[~Rox Erotique~]

"YES! YYEEEESSSS! THAT'S IT BABY! I FUCKING LOVE YOOOUUUUUU!" I scream at the top of my lungs! Seeing the first fall go your way brings us one step closer to this fucking horrific experience being over! Adrenaline surges through my body as I watch you with a chest swelling with pride and a heart pounding with love.

But...

As time passes and the adrenaline cools I'm left with a hollow feeling in my gut as the scene plays out over and over in my head...

In one of our first ever fights I stopped you dead in your tracks with a heart-punch. floored you with it... but THAT? That wasn't anything like the raw, furious, ugly punch I laid on you. That was much more devastating... cold, vicious, controlled, destructive. I've felt a heart punch like that before...

I turn to see Tantalus grasping the railings with white knuckles and I look back to see Megan smirking at him and the hollowness in my gut grows

"That.... that mother fucker......."

[ThePurpleVixen]

The trainers move in to tend to you. Fortunately for you, France has better healthcare than the States, so instead of some handsy drunk old bastard who's called Doc serving as the ring medic in some backwater Alabama outlaw promotion and checking you for spinal trauma while he squeezes your tits, you get a genuine doctor. A good one. A trained medical professional.

AND YOU FUCKING NEED ONE.

That little spasm, that twitched your limp body around, the blood running down your chin? These things gladdened my fucking heart, Rowan. It's a heart you tore out of me in Vegas, a heart you kept trying to rip out anew after FTW. A heart you've tried to torment and seduce, to break again, to drive a stake through over and over and fucking OVER. But you can't. You CAN'T  - because it belongs to fucking GEMMA. And it's beating strong right now, which is more than you can fucking say.

You're my past, Rowan.

And I put you down like Nick Nemeth put down some other broken-down relic of yesteryear.

The screen behind the stage that's been showing footage of the brutal match is now showing a simple digital countdown.

5 minutes. You get 5 minutes to get back on your feet before I take your fucking head off.

I slouch in the corner, slumped against the bottom buckle with my arms hanging over the middle rope like my trainer Scotty and his hero Jake. Long legs sprawled out in front of me. Tilting back the icy Gavroche I had one of the ring attendants bring me, licking the foam from my black lips. My skull paint run and smeared. A hot pack is laid on my aching right knee and a cold wet towel is draped over my head, watching you from under the makeshift hood like another of my Philadelphia idols. I always wanted to be a Suplex Machine just like him.

But when you get back to your feet, Rowan?

It's not gonna be a time for machines.

I'm just gonna kick your fucking teeth down your throat.

One way or another, this is done tonight. This is DONE.

"We are fucking done," I snarl under the hood of the cold towel. Outside the hood, Gemma is staring down Tantalus, Tantalus is staring at me, Red's staring at you, Emily's probably checking out my ass, Becca's probably checking out Gemma's ass ... but in here, it's just like the old song.

I only have eyes ... for you.

LVK: That was an absolutely brutal first round. Both women tore into each other before Punky finished off Rowan with that shocking and VICIOUS use of Tantalus' Heart Breaker. Utterly unexpected!

RP: I've been tellin' ya, van Keel! That guy is a SPOOK. He's even got a dyke like Dow-

LVK: RICK.

RP: What? We're not censored.

LVK: We're also not idiots.

RP: Jesus, fine. Even AN ALTERNATIVE LIFESTYLE LGBTQ POSITIVE PERSON like Punky falls under his weird spell. An' Gemma don't look too happy about it neither.

LVK: A lot of the audience seems quite disturbed by what they've just seen, Rick. And I can't blame them for a moment. These two women are in the midst of something deeply personal, DEEPLY bitter, and unsettlingly brutal ... and there's more to come.

RP: Fuck yeah there is. SMACK HER AGAIN, PUNKY! I AIN'T FORGOT WHAT THAT NUTTY BROAD DID TO ME IN FTW!

[Rowan Chance]

Five minutes. That's not a lot of time.

Go on. Time it. Turn on the microwave and try to do something important. Try to get it done in five minutes.

