BBU lightweight title bout: Nicola Cavanis Vs Holly Peers
Jun 29, 2023 18:22:57 GMT
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Post by girlsfriday on Jun 29, 2023 18:22:57 GMT
Nicola Cavanis versus Holly Peers (BBU Lightweight Title)
Nicola Cavanis:
VS
Holly Peers:
(Written by DaEpicMan/Results by Lookout!)
An eternity ago Holly Peers had walked into the match confident in a lacy white bikini and her belt about her waist, with her second and manager, a busty, handsome woman called Melinda Messenger, speaking swift and worried warnings into her ear.
“So you would break with tradition, then?” Holly’s style was extremely aggressive, but Nicola knew that, and knew that too well for her to rely upon it. Joe Frazier learned that lesson. Creugas learned that to his dismay against Damoxenes. King Charles the First learned that in the rebellions, wherein he had paid for his recalcitrance with life and crown. Despite her build, Cavanis was a slugger, storming her opponents with storm and thunder, like her countrymen everywhere, from Rommel to herself. Attrition with fighters like that was a dangerous game, too much a risk for her tastes.
“I would shatter it.”
“What would you do, then?”
“Fire and blood.”
Even from my front-row seat, that was all I heard before their voices were drowned in the sea of acclaim, in the cheers of the crowd and the announcers’ cries on the mic. The roar for Nicola was even louder, somehow managing to outdo Holly in sexiness despite her smaller bust and thinner build with a sky-blue dainty that was so sheer one could just barely see through it.
She stole the show, too, from the champion. Holly had her moments, yes, slamming an uppercut into Nicola’s chin in round two, nearly ending it right there, and nailing her in the gut to break out of the corner in 4, but most of it was Nicola, dancing around her attacks with grace and beauty that had the audience swaying to her rhythm. Seven rounds it happened, with Holly throwing haymaker after haymaker only for Nicola to dodge it and hit back. By the end of the seventh, Holly’s face was a mess and I do not think she is all there anymore; fortunately she sat facing Nicola, facing away from us, so that I needed not view a horror such a thing begot in a fan. She smiled in her corner at the far side of the ring despite a split lip that her own second, an curvy Asian woman, was trying to staunch.
The bell sounded for eight.
Holly leapt from her stool like a released garage spring, lunging forward, her arm already swinging in a hook as the echoes of the bell reverberated in my ears. Surreally and slowly her progress went, and Nicola’s eyes widened as her foe approached. She was moving, but it was too slow, far too slow. Her arms hung too low to block.
We never saw the punch, only that her head jerked back in a crimson spray. But she spun around from the force of the blow, and Holly fell like she was dead. One, two, three, and she did not stir, and the cries of her fans died with her hopes. Her corner begged us to keep shouting, keep encouraging her to rise, but her wounds were too severe. There was a growing pool of blood beneath her from her broken nose, and from my seat I could see that her eyes were black and shut, her lips a busted, bloody mess. One arm still hung from the bottom rope by the elbow, but it was limp and unmoving. Nicola had done her job well. We would not do it, so the girl put her lips to her ears herself and whispered low. And... she rose. Bloody hell. She rose. Seven seconds into the count she rose again, like some revenant out of the winter dark. There was nothing sexy or hot about her then, bloody as she was, and amidst the swells and bruising we could still see the beady pupils of her eyes as she propped herself up on the ropes as the count reached eight, and the air became almost tangibly taut. We saw, we felt, and we feared.
The ref should have stopped the match by now, but he was too transfixed and intrigued to do it, I supposed. Both punches had hit, and it was not yet certain who shall prevail. Behind her Nicola was struggling to rise, but she was not hurt so badly; only one eye was swelling, and it was hotly red, not black, and her split lip had not bled so much as to stain her bra top in Soviet crimson. She clutched her stomach with one arm as she got up to one knee, wobbly and unstable like a bush in a summer storm, the other holding the middle rope to keep herself from falling, but it was almost a certainty that she would rise again.
Then Holly turned. Shambling and lumbering she turned, and with eyes hard with hate and baleful she laid her gaze on the challenger and the crowd. Men gasped, women cried, and one turned away in fear. It was only the central air conditioner, I knew, but the cool wind that blew over us made those on the opposite side of the ring shiver, as if visited by a raven from the far Plutonian shore. And like a plant under the bright and baleful sun, though there was nothing warm about Holly, Nicola withered, became small, and slumped onto her rear just as the count reached ten.
No cheer of approval came with the end this time. Only the monotonous drip drip drip of Holly’s blood and shocked whispers were heard above the roaring silence as she was escorted out of the ring. Demon Queen, they whispered, for none, not even Theron, had taken a blow like that and won. Demon Queen, they named her, after Nobunaga of old. Demon Queen, they dubbed Holly, for the tales grew and grew until she was not just indomitable but invincible. But even Lucifer bled, and the right ax would fall the holly.
