

"NOOOOO!!!"

She waves at the timekeeper. "No!"

And you don't relent. You keep pulling. Keep shouting at me to quit. Quit while I can.

"I'M NOT YOUR FUCKING WHORE WIFE WHO CAN'T...AUUGGGNN...CAN'T TAKE A FUCKING PAPERCUT, BITCH!"

You really rear back with that. And I scream out loud. My breasts nearly pulling out of my leather corset. Somewhere in my mind, I'm thanking whoever invented body tape. Not that its hard to find my breasts on--


"AAACCCCHHHHHHFFFFFUFFDNDNNNNNNNNN..nnnnn..."



Somewhere...I hear the referee ask me again.

Your hands on my jaw, squeezing it shut. Spit spewing through my teeth. "nuh-nn-n-n..."

And something in my back...

... POPS.


"AAAAHHHFUCCKINGGODD! MEGAN!!!MEGAN!!!OHFUCK!!!YOU'RE BREAKING MY BACK!!!MEGAN!!!YOURRGGGNNNANnanan..."


The referee asks me again. "Do you quit?"

The pain in my body is kicking every nerve I have. With steel toed boots. On fire. Flaming steel toed boots. My whole body. Every inch of it.


you have to...say yes...don't let her hurt you anymore...say yes...do it...do it...your back is breaking...say yes...SAY YES...



"Y--y--ugggnnnn...fughh..."

[Vivianne]

I don't gasp when I hear Punky scream at Rowan, though I do flinch when her punch slams into that beautiful face. No...words alone to not cause me to feel horror...but what happens next does. Seeing that wonderful, sexy body draped through and over the ropes and then YANKED back into a vicious camel clutch. Yeah...that pulls a gasp from me for sure, especially when NHB rules means no rope breaks. I know she's flexible. Gawd...it's one of the many things I find so alluring. But I also know she has had back injuries before and there is no way this is going to end well.

Even from up here I can see Rowan's body jerk. Something in her back went. No..no..NO NO NO!!! You want to know what horrifies me Punky? The scream that erupted from Rowan's lips. It causes me to freeze and hold my breath. The ref asks and she is struggling. Wavering. She should give. It's the smart thing to do. Give up and save your back Rowan. Save yourself from permanent injury. Just say yes...



I suddenly remember the day I told Rowan how I felt. Taking a chance with someone I only knew for a short time, yet could not get out of my mind. I remember her beautiful face when I told her. I remember the kind look as she explained to me why I could never have her. About Tantalus...and Megan. She didn't tell me everything...far from it...but she told me enough. Enough to know she will be forever linked to her former partner. Enough to know she can't give up. Even if she wants to...she simply can't.



So I scream. Not that she can hear me from up here, but I scream. I scream to keep myself from breaking down from the horror I am feeling.

 "COME ON ROWAN! DON'T GIVE UP!! COOMMEEE ONNNN!!!"

[Jessi the Country Cougar]

I've been slowly working my way towards the ringside seats, admiring the ebb and flow of the match from many different vantage points and making soft little coos and purrs to myself as each of the warriors in the ring put on a show Zeus himself would have declared worthy of Olympus.  I know Megan's skill and fighting spirit personally..intimately even.  And while having never faced Rowan her reputation is impossible to ignore. 

By the time I make it to my destination, that delicious pop comes from Rowan's back like a champagne bottle being opened to celebrate.  I grin wickedly as my body tingles as I see the stubborn determination and refusal to submit even when it's the smart thing to do.  Logic says to take a defeat quickly and spare yourself an injury that will sap your strength in the long run.  But logic very rarely has a place inside the ring once the blood starts pumping and every nerve in your body feels like it's attached to a New York subway's third rail.  Pride and ego will overrule logic and reason everytime, no matter the consequences.

"Come on Meg, pull harder! If she can still make noises you're not doing it right!"

[RedEnforcer]

I watch with the same mix of surprise and excitement as Megan makes her point with her thumb.

I can see it. That look on your face. Sooo close.

Right on the edge. In fact there are times when I've taken you to that edge...and left you there...

So close..

But Megan doesn't want that. People have seen you in your sexfights. No she wants something more.

Fuck me that punch makes my jaw hurt. And then I see her drag you to the ropes. Oh, this is nasty.