Of course, I don't even notice the first minute. That's because I'm unconscious in the center of the ring, coughing up blood, almost spasming. It's only when they put the smelling salts under my nose that I'm awake.

"Rowan," the ref asks. "Can you continue?"

My blurry eyes focus on something. A crowd.

"Can you continue, Rowan?"

I cough again, the rich taste of blood on my tongue. And I see...

... him.

My eyes narrow. I cough again.

"Rowan," the referee asks. "Can you..."

"FUCK YES," I say, wiping the blood from my mouth. My glare hot, all the way across the ring, across the floor and right at you.

"You've got three and a half minutes before the next fall begins," the ref tells me.

The trainer, bless his heart, puts his hand on my shoulder. "I don't think you should..."

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME."

He lifts his hand gently, like removing it from a ticking bomb. "All right," he says. "All right." He backs away.

I spend the rest of the time getting to my feet. Three and a half minutes. Inch by goddamn inch. I can't breathe. I can barely see. But I see you, Tantalus. And across the ring...

...I see her.

"He gave it to you..." I mutter, my bloody lips spitting.

"He gave it to you..."

I feel something burning inside me. No, not my heart. That's not doing very well right now, thank you. No, it's something else.

I've never been a fury in the ring. Never been a brawler. I wanted to be. Watched enough Brody matches to make me want to be exactly like him. But I wasn't big enough. Wasn't strong enough. I had to learn different ways of hurting people.

But right now... right now...

Punky...

As I feel my fists clench...feel my fingertips digging into my palms...feel my shoulders clench...feel my bicepts twisting in my arms...

Punky...

All I want to do now...

...is hit you as hard as I can.

[ThePurpleVixen]

I see you come back to life, and my eyes gleam in the shadows of the towel draped over my head.

I see you spit blood onto the canvas, and I lick my lips as I finish off the beer and roll it across the canvas to the ropes, where a youngboy snatches the empty bottle and ferrets it away.

I see you glaring at me, and I stare right back into you. Welcome to the abyss.

I really, really liked hurting you just now, Rowan. It was worth every fucking penny of the price I paid to learn the fine details of that strike. Every ounce of hurt that went into the learning, everything I gave up in that exchange ...  was just paid back in rich fucking dividends.

And you KNOW it. You KNOW exactly what hit you.

The fear that flashed in your pretty dark eyes is something I'm gonna treasure FOR-FUCKING-EVER. I'll warm my heart with that on cold nights. I'll smile at the thought when I'm getting a bone set or going under the knife. I'll keep it in my secret fucking garden, Rowan.

And the anger in your eyes is so fucking rich that it's GOTTA be fattening.

I start to rock, slowly, back and forth.

Tensing my fists on the ropes, flexing my fingers so my knuckles crackle as I snap my arms forward and back. The clock ticks down.

My eyes are locked on yours.

Black lips drawn back in a snarl - the greasepaint of my calavera skull is smeared and streaked, just barely discernible still, but my lips are done in Zenshi black enamel, and that shit STAYS glossy and crisp even when it's smeared with blood and sweat and drool - baring my teeth at you.

My boot draws up. The clock counts down.

I snatch the towel off my head and hurl it outside where a youngboy snatches it on the fly. The crowd is on their feet now as you stare at me with eyes on fire and your fists clenched and I lunge like a bull in a pen, building up a head of pure fucking fury.

The referee wisely moves back, a little smirk on her face as she undoes another button with a sly little gesture, pale eyes darting between us.

The clock runs out, and I'm UP, yanking myself up in one fluid movement, and I come right at you, boots pelting across the canvas, already torquing for a right cross that's gonna rip your fucking jaw off and send it up into the cheap seats. If there were any cheap seats. Even the back row of nosebleeds is a fuckin' bankbreaker tonight.

But lucky them, they're gonna get your teeth as a souvenir.

[Rowan Chance]

The referee calls for the bell and you launch out of the corner, a storm of fists and fury. You think this fight is over. You put me down with one strike. The one strike you knew would put me down. And now, you're coming to finish the job.