Nicola Cavanis:
VS
Holly Peers:
(Written by DaEpicMan/Results by Lookout!)
An eternity ago Holly Peers had walked into the match confident in a lacy white bikini and her belt about her waist, with her second and manager, a busty, handsome woman called Melinda Messenger, speaking swift and worried warnings into her ear.
“So you would break with tradition, then?” Holly’s style was extremely aggressive, but Nicola knew that, and knew that too well for her to rely upon it. Joe Frazier learned that lesson. Creugas learned that to his dismay against Damoxenes. King Charles the First learned that in the rebellions, wherein he had paid for his recalcitrance with life and crown. Despite her build, Cavanis was a slugger, storming her opponents with storm and thunder, like her countrymen everywhere, from Rommel to herself. Attrition with fighters like that was a dangerous game, too much a risk for her tastes.
“I would shatter it.”
“What would you do, then?”
“Fire and blood.”
Even from my front-row seat, that was all I heard before their voices were drowned in the sea of acclaim, in the cheers of the crowd and the announcers’ cries on the mic. The roar for Nicola was even louder, somehow managing to outdo Holly in sexiness despite her smaller bust and thinner build with a sky-blue dainty that was so sheer one could just barely see through it.
She stole the show, too, from the champion. Holly had her moments, yes, slamming an uppercut into Nicola’s chin in round two, nearly ending it right there, and nailing her in the gut to break out of the corner in 4, but most of it was Nicola, dancing around her attacks with grace and beauty that had the audience swaying to her rhythm. Seven rounds it happened, with Holly throwing haymaker after haymaker only for Nicola to dodge it and hit back. By the end of the seventh, Holly’s face was a mess and I do not think she is all there anymore; fortunately she sat facing Nicola, facing away from us, so that I needed not view a horror such a thing begot in a fan. She smiled in her corner at the far side of the ring despite a split lip that her own second, an curvy Asian woman, was trying to staunch.
The bell sounded for eight.
Holly leapt from her stool like a released garage spring, lunging forward, her arm already swinging in a hook as the echoes of the bell reverberated in my ears. Surreally and slowly her progress went, and Nicola’s eyes widened as her foe approached. She was moving, but it was too slow, far too slow. Her arms hung too low to block.
We never saw the punch, only that her head jerked back in a crimson spray. But she spun around from the force of the blow, and Holly fell like she was dead. One, two, three, and she did not stir, and the cries of her fans died with her hopes. Her corner begged us to keep shouting, keep encouraging her to rise, but her wounds were too severe. There was a growing pool of blood beneath her from her broken nose, and from my seat I could see that her eyes were black and shut, her lips a busted, bloody mess. One arm still hung from the bottom rope by the elbow, but it was limp and unmoving. Nicola had done her job well. We would not do it, so the girl put her lips to her ears herself and whispered low. And... she rose. Bloody hell. She rose. Seven seconds into the count she rose again, like some revenant out of the winter dark. There was nothing sexy or hot about her then, bloody as she was, and amidst the swells and bruising we could still see the beady pupils of her eyes as she propped herself up on the ropes as the count reached eight, and the air became almost tangibly taut. We saw, we felt, and we feared.
The ref should have stopped the match by now, but he was too transfixed and intrigued to do it, I supposed. Both punches had hit, and it was not yet certain who shall prevail. Behind her Nicola was struggling to rise, but she was not hurt so badly; only one eye was swelling, and it was hotly red, not black, and her split lip had not bled so much as to stain her bra top in Soviet crimson. She clutched her stomach with one arm as she got up to one knee, wobbly and unstable like a bush in a summer storm, the other holding the middle rope to keep herself from falling, but it was almost a certainty that she would rise again.
Then Holly turned. Shambling and lumbering she turned, and with eyes hard with hate and baleful she laid her gaze on the challenger and the crowd. Men gasped, women cried, and one turned away in fear. It was only the central air conditioner, I knew, but the cool wind that blew over us made those on the opposite side of the ring shiver, as if visited by a raven from the far Plutonian shore. And like a plant under the bright and baleful sun, though there was nothing warm about Holly, Nicola withered, became small, and slumped onto her rear just as the count reached ten.
No cheer of approval came with the end this time. Only the monotonous drip drip drip of Holly’s blood and shocked whispers were heard above the roaring silence as she was escorted out of the ring. Demon Queen, they whispered, for none, not even Theron, had taken a blow like that and won. Demon Queen, they named her, after Nobunaga of old. Demon Queen, they dubbed Holly, for the tales grew and grew until she was not just indomitable but invincible. But even Lucifer bled, and the right ax would fall the holly.