I definitely didn't teach her this. But damned if I'm not gonna use it.

And there you are, clad in your leather...almost overtaken by pleasure and now swallowed whole by pain.

You can bend. Lord knows I know you can bend. But your abilities only go so far and Megan's strength, rage and leverage are going to push you past those limits.

I've seen you like this before as well. And it gives me the same reaction. In fact I find myself sitting straight up. My jeans feeling tighter as I see you on display in blessed agony. I can feel my own hands on your olive flesh pulling you back, hearing you groan through my fingers covering your lips. And you feeling how hot that makes me with my groin pressed against your straining back. I've had you in several camel clutch holds. I know what it looks like and what it sounds like when you fight. And I know just how much.....I enjoy hearing and seeing you like this.

I lick my lips subconsciously.

POP

Loud enough for all of us to hear it. Suddenly I'm worried for you. Yes I want Megan to beat you, but not permanently injure you. It's why I got so mad at you for what you did to Megan.  This now is no longer a wrestling hold, it's an implement of torture.

Fuck.

I look over to see the worried faces in the crowd. They all heard it too. I wonder what Tantalus must be thinking now.

My eyes move over on him and his body language seems off. I would expect more of a sense of concern, worry or fear. I'm not reading that at all.

No

He can't be...

That motherfucker is looking expectant!?!

What did he do to you Megan? What did you agree to that had him teach you that move?

He's playing chess with us again. Using us as his tools to accomplish his goals.  He did it to me when he first contacted me and sent me that Bane mask in a fight against Rowan.

He did it in Tokyo when we needed to take care of Aika.

And I can see his dirty fingers all over this. 

He's using you

Because he wants his Rowan. Not the best Rowan.

His Rowan

Ahhhh fuckin hell...

[ThePurpleVixen]

My legs wrap your waist, my inked thighs crushing just under your ribs. My skull-patterned boyshorts, all candy grins from the grave on black, grind into your back as I turn it from a smooth supple display of perfect olive flesh into Fig. 1 of a future medical textbook display: Patient's back prior to reconstructive spinal surgery. My skirt of ragged strips of coffin lining drags over your skin. *I* drag over your skin - the cxnt you tried your best to destroy, to mangle in front of my wife is still swollen, still hurts like broken glass ... but I've fucked in broken glass before. And it's hot. Can you feel that heat, Rowan? I guess I was lying when I said I didn't want to fuck you.

I just meant I want to fuck your broken useless body.

My hands are laced DEEP under your chin. You interlock your fingers under the SHELF of the jaw, that's the secret of a really good clutch. Some assholes try to just grip the chin, but no, you get in deep. The knife dges of your hands right against their throat. And your thumbs press to the hinges of the jaw, like THIS. It's a GRIP on their head, like you're trying to rip it off its fucking moorings.

I feel that POP under me. How could I not.

It sends an electric thrill that curls my fucking toes in my Docs. My blood red boots hanging in the air, giving my knee a needed respite as I grind my hips into you, using my weight and my leverage to torque you in fucking half.

You and everyone else here remember when Gemma and I destroyed your back.

Some of like Red and Thomas remember further, to when Jenny Dare famously fucked your back up. I know you sure as fuck remember that.

But I remember even FURTHER.

We were in Chicago. It was one of those fucking lake-effect winters outside so we hardly had a house since no one wanted to go through the driving snow and lung-freezing wind to pay 15 bucks for a one-off wrestling show promoted by some never-was from Heartland Wrestling. But we were booked, The Daughters of Darkness against the Queens of the Loop, a couple of local girls with a post-apocalyptic kinda Road Warriors-ish tribute gimmick. Bryn Mawr and Juneway. They wore shoulder pads made out of cut-up tires like in Demolition Man and road-map facepaint. Swear to the gods, that was their thing.

Obviously, we were working heel.

The main event hadn't been able to fly into O'Hare with the snow, so the promoter told us to make our match fuckin' No-DQ Tornado rules to sell it to the fans more. His greasy little announcer cooked up some cockamamie story about us feuding with these idiots all across the Midwest to get the 57 paying customers REALLY psyched up for our "grudge match".