There's blood in my lungs. I can taste it. I know at least one of my ribs is bruised, if not broken. I can feel it. You did more than just physical damage with that hit. You and I both know it.

But now, there is something deep inside me that I've never felt before, not for you or anyone else. I've never hated anyone. Sure, I use all the psychological tricks to make them think so, but I've never felt real hate. The old Viking word, "hate." It means a spirit that possesses you and controls your actions. A red anger that cannot be controlled.

I've never hated you. Not until this very moment. Right now. I can feel it inside me and...

...I can control it. I am controlling it. Wrapped it up in my fists. Waiting for you to get closer. I'm waiting for you to throw that punch of yours. I know all of them. Your jab, your hook, your uppercut, your overhead punch that you use to open up someone's brow. I know them all by heart. And I can see them now. See the one you've chosen, even halfway across the ring.

Five hundred years ago, Musashi wrote about what I'm going to do to you:

Within the rhythm of large and small, fast and slow, you should understand the rhythm of striking, the rhythm between actions, and the use of counter rhythms.

Four hundred years later, a guy from Chinatown named Lee Jun-fan would use less poetic but more clear language. He called it, "the intercepting punch."

And as you raise your fist, my body moves. I see it. Right cross.

And before you can even cock your hand back, I duck, snap my hips, and bring my fist up and under your jaw, screaming as I do. A "KIIIIAAAAIII!!!" that Bruce could hear from his grave.

And all the strength I have left is behind it. That may not be much, but I don't need strength. Something else is behind that punch that is stronger than all my muscles and skill could ever muster.

My HATE.

[ThePurpleVixen]

I know you're fast, but you're not gonna be fast with your heart still shuddering back into shape like a sponge someone crushed all the water out of in one fist. Your ribs are going to be sprung, making every breath hurt.

And more important than that, you're gonna be suffering with every breath knowing what I have that you don't. Poor little rich girl Rowan Chance, sucking a silver spoon dry but knowing there's a toy out there she doesn't have.

So I don't think you'll be fast enough to stop me from taking your head off.

And practically, I was right. I KNOW Gemma's gonna watch footage of this over and over later and save it for use in arguments with me about me being stubborn or hotheaded, but I was right. I set this up PERFECTLY. It's not MY fucking fault you've got ... whatever the fuck you've got that just fucking plowed into me.

I don't even know what hit me.

There's a shout as your hand flashes up, and time slows for a moment as your fist crumples my jaw, my face shifting around the blow just like Luke Cage getting the god-damn Iron Fist to the side of the face, my purple tails bullwhipping forward with the blow and then I'm snapped up to my heels, staring at the lights for a blurry flashing second, twisting around with the force of the uppercut as I stagger and tumble to the mat, rolling across it like a car wreck victim, ending up sprawled on my left hip and elbow, blinking in skull-rattled confusion.

"Wha'FUCK?" I mutter, spitting a gob of blood onto the mats, streaked black with paint.

What the actual FUCK.

What just hit me?

It couldn't be you.

You don't ...

I drag my right hand over the blood running from the corner of my mouth, my jaw pulsing like it's made of molten metal, and tilt my eyes at you. I see the look etched into your face.

The raw, pain-filled, furious hate.

I've seen that look on my face before, in the mirror. Before I fought Gemma way back in SPARK, when SHE had fucked with my heart (and went on to break my ankle). Before I fought you in that hotel in Austin, after you broke her arm. Why do so many of my memories involve broken bones? Fuck you, gentle reader, like your life's so normal.

But I've never ever seen that kind of raw fury in your eyes, Chance.

You're always the cool taunting collected one. The one who relies on her ability to take it, to mock, to misdirect.

But now I see genuine fury.

This is terra incognita.

"THIS should be interestin' ..." I growl, spitting blood again as I push myself dazedly up to one knee, my left fist curling brutally tight -

- and my blood streaked right hand comes up, curling my fingers to beckon you for more as I sway a little, the uppercut still ringing through my head.

