L.A.W. - League of Anime Wrestling

Match Type: Basement Brawl
Victory Conditions Verbal submission, only after making your opponent orgasm. No time limit, no disqualification.
Victory Stipulations: After winning, the winner has full POW privileges over the loser until they choose to leave the dungeon.

***

While it hadn't been her initial plan when she got into wrestling, Morrigan didn’t have any regrets teaming up with Sabine. The two of them fit together and complemented each other in ways that she hadn't expected when they first met. Back then, she’d thought the German was a little too stuck up, too refined, too smart for her own good…and maybe that was all true. But Morrigan could use some refinement in her life, if truth be told. Someone to rein her in, pin her down, balance out her wilder tendencies. Sabine filled that role perfectly, the yin that her yang desperately required.

But even so, a little time apart was good. The two of them had been living together, fighting together, doing pretty much everything together for the better part of a year, so when Sabine found out that she was being drafted for LAW’s European tour, the pair recognized it for the blessing that it was - a chance to get some breathing room, let absence make the hearts grow fonder.

The Morrigan saw it as even more than that: a chance to have some kinky fun on her lonesome for once.

That was the reason she’d spent the better part of the last couple of days renovating their downstairs dungeon, getting all the stuff out of the way to create some room down there in the spacious area. Everything was moved aside - the St. Andrews Cross, the chains, the rocking horse, the vacbed. All of their toys were hung on the wall with cares, whips and paddles and other such devices placed so they could be easily used.

All so she could take the wrestling ring they had in their garage and set it up in the middle of the dungeon. Why? Because she was going to have a match, right here in the privacy of their home, the perfect place for a night of violent kinky fun. She’d had the idea after Sabine left, a way for her to pass the time and make the most of having the place to herself, and management was all too happy to let it happen after she agreed to set up the cameras around her basement. It was all she could’ve asked for, and when the night came for the match, she found herself looking at the setup with no small amount of satisfaction. This had some potential.

Now, all she needed was her opponent. Speaking of which, there was the doorbell.

”Be right back.” The Morrigan nodded to the referee, who’d come a few minutes earlier and was setting up inside the ring, before she made her way up the stairs and to her front door. She took a hot second to look herself over in the mirror, making sure her outfit was properly intimidating: accentuating the muscles, breasts pouring out of her top, her good eye glowing. With that done, she opened the door and found herself staring into the mismatched eyes of one Safiyah Neferet, gazing down on her with a hungry smile.

”Hello, there.”

The Morrigan Awaits

Safiyah Neferet hadn’t asked why. She never did. The match contract arrived unceremoniously, with the location handwritten at the bottom as if an office worker didn’t care to type it. She had squinted at the note, its ink slightly smudged, and wondered briefly if this was some form of reprimand. A basement brawl. No ring, no crowd, no pomp. Just cold concrete and low ceilings. It could have been a punishment for what she did to Asp. If it were, she didn’t care. Nothing they gave her could compare to the weight she already carried.

The address had led her to an old house tucked away between taller buildings, half-swallowed by ivy and silence. She stood on the stoop for several long seconds before ringing the bell, as still as a statue chiselled from dusk. There was a faint scent of smoke on the air, sweet, not burning, and a dog barking three houses down. Her attention didn’t waver. When the door swung open, Safiyah was already studying the frame it revealed, not with curiosity, but calculation.

Morrigan stood there like temptation weaponised. Every part of her posture screamed deliberate. Her attire chosen to provoke. Chest high, gaze direct, skin dusted with effort and pride. The glowing eye tried to catch Safiyah’s own, but Safiyah didn’t react. No flinch. No smile. Just a slow flick of her mismatched gaze from head to toe. Noting the musculature, the confidence, the hunger. Fine form. Strong. Reckless. Easy to break.

She didn’t speak at first. A pause. A heartbeat. Then:

“Mm.”

Not approval, not dismissal. Just sound. A recognition. Then she moved past Morrigan without waiting to be invited in, the brush of her shoulder soft against bare skin. Her coat dropped off her arms in a single motion, pooled at the entryway like something shed and forgotten. Beneath, she wore a

that clung to her like shadow. Every step of hers was silent, measured.

She descended the staircase slowly, her heels whispering against the wooden steps. Chill, dust, and something darker - perhaps desire - greeted her in the basement. The room was too clean to be natural. The chains were polished. Toys placed with care, not lust. Everything displayed. Everything waiting. The ring in the centre of it all looked wrong. Like something sacred forced into the profane. Safiyah let her eyes roam the dungeon, lips parting just slightly.

“Cute,” she murmured, but there was no smile behind the word. No warmth. Just observation.

The referee spoke, explaining rules already known, voice trembling just faintly. Orgasm first. Then verbal submission. No disqualifications. No time limit. No escape. And after that... the winner could keep the loser. Property. Pet. Plaything. The silence that followed stretched thin between them. Safiyah didn’t ask questions. Didn’t nod. She just turned her head toward the camera in the corner, as if it were an insect she could crush underfoot, then looked back to the ring.

