"But...um. Gosh there really isn't a polite way to say this is there? You get fucked all the time Yuri!"
Yuri could only assume that Sayori was referring to one of her regular sessions with the rest of the team—of which, yes, there had indeed been many.
"It's...different on stage, Sayori."
"Mmmmmmmaybe. But unless I missed something—and uh. If I did I'm really really sorry and I don't know how that happened. But you've never been fucked on stage have ya?"
"No."
"Wellllll. Maybe it's not as bad as you're imagining. Don't know 'til you try, right?"
Breathe in...three,four, and—gently—breathe out...Five, six...through the nostrils. Sayori was in many respects an amazing friend. Irreplaceable in ways that went beyond the cheap tautologies whereby every individual is irreplaceable. But sometimes she said exceedingly stupid things.
"Well. Part of the function of an imagination is to make predictions about...er. Unknown variables, I suppose. By using imagination, we can avoid hazards in the environment without having to expose ourselves to the dangers of experimentation."
"Uh...huh. Gosh. You're so smart Yuri."
Ah. Sayori's favorite way of indicating Yuri was overthinking something. You're wrong, Yuri, but you're oh so valid nonetheless. At least, that was Yuri's interpretation. Perhaps it was more a defensive posture when Sayori lacked a concrete response. Or — and this was the most humiliating possibility — maybe she simply meant what she said.
Click clack went Sayori's needles. Click click, clack clack. Yarn wound itself into ever more intricate bumps and knots. Yuri had never taught herself knitting. Perhaps someday she would ask Sayori to teach her.
"Alright, well. HM. Hmmmmmmm. I guess the question, then, is what's so bad about being fucked in public? Like, yeah, I guess it SOUNDSSS...pret-ty bad. But what's the BADDY...bad...in the bad?"
Yuri groaned and pressed her palms deep into her eyes. Her stomach turned. Her knees pressed together. Did she even want to think about the answer to that question?
—
Standard Match: Victory Awarded for pinfall, submission, or KO
Loser Gets Fucked
"AT ONE HUNNNNDRED AND SEVENTY-SIX POUNDS, the SECRETARY in CHIEF of the D. D. L. C! YURI—YOSHIKA!"
The other girls cheered. Yuri had been through—she couldn't even remember for certain how many matches now. Five? Six? It wasn't that they blended together so much as each match felt like three, with enough...highlights to fill several reels.
Still, this was always her favorite moment, when she glided in on the majestic wings of her entrance theme, stoic and dark in her goth-inspired gear like the ancient spirit her drums and bells conjured in the dark spaces of imagination. The violet, twisting lights and pluming smoke transported her almost as much as anyone into her character.
Yuri
"Yeah! You're gonna...fuck HER! In public! If that's what you want to do!"
And there's Sayori. Of course. Yuri had to resist cracking a smile—certainly a first for one of these entrances, though resist it she did, all the way into her ring corner.
Of course, they were correct, as her girls usually were. The simplest solution, the one that would avoid all the sturm and drang she'd felt about the stipulation to this match, would be to kick her opponent's proverbial butt. Or literal butt, she supposed. Either/Or. Well, not really, since kicking literal butt but not proverbial butt would—
Anyway.
She was Yuri. She was dark, mysterious, and magical. And she was going to fuck someone with the ominous moniker of Despara...in front of a howling, hungry crowd of hundreds.