Because if you're anything like me when you're really genuinely fucking enraged, you'll come in HARD when you're invited, and I intend to piston my knuckles into the vee of your little leather shorts if you do to see if THAT dampers your fury a little.

[Rowan Chance]

RP: What the @#$% was that?

LVK: Punky has been knocked back and down by a punch from Rowan Chance! A fantastic...no...a perfect uppercut!

RP: Who the hell taught her how to punch?

LVK: You sound scared.

RP: Yer damn right. Everybody's got a weakness, Van Keel. And that girl just forgot hers.


Feeling the impact of the punch...watching you fall...the confusion on your face...

Yes.

YES.

YES.

You look up at me. Standing over you with my fists clenched. I'm ready. I'm goddamn ready. I even let you get back to your feet because I want you to get back on your feet. I want to go toe-to-toe with you.

I know how to beat you know. I had a plan before. But now... I know.

You come roaring back at me, aiming a hard shot to my midriff. I see it coming. I can almost see your thoughts like little word balloons over your head.

I dodge the punch, but not enough. You don't hit your target--that little "v"--but you do hit my belly. And your punch hits hard. So hard, my belly ripples and my feet come an inch off the ground. Like a pebble thrown into a pond, the ripples travel all through my torso and reach up to my ribs, making them ache and scream. You hear my voice make a heavy sound as you knock me back a step. Blood coughs up into my mouth, droplets splattering across your face.

And maybe its then you feel my hand in your hair. I grabbed it just before you hit me.

"Good punch," I say with stained teeth. "But sometimes...you sacrifice a pawn...to capture the queen."

And with you this close, my hand is already set. And I throw it from a top-down angle. Directly above your right eye.

You weren't the only one who leaned how to fight dirty, Punky.

Welcome to hard way, Foxglove Queen.

[ThePurpleVixen]

I'm still not sure EXACTLY how the fuck this happened.

I had you. Had your heart crushed, had the easiest pin on you I think I've ever even SEEN in one of your matches firsthand. I've never seen you laid out so completely you didn't even roll a shoulder or flick an eyelid - but I guess previously you weren't being pinned after being put into cardiac arrest.

Well. You were. But not by me. Ha.

But now you're coming at me with an unearthly fury.

You move fast - so fast that I don't even manage to drill my fist into your pussy, your hips jerking back so my fist pounds up inelegantly into your abs. I worked them a little when hitting you in the corner, but I haven't really done a lot of core work this match - I'm not a bodyscissors or bearhug kinda gal, so it's never really my focus except when I need to break someone's breathing. Still, I get a little blood coughed across me, so that's refreshing. At least I managed to properly fuck up your ribs with the Heart Breaker. Your blood, my blood, mixed with my streaked and run skeletal warpaint, I'm getting a real shamanistic vibe going.

And then you must think that I need to look more authentic as you crank my head back by my sweat-slicked hair and DRILL your fist down, blazing through my eyebrow.

"GNNNNHHHHH!"

I sway back, instinctively clutching at the blow, my eyes squeezed shut. Piper taught me about that punch - a punch that I knew of through wrestling fandom's tribal knowledge. Harley Race's brow-splitting knucklebuster, a punch that struck like a razor to split his opponent's eyebrow open and send hot red kroovy running down into their eye. It was crucial in the old days, when big sweaty bastards like Dick the Bruiser would fight for 40 minute matches, fueled by trucker speed and sausages. Anything to gain a long-term advantage was ideal, and Harley was the fucking king. Piper showed me the art - it's something I'm pretty damn good at, and have busted out on more than one occasion -

- and on THIS occasion I'm the one busted.

My dark eyebrow, traced in thick black paint, splits like like a cut orange and blood freshets out, spilling down over my smeared facepaint as the shot sways me back onto my knees, tasting the blood running over my black lips.

"Wha'fuck?" I mutter again, not quite catching up to current events as they continue to hit me in the face.