And I'll give it to those bitches with the silly names and god-awful gimmicks - they hit fuckin' HARD. And they were strong.

And at some point one of 'em, Bryn Mawr I think, the bigger one with linebacker shoulders and the streak of red in her spiky brown hair, she hit you with a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker, catching you as you came at her, and all three of us looked at you - I was in the middle of punching my way out of a bearhug from the big busty German-looking chick with the blonde braid, musta been Juneway - when your scream fucking pierced the little VFW hall. I'd NEVER heard you go off like that after a move in the ring. Normally you were restrained to the point of being creepy, smothering all your pain in little gasps and growls. But as you hung over her knee, you were HURT ... and they KNEW it.

I immediately went for Juneway's eyes to try to get to to you, furious and terrified for you - and she tucked her head and RAN me into the corner, and the buckles shook as she crashed me in - and she just fucking held me there, not even fighting, just wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her body into me, securing her arm around the middle rope to hold me. I pounded on her back, but that bitch must've weighed 210, and I wasn't getting anywhere.

"RO!" I roared, clawing at her back, at her stupid fucking leather vest, trying to get to you.

Bryn grinned as the crowd roared in idiot nasal Chicago delight - and took your chin and your hip and FORCED you down. She wasn't as heavy as Juneway, but she was big enough to be a proper Road Warrior tribute. Spiky haired cxnt had half a foot on you. And she was strong as fucking hell, and I heard it as she BROKE you over her bent knee. Your screams ...

... and it went on and on.

Because you wouldn't give up.

"JUST GIVE! JUST FUCKING TAP! LET HER FUCKING GO!"

I was half insane, not even fighting properly, out of my fucking head with worry for you, fear for you.

And you just gurgled and shook your STUPID HEAD every time the ref checked on you.

Finally after so long - TOO fucking long with you NOT GIVING and Bryn just holding you there like fracturing a woman's spine was a winter hobby - I managed to grab Juneway's idiot braid and DRIVE my knee up into her face since the fat load was just laughing and holding me in place, breaking her fucking nose and shoving her off me as she squealed. And then I snatched a chair up Bryn had brought in earlier before you stopped her with a cxnt punt, and I brought it down on her head as she looked up in surprise.

And I hit her again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

I hit them both until that chair was broken apart in bleeding hands.

They were both just twitching on the mat, unrecognizable in masks of blood.

I didn't even bother going for a pin. I made sure they were fucking down and then I gathered you up. Every movement made you moan out in a way that broke my fucking heart.

The crowd was dead silent, since they thought they'd just paid 15 bucks to see a crippling and two murders.

(The Queens of the Loop were fine, eventually. Slight skull fractures. They were back in biz in like nine months and had some neat scars to make themselves look more bad-ass. They made sure never to ever get fucking booked anywhere near me, though.)

There was no fucking doctor here at this god-damn outlaw nothing show. So I carried you myself. In my arms. Trying to hold you as carefully as I can.

"Megan - it hurts," you moaned.

"I know, baby. Shhh. Shhhh, it'll be okay," I panted. I didn't know it would be okay. I was sure it wouldn't. I don't think I'd ever been scared of anything so much as the thought that it wouldn't be okay that winter night in Chicago.

I didn't know where to go. Finally I took you into the little back room that served as a locker room - I think it's where the VFW guys changed into their parade uniforms - and kicked my duffel over, spilling out my street clothes. I laid you down as carefully as I could, facedown on them.

You trembled with so much pain.

"Shhhh, Ro. Shhhhh, pretty raven. It'll be okay." I was assuring myself as much as you. More.

I ran my hands as softly and carefully as I could over your back.

And I could feel how crooked it felt through your laced fighting top even before you screamed.

You tried to stop me from using your phone to call 911, because you gasped that I never called a doctor. It's true. I taped myself back together with duct tape when I was bleeding and I pulled my own joints back into place and once bit a broomstick and slammed my dislocated shoulder into a door until it was back in, but that's because I'm a fucking idiot who thought I was Mick Foley with tits, I explained. You are getting an actual doctor.

I think you would've stopped me if you could've moved. Because it was like tapping out to call for help.

Remember?

And now we're way past Chicago. And we're way past my heart breaking for you.

