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Mikie Hara vs Brielle Robillard
(Words: CountryMouse / Words: Lookout!)
Facing off in the center of the ring, Mikie is unshakable confidence, her toned arms flexing subtly, her skimpy white bikini leaving little to the imagination as she smirks at Brielle."Welcome to the big leagues, sweetheart," she sneers, her voice dripping with condescension.
Brielle, noticeably out of her element, shifts uncomfortably, her cheeks flushed with more than just exertion. "I can't believe I have to wear this," she murmurs, more to herself than to Mikie, her gaze flickering down to the tiny bikini clinging to her frame, a stark reminder of her vulnerability. She's a portrait of apprehension, her eyes wide, not with the confidence of a fighter, but with the fear of someone who's never been punched in the face.
Round 1:
In the opening round, Brielle's quick on her feet, dodging around Mikie with an eagerness that's almost too sharp, a clear sign she's not just fighting her opponent but her own discomfort too. Her jabs, quick and pointed, manage to push Mikie back, a small victory in the vast arena they're battling within. But the moment Mikie's glove connects, sending Brielle tumbling to the canvas. As she's helped up, her tears aren't just from the punch but from the overwhelming reality of her situation: exposed, embarrassed, and facing a fear she's never known before.
Round 2:
Mikie decides it's her turn. She starts with a cunning feint, making Brielle think a left is coming, but instead, Mikie delivers a powerful right straight to Brielle's guard, breaking through and hitting her squarely in the chest. Brielle's body jolts backward from the impact, a gasp escaping her lips as she tries to regain her balance and composure. Mikie, sensing her moment, presses forward, unleashing a flurry of punches. Each hit lands with precision, targeting Brielle's sides and midsection, making her wince and try to step away, but Mikie's relentless assault corners her against the ropes. The final blow, a heavy punch to the stomach, makes Brielle double over, visibly struggling to catch her breath, her arms dropping slightly, showing the toll Mikie's onslaught has taken on her.
Round 3:
Brielle dances around Mikie, her feet moving like she's on the dance floor rather than a boxing ring, each step calculated to keep her just out of Mikie's reach. When Mikie lunges, Brielle counters, her punches quick, aimed with precision that speaks of hours practicing not just dance but boxing too. Mikie, caught off guard by the agility, takes hits that you can tell shake her; each jab to the face makes her head snap back, a body shot forcing a grunt from her lips, her body tensing with the effort to absorb the blow and stay upright. Brielle's strategy of hit and move is working; she's scoring points, leaving Mikie to chase shadows, her frustration palpable with each miss, each hit taken. It's a ballet of violence, Brielle leading, Mikie struggling to keep up, the round ending with Brielle clearly having the upper hand.
Round 4:
As Mikie zeroes in, Brielle's attempts to sidestep fail, leaving her vulnerable. The rabbit punch to her liver sends a shockwave of pain. Her pretty face contorts in a silent scream, eyes widening in agony. As she instinctively clutches her stomach, her legs wobble, betraying her. It's a dance of despair now, her movements erratic, driven by pain rather than rhythm. Then, Mikie's fist finds Brielle's solar plexus, snatching the breath from her lungs, her body doubling over as if folding into itself. But Mikie isn't done; she lands another devastating blow to Brielle's liver. This isn't just pain; it's an education in suffering, a kind of agony Brielle never knew existed. The embarrassment of her defeat is made worse by the knowledge that it is happening while she is half-naked, why oh why did she go with this tiny bikini? Mikie disassembles Brielle's defenses, leaving her gasping, staggering—a puppet with its strings cut as the round mercilessly ends.
Round 5:
Brielle finds her moment, her feet moving like she's dancing to a rhythm only she can hear, and then, suddenly, she strikes. It's a liver punch, delivered with precision and the kind of timing that speaks of her dance background. Mikie Hara feels it, that deep, crippling blow, her body reacting before her mind can even process the pain. It's an immediate, visceral reaction; her muscles contract, her breath hitches, and there's this moment, this unmistakable pause where everything but the pain fades. She tries to will her body to respond, to get up, to continue the fight, but it's as if her body has its own understanding of defeat. Down she goes, and the silence that follows is heavy, filled with the weight of a knockout that no one, not even Mikie, saw coming until it was too late.
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