LVK: And ANOTHER brutal shot from Chance! I'm not completely sure I've seen this woman actually use her fists in the ring before! Spear hands, elbows, her palm, her forearm, and of course her famously deadly kicks ... but I am not certain at all I've ever seen Rowan Chance actually hit someone with a closed fist.

RP: Well, watch closely, 'cuz that nutcase musta been takin' boxin' lessons down at the Y. Look at the way she split Dow open!

[Rowan Chance]

Blood. Your blood.

I've spilled it before, but not like this. Never like this.

With my left hand on my ribs, I stalk forward. Not walking straight. I can't ignore the pain anymore. I can't even enjoy it. Can't call on it for help. That time is long gone. You stole it from me. Just like you stole everything else.

So, I'm going to steal something from you. The most precious thing you have. I'm going to take it. You don't know it yet, but I do.

"All that training that never made sense," I say, just a step away from you. "Years of trying to perfect my punches. I was always missing one key ingredient. One thing."

I smile. "And you helped me find it."

My right hand goes up for a punch aimed at your side, with my left still holding my ribs. And I expect you to block it. So obvious. Raise that left arm of yours, Punky. Catch my hand and hold it to show me who's the better brawler.

Because my left is gonna come off my side and head straight for that luscious tit of yours. A move you've never seen me do. Not against you, not against anyone. I always thought it below me. Demeaning of my craft. A sensational punch that makes the crowd go crazy but only because they're a bunch of sadistic fucks. It isn't artful. It isn't respectful.

Yeah...fuck all that.

I'm slamming it as hard as I can. Knocking that bar piercing at just the right angle. And if I hit it, you're not gonna want Gemma touching it for months.

And that makes me smile.

[Vivianne]

YESSSS!!!

This whole match changed for me when Punky knocked Rowan out with that unique blow. Even from way up here I could tell the people down front were upset by it. The one who must be Tantalus looked like he would faint, and the big guy in the other mask was pissed. Even Gemma looked upset. And that?s when it happened. That?s when I was no longer conflicted about what a Rowan win would do to Punky. All I wanted to now was for Rowan to win.

I?ve never seen her punch like this. Hell, she has no punch, right? Well, she apparently found one, and just in time. While before I was squirming with nervous trepidation, now I am standing and cheering, wanting to see the one thing I didn?t think I wanted to see...more pain delivered to Rowan?s purple hair opponent.

COME ON ROWAN!!!

[ThePurpleVixen]

You're talking, but it sounds like when people are talking on deck chairs beside a pool and you're underwater, where it's blue and cool and wavery. It's just Charlie Brown listening to his teacher.

You just hit me. Twice. And pretty god-damn hard.

And not with some fucking scorpion kick or nerve strike. You just hauled off and PUNCHED me.

They're not the hardest punches I've ever taken in the ring or anything. Let's get that straight. That was courtesy of Gemma fucking Rox at number one with a bullet, my own wife remaining still the only woman to actually knock me the fuck out with one punch.

But you just undeniably shot up the charts like a one-hit wonder, that's for fucking sure. And you have me bleeding like I'm not sure I have in any of our matches. Although one time I did spear you off the stage in FTW and crack my fucking skull on the floor on the way down ...

... well, I speared "you".

But this kinda reminds me of those times. That kind of unchecked fury and relentless aggression. That sense that it's not fully Rowan Chance I'm with.

It's funny. This is the first time since the bell rang my mind has been on how long we've hated each other instead of how long we loved each other. Maybe funny isn't the right word, actually. I don't think English has that word. But that's where my mind is.

That ... and the taste of my own blood.

It slicks over my black lips and runs down my chin, and I taste it on my tongue. The tang of copper and the bite of pink salt. I've always ... always kinda liked the taste. I never wanted to slap on fangs and a slinky dress and call myself Dracurella or anything, but I've been tasting my own blood in the ring for a long time now. And it tastes like home.

Takes me back to all the times I've spilled my blood on the canvas. How much of myself I've left there.

