Storm v The Morrigan – Bar Brawl Hardcore Match

[hamish1024]

Match takes place at LAW-owned backstage bar, behind locked doors. KO or submission only.


Well, this was different. Storm had a confident spring in her step as she navigated the corridors of LAW toward the allotted venue, but she was surprised at how odd it felt to be booked in a backstage match. As a seasoned wrestler, she was used to certain rhythms in her pre-match rituals – eyeing up a match card, listening to the reactions of the crowd, simply getting a taste for how much blood or mayhem was in the air – but there was none of that here. A surprising quietness, beyond the few LAW functionaries scattered around the entrance. Still, Storm was hardly a tits-and-teeth showboat, so the lack of crowd hardly worried her. A locked-room hardcore match would be focused, and ferociously violent – a prospect which had excited her to say yes to.

This was despite her misgivings of the the match’s marketing. As was typical of many tourist traps, LAW boasted a tacky, tired, faux-”Irish” pub. Storm could barely remember the name, it had been some generic variation of ‘the Shamrock’, in the style that 90% of the world’s Irish bars adhered to. It was run-down now, and due a remodel, which is why the higher-ups had decided to give it a send-off by letting two wrestlers smash the shit out of the place. She applauded the decision, although she was less keen that they’d automatically decided that the Scottish Storm would be at home in an Irish pub. She wasn’t entirely sure if they realised the distinction between Scots and Irish, or if they were painting her as the villain, or what. It mattered little, it was an excuse to trash the place, and Storm was looking forward to it.

The pub was integrated into the LAW complex. She turned a few more corners and was at the entrance, where an official waved her through the front door. The brunette marched into the empty bar. She cast her eyes around, affirming she had arrived first. There might have been no crowd to play off, but she knew there would be cameras everywhere, capturing all the action from every angle. She gave a sly grin.

“Honestly. Throw one bitch through a table, and suddenly you’re a hardcore girl,” she smiled, unable to resist a quick throwback to the violent end of her last match. And why not, she was proud of it.

All the hallmarks of ‘foreign interpretation of a pub’ were there. Tacky memorabilia on the walls, a curious indistinction between British and Irish drinks, wood panelling everywhere, sticky-looking tables and a stickier-feeling old carpet, patterned in a truly vile dark red. Scuffed fruit machines and even a pool table lurked in the fringes.

Without an obvious corner to go to, Storm gravitated to the bar, leaning propriatorially across it. Surprisingly, given the shut-down, it was still stocked with an impressive array of spirits, even if most of the bottles were largely empty, and at the cheaper end of the whisky market. Maybe they weren’t worth salvaging, for whatever this place would be rebranded into. To occupy herself whilst she waited for her opponent, Storm turned her reasonably-knowledgable eye to the rows of bottles, seeing if she could pick one out that wasn’t shit.

“Ugh, this is all Irish,” she rolled her eyes in exaggurated fashion, playing up for the hidden cameras.

Storm

[BlackAkuma]

♬”While in the merry month of May, now from me home I started
Left, the girls of Tuam were nearly broken-hearted
Saluted father dear, kissed me darling mother…”♬

Good Lord, they were actually playing the Rocky Road to Dublin.

The Morrigan had been making her way to the pub when she heard that song playing, and she had to stop and let out a hoarse laugh. She didn’t even hate the song, really, and she’d been a big fan of the rendition in Sinners - she’d liked a lot of things about that movie, actually. In isolation, she didn’t mind hearing it, but it was one of those things that had been run into the ground, mostly because it was one of the only Irish folksongs that the wider world cared to know about. She appreciated the interest in her culture, but it seemed like few people had any interest in delving any deeper.

She’d even been asked to sing it a few times. Which she could do. Fairly well, too. But there were other songs she would’ve preferred, had she her druthers.

It brought a little snicker out of her as she approached the place, fingers shoved deep in her pockets and the brisk night air on her back. Silly as it was, she would be lying if the place didn’t give her a wee dose of nostalgia. Before she hooked up with Sabine and got into the wrestling life, she’d spent an inordinate amount of time in places like this, fully throwing herself into the Irish stereotypes. She drank, she fought, she fucked, she puked, and if she was lucky she got to do it all in that order. It wasn’t a life she was ever going back to, but she would be lying if she said she didn’t miss it, sometimes. This was as close as she’d ever get to a time machine.

She made her way in, took a look around, nodded - well, she couldn't take points off for a lack of effort, credit where it was due. Whoever was in charge of the set design, they’d gone the extra mile with this place. Wood paneling, a fully stocked bar, bric-a-brac on the walls. The place smelled a little too clean, even the nicest pubs Morrigan had been to had the faint scent of spilled ale and vomit about them, but that would’ve been asking too much.

No crowd, either, which was a shame, but she supposed there was no getting around that. It made finding her opponent easy, at least. Not that it would’ve been too hard if there had been a crowd - Storm struck her as the type that would’ve stuck out.

Big, brawny, busty. Not as big, brawny, and busty as Morrigan herself, but precious few women were, and Storm was certainly close enough to make for a real fight. Perfectly spankable arse, too. Made her wish they’d thrown some hentai stips in this, too. But, then again, there was nothing to stop them from getting a little handsy, if the mood took.