But we're not past you being TOO FUCKING STUPID to give up.

"I KNOW YOUR BACK IS BREAKING, ROWAN. THAT'S WHY I AM FUCKING DOING THIS TO YOU."

I snarl, my head hanging back. Each word snapped out viciously, bitten off at the trailing ends. My boots thrust out in the air, knee pulsing with pain as my quads lock under your ribs, hips crushing into your spine and smearing my sick excitement along your olive skin as I haul your head back over the top rope.

"JUST FUCKING GIVE UP!"

I JERK your head back, thrusting into you with each snarled word, my purple hair whipping in sweaty strands, my tented pierced nipples outlined in black Lycra.

"YOU -

- WILL -

- FUCKING -

- BREAK."

[Rowan Chance]

"I can't move my legs."

The dressing room was ice cold. Fucking promoter wouldn't even buy a space heater. In the middle of winter. In Chicago. But it didn't matter. I wasn't feeling the cold.

"Megan... I can't move my legs."

You cradled my head, holding my cellphone in your hand.

"Ro, I need your passcode."

"I...ohfuck. Megan. MEGAN. ICANTMOVEMYLEGS!!!"

Those last words degenerate into sobs. You hold me hard and shout, "SOMEONE FUCKING CALL 911!" Then, you look down at me. "Baby. Shh. It's just a stinger. It'll pass. Trust me. I've had a dozen of 'em."

I'm sobbing like a frightened girl. Snot and tears. My body is shaking. I can't control it. I'm not even thinking of hypothermia. I'm just staring at my legs that won't move.

"It's all right, baby," you whisper to me. "It's all right."

"MY BACK! MEGAN! I CAN'T..."

"Shh..." you whisper, stroking my wet hair. "It's all right. Shhh..."

* * *

"MY BACK! MEGAN! I CAN'T..."

But your voice isn't soft and cooing this time. No. It's cruel and cold and heartless. You aren't trying to reassure me. No.

You're letting me know that you're going to exploit my biggest weakness. And you're going to finish what those bitches started in Chicago.

Your hands are tight over my chin. I'm almost bent into a ball. The top of my head could reach the bottoms of my boots if you pulled a little harder. If you had the strength to pull a little harder.

That POP was either a rib breaking lose or one of my vertebrae snapping out of place. I don't know which it is...but I can still feel my toes. Feeling them tingling. Numb.

The referee asks me again. "Rowan...do you quit?"

"Go on, babe," you say. "Tell her you've had enough. Tell her I'm too much."

You lean in tight, whispering in my ear. "Say our safe word." And you bite my ear hard.

My voice screams out. Not just in pain. Something deeper. A pitiful sound. Almost a whimper.

"SAY IT!" you shout at me. "FUCKING SAY IT, CHANCE!"

You wrench back again and I scream again. My arms flying free from the ropes, flailing about.

"I..."

"SAY IT!"

One of my hands lands on something that isn't a rope. It feels soft and creamy. And smells... smells...

"ungggnnn...qu..."

"SAY IT, YOU FUCKING PAIN SLUT! ADMIT IT!"

My hand tightens on it. Feeling its round shape. Bone. Flesh.

Your knee.

I can feel the swelling. Bits floating around in there that should be attached to something.

You pull again. I scream. And my fingers squeeze. Just out of instinct.

I hear a gasp.

Your knee. Your fucking knee.





My hand raises up...fingers curling... trembling...barely able to move...almost no strength...

...just like before. Just like when I hit you in your little soft space. The one that's going to need months of recovery before your slut wife can use it.

And my hand SLAMS down on your knee. Fingers out. Finding all the soft spots in a knee that nobody should touch.

And I know them all. Don't I Megan?

Because I spent years learning them. While you were bar brawling and drinking and fucking anything that had tits and half a brain, I was training. Learning. Becoming.

I know all the soft spots on your body. I know how to touch them to make them sing. And I know how to touch them and make them scream.

And your swollen, busted knee. My fingers. Digging in. Five points of pain, like a pentagram, all linked together by nerves.

Right on your fucking knee.

[The Second City Wrestlerette]

Reading this makes me cry...I miss you all so much!

[Emily Layne]

Reading this makes me cry...I miss you all so much!

This is so cute! ❤