And all this fucking introspection inadvertently works for me as you smack a right into my side, swaying me on my one knee, hitting me high in the ribs, making me grunt but feeling like you weren't really committed to it, without the raw force of those first two hateful blows - instead  drawing my attention with a hiss of pain and a scatter of hot bloody breath as I lap blood from my lips, the black titanium bead glittering in the crimson.

And what would've been a really sneaky shot with your left starts to come in as I lunge up, snarling wordlessly as I snatch your corset top in both hands and try to YANK you down as I haul myself up. Your fist thuds painfully into my other side, at the outer curve of my tit, mashing it painfully into my ribs, and I have a fleeting moment where I think in wonderment - Rowan fucking Chance just went for a fucking boob punch! - but that's fleeting like a candle in a windstorm as I haul myself up and THRUST from my boots, aiming to just CRUNCH the top of my skull up into the underside of your fucking jaw.

Which is punk sign language for SHUT THE FUCK UP.

[Rowan Chance]

My fist lands hard and I can feel your piercing crushing the soft, tender flesh on your--

CRUNCH!!!

I never saw it coming. Just under my chin. The top of your skull rising up like a demon from the pit, smashing into me, knocking my head back with a wicked SNAP!

My lower jaw crushes into my upper jaw. And for a moment, I'm floating. Can't feel my feet on the canvas.


LVK: That head butt snapped Rowan's head up and knocked her back! She's fallen against the ropes, trying to regain her balance!


Is that where I am? On the ropes? I can't feel them. I don't...

...GET IT FUCKING TOGETHER, RICH GIRL! GET IT FUCKING TOGETHER!

I shake my head. Fucking cobwebs. Get the fuck out.

Blink...blinking...get your hands up. GET YOUR HANDS UP!

[ThePurpleVixen]

My head CRASHES up into your jaw, and shuts your fucking mouth for a precious few seconds. And as Gemma loves to point out, I've got a thick fucking skull. This has been helpful over a long career where I've spent most of my time charging headfirst into things. Red used to say I was at least half-ram. Then I headbutted him.

You go stumbling back, hitting the ropes, and I have a moment to soak in the pain - that left you threw was no fucking joke, you were trying to MASH my tit. I broke quite a bit of the force by lunging up into you, my body pressed to yours, but it still aches like a fucker. And the shot to my ribs wasn't great, either. And of course my jaw still hurts - yeah, welcome to it, bitch - and my face is bleeding freely, crimson streaks running down half my painted face. I flick my head, sweat and blood spattering the mat as my punktails whip, and snarl.

No time to be fancy. No time for catch-as-catch-can. No time for holds, for flippy shit, for taunting.

There's time for one thing now, with that fury in your eyes and the poison rage in my heart.

Time to fucking WRECK shit.

I run forward, long legs eating the canvas, big red boots thudding it, the grinning skulls on my stockings seeming to cackle as my velvet-tatter skirt flutters around my hips - and as I come close I hook my right arm fucking DIVE at you, trying to catch you with a clothesline that's INTENDED to take us both over the top rope, my left arm tucked close to my side to try to hook my elbow on the top rope to swing me over in a tight little flip, tumbling us both to the apron but ideally sending YOU to the thin red mats and the dark concrete in a big bloody heap as I end up on the apron.

The fucking Cactus Clothesline.

It's not a pretty move. It's not a clever move.

It's not really a SANE move.

It's a fucking FOLEY move.

"RRRRRRAHHH!"

My battle cries are always a little more Shark Tsuchiya than Bruce Lee.

[Rowan Chance]

"Always be ready to get hit."

That's what Bobby Holiday taught me. My first trainer. A guy running a small wrestling school in Scottsdale, Arizona taught me. (Yeah, I come from the same town as the Bellas. If I can get over it, so can you.) Bobby was a small name on the indie circuit. Never made it big, but he was a worker. Ran his school the way he learned in Japan. I was wearing black boots, black shorts and a black sports top for a year. Then, he sent me to Canada.

"Always be ready to get hit."

That thought runs through my head every time I can't see my opponent. If I don't know where they are, just be prepared to get hit. Cool down, relax your muscles, and let it happen. Because it's going to happen. You may as well be ready for it.