The Morrigan made her way over as Storm spoke, her voice full of Scottish brogue, thick and hearty. ”’Course it is, love. Only the best.” She winked at Storm, sat on top of the bar, swung her legs over and leaped over to the other side with a heavy thud, one that shook the walls as her combat boots came crashing down.

She went down the aisle, scanning over the selection. Not bad, not bad. She hadn't seen some of these brands in a good while. Assuming they didn’t destroy the bar, she’d be taking a few of these home with her.

spun about and faced her opponent with her palms on the bar and a gleam in her good eyes. ”Almost midnight, closing time. Last call for alcohol.” She took a glass in one hand, a cloth in the other, and wiped it clean. ”Pick your poison. On the house.”

[hamish1024]

Storm had been so absorbed in analysing the alcohol on offer, she hadn’t noticed her opponent saunter into the bar, even getting within earshot to hear her disparaging joke.

Instinctively, she glanced round at Morrigan.

Holy fuck.

To Storm’s immediate shame, she did an actual, honest-to-god double take. Her eyes widened as she took in Morrigan’s appearance. She couldn’t immediately tell what had given her such a sharp first impression, but her heart began racing. The Irishwoman’s height was an obvious factor, imposing even to Storm, who was more used to looking down on opponents than looking up. This was coupled with an impressive physique; broad, muscular shoulders giving her a powerful frame, but one equipped with curves, buxom and brawny in equal measure.

Size wasn’t everything in wrestling, of course, but it certainly helped amplify your intent. And Morrigan oozed intent, from her ink, her dark goth makeup, and her S&M-coded black leather.

On looks alone, you did not want to piss this woman off. Storm was already regretting her opening jibe, but held her nerve, and Morrigan seemed to take it in her stride as she slid over the bar (more gracefully than Storm would have expected, although she felt the heavy thud of her landing) and invited her to share a drink.

“Well,” Storm began, finding her voice after her initial surprise (whether it was shock or delight, she wasn’t quite sure). “I meant no offence, but Irish booze leans so heavily on peat.”

She gave the shelves another look over, before turning her eyes back to Morrigan. “Earthy. Subtle as a brick, you know?” she smiled with a slight tease.

“If you force my hand, I’m a Jameson’s gal,” she grinned, picking the bottle and starting to pour.

Storm wasn’t a heavy drinker by British standards, but was still seasoned enough to know that indulging in alcohol was not necessarily a good idea when fighting. Slowed reactions and poor decision-making were hardly boons to a pro wrestler.

But… the devil on her shoulder (who sounded worryingly like Lyssa these days) reminded her that this was far from a normal match, and that she’d probably be grateful for the pain relief.

She ended up pouring a very large measure.

“Quite a civilised way to start a match. Pleasure to meet you by the way, I’m Storm,” she belatedly introduced herself as she swirled the whisky around her glass, enjoying its heady nose, preparing herself to gulp it down once Morrigan was likewise ready to knock glasses and imbibe.

[BlackAkuma]

♬”No bundle could I find, Upon my stick a wobblin’.
Enquirin’ for the rogue, they said my Connacht brogue,
Wasn’t much in vogue, On the rocky road to Dublin…”♬

Oh, Morrigan caught that look. She knew well when she was being looked up, and she could already tell that Storm liked what she saw. A good thing, too, because the feeling was mutual. Should the opportunity arise for some skinship, she would not be averse.

That would come in a moment, though. For now, Morrigan was content to play the bartender, a role she had some small experience in. She had actually done it for a living for a brief period of time while she was still putting together scratch for her BDSM career, one of many fly-by-nights. It lasted about as long as it took for the first drunk arsehole to say she looked like a man. Fists flew, police were called. It didn’t last.

”None taken. It suits me. Not exactly a subtle sort, might’ve guessed.” She finished polishing off Storm’s glass, then began working on one of her own. ”Good choice.”

The Morrigan passed the bottle over and left Storm to serve herself, while she worked on her own, taking a bottle O’Hara’s. She poured the glass slowly, letting the foam just reach the top before she eased up. ”Nothing wrong with a little bit of civilization, is there?” She took a moment to sniff as well, letting the fumes work their way up her nostrils, before tipped forward and tapped glasses with her future foe and current drinking partner. ”It’s a pleasure to be met. Morrigan Hellfire. ‘Mistress’, if you like.” She winked. Cheers.”

She leaned back, pressing the glass to her lips, and then let the liquid courage run down her throat, bringing it down by two thirds before she finally came up for air. A deep, rumbling sigh came out, and she forced down a burp while she smacked her chest. Wouldn’t be ladylike.

”No need to rush. Not been in a place like this for a while, getting a little nostalgic. Enjoying the scenery.” Despite saying that, she kept her eyes firmly locked on Storm’s face, as if there was nothing else worth her attention just now. ”When the song stops, the war starts. ‘Till then, enjoy it.”

The Morrigan had a few quick, tepid sips, as she drummed her fingers on the bar with her free hand. ”What brings you out to Japan? Not enough action back home, that it?”