The problem is, with you, there's no preparing. No matter how much you think you're ready, you're never ready. Not ever.

As soon as I found the ropes, I expected the Foley Clothesline. If I could see it, I'd duck and throw you over my shoulder. I can't see you... but I can hear you. There's a reason I put padding on the bottom of my boots. My kicks still hurt like hell with the padding on there, but it means hearing me is a lot harder.

So I hear those heavy clod stompers from a mile away. But my head is so goddamn dizzy, it's hard to gauge the distance. So, I take a guess. An educated guess. And hope my estimates are right.

But they aren't. And I feel the clothesline hit the top of my head as I try to duck it and it carries me right over the top rope. I feel our bodies tumbling together. Hitting the apron, our legs and arms intertwined. I feel your breasts push against mine. Our faces close together. Our legs wrapped around each other. We hit the apron and the impact sends a hard pain through my ribs and spine. I try to grab for the bottom rope, but it slips from my sweaty grip.

And there's a moment of floating...

...and then, the floor.

Again, a sharp pain in my side and my spine. I land flat on my back, my elbows on the floor, my arms straight up, fingers clawing at the air. My back arches and I cry out. A sick, pathetic sound that would have gotten me punished in Tantalus'... dojo.

My whole body is off the floor except my head and feet. Arched up high, teeth clenched, eyes shut. My left hand then reaches for my ribs as I roll over to my side. Gasping. Blood on my breath. I cough and the red, hot liquid spits through my lips.

I tried, Bobby. I tried. But there are some things training just can't prepare you for. Like Punky.

I manage to push myself up to my hands and knees. Again, I don't know where you are. I look through blurred vision, hoping you're on the floor, too. Still rolling in pain. One hand on my ribs, the other holding me up.

Where are you?

[ThePurpleVixen]

You almost duck. ALMOST. Christ on a fucking pogo stick, you're fast.

Against almost anyone else in the ring, THAT'S what they say about ME. My bursts of speed in striking and snatching people out of unexpected positions for slams and suplexes has won me matches around the world. But whenever I'm with you, I'm always left feeling like I'm chasing after you, just a pace behind.

... felt like that in bed sometimes too, come to think of it.

You ALMOST get out of the way, the hooking clothesline meant to catch you right across the neck for a clean take-over smacking the top of your head - and with the hitch in my right knee, I don't get a clean go-round on the top rope, so instead of neatly landing on the apron with my left arm hooked as an anchor, we go over in a tangle that could almost be mistaken for one of our wilder naked funtimes, like that elevator in the hotel in Des Moines. I hear there's still an urban legend about us there.

We crash to the apron together a jolt that knocks us apart, drawing a groan from me as my sore body is smacked full-length with the fucking edge of the fucking ring. You claw past me, reaching for the ropes, and then fall to the floor with a painful smack. I'm a bit luckier. I just lay on my side on the apron, one boot dangling over the edge, my right knee throbbing and blood running down my face, looking like a roof jumper who got blown back by a strong wind and hit a ledge a few stories down.

I slither off, landing on my red Doc Martens a thud and drawing from my bloody lips a sound somewhere between growl, grunt and groan (but definitely in the G section) as my knee twinges and my head throbs, working my jaw, blood still thick on my face.

You're on your hands and knees, and fuck me if I wouldn't have paid good money to see THAT more than once, but you're also in a bad way, cradling your ribs and looking dazed as I stagger upright.

I need to keep you hurting. Keep your mind off that uncorked anger that laid me out and busted me open, and keep your mind on agony. Make breathing hurt. Make more of that blood mist from your soft lips. I can still taste a little through the tang of my own. Your blood's rich, Ro. Like a pan sauce with butter and shallots and wine.

And that's good on EVERYTHING.

I lash forward, lunging at you and SNAPPING my boot up, aiming to just PUNT the round heavy toe of my British shitkicker into your aching ribs, to see if I can't spring them a little bit.

'cuz I wanna bust that pretty face of yours up, Rowan. But I wanna make sure you're really hurting when I do it.