Safiyah slipped off her heels and stepped into the ring like a wolf into a temple, not to worship, but to desecrate. This was not punishment. This was an opportunity. A private altar where she could make her offering. Not to gods, but to control. To silence. To the slow, deliberate destruction of will.

Let the woman try. Let her show the LAW what happens when you try to cage something that doesn't want to be kept.

The Morrigan liked Safiyah immediately.

It wasn’t just that she had the body to match the name, a figure fit for a goddess. Dark, dusty skin, fine and curving hips, and those eyes, mismatched and mysterious. She scanned her from head to toe and loved all that she saw - this was a figure she yearned to get her hands on. To touch. To taste. To feel. That alone was enough to ensure that Morrigan was attracted to her, as any sane woman would be, provided they had the correct alignment.

But what truly impressed her was the way that Safiyah carried herself. The Morrigan opened her mouth for a greeting, only for her opponent to step in like she owned the place. No hesitation. No wavering. She moved with the calm and collected air of someone who owned every room they stepped into, or at least thought they did. A strong, silent confidence that left Morrigan smiling, and she followed in her foes footsteps as they descended.

If Safiyah liked their setup, she didn’t deign to show it, only giving out a single syllable that conveyed no emotion. ‘Cute’. Not much, but better than nothing. For her sake, Morrigan hoped she did like the place, more than the simple word she gave out would imply. Chances were good that they would both be here a while.

Safiyah stayed quiet as she slipped out of her shoes and made her way into the ring, and Morrigan joined her after she took a moment to enjoy the sight, tumbling in under the bottom ropes with far less style and far more noise. ”Don’t got much to say, darlin’?” She smacked her lips as she rose to her feet and lumbered forward, her hulking form full of heated intent. ”Fine by me. I’ll get some noise out of you soon enough.”

The Morrigan cracked her neck, lowered into a grappler’s stance, and began to circle the ring, drawing closer to Safiyah with every step. Not dedicating herself to an attack, not just yet - no, she wanted to see how this woman would handle herself, what her style was. Tempting as it was to get her hands on Safiyah right away, there was no need to rush. They had all the time in the world.

Safiyah felt the woman’s eyes the way one feels heat at the edge of a fire. She was used to stares, to bodies measured and weighed in silence, to hunger shown plainly without restraint. The Morrigan’s gaze lingered in that same way, unashamed and almost reverent, as though Safiyah’s presence alone were a temptation. Safiyah neither quickened nor slowed. She did not acknowledge it. Attention, admiration, desire, these were nothing new. They were distractions, and distractions had no place in her thoughts.

She crossed the threshold of the basement without so much as a glance behind her, every step carved with authority. Rooms were the same no matter their walls. Chains, toys, or shadows, it made no difference. She did not enter as a guest. Neither did not move as prey.

‘Cute’ was the only word she gave to the preparation, the only word she thought it deserved. A space was a space, nothing more. Morrigan might have wanted her approval, some flicker of excitement or acknowledgement. Safiyah offered none. She unfastened her heels in steady motions, set them aside, and slid into the ring with an economy of movement that revealed nothing of her intent.

Morrigan’s entrance was louder, brasher, the bulk of her body making the canvas quake. Her voice filled the chamber, words meant to provoke, to test, to stir some reaction from her smaller foe. Safiyah only tilted her head, the faintest glimmer in her mismatched eyes as she let Morrigan’s Irish drawl roll in the air between them.

“Try.” Safiyah said simply, the syllable cutting through Morrigan’s noise like a knife through silk.

As Morrigan began her slow circling, crouched low and coiled in raw power, Safiyah remained upright, posture loose, steps light. She knew the gap between them. Height. Weight. Strength. Morrigan would crush her in a contest of force, and so she would not offer one. Instead, Safiyah watched the rhythm of Morrigan’s gait, the shifting of her shoulders, the slight favouring of her lead leg. Timing was everything.

Her body coiled like a spring. Then, without warning, she lashed out. A sharp, whipping front kick snapped towards Morrigan’s thigh, low and precise, aimed to sting and disrupt her balance rather than topple her. It was not reckless, not desperate, but measured, the kind of opening strike designed to test Morrigan’s reactions and buy herself a sliver of space against the looming giant who hungered to close it.

If struck, Safiyah would slide back at once, weight shifting to the balls of her feet, heterochromatic eyes never leaving her opponent. One strike would be enough for now.

‘Try’.

Oh, Safiyah was a confident one. The Morrigan loved the confident ones.

She wasn’t going into this wholly blind to who her opponent was. While she hadn't seen the matches that were involved, enough scuttlebutt had come her way to paint a pretty picture of the woman she was dealing with. Most of all, she knew that Safiyah had been going through changes. Big changes. Interesting changes. More aggressive, more ruthless, more violent. She’d gone crazy on some lame belly-dancing wrestler, and had shown her up in the revenge match, taking everyone by surprise.

The Morrigan had no idea what this woman was like before, but she liked what she saw now. There was a quiet intensity there, not even reacting when she came storming into the ring. With anyone else, she’d have thought it was all an act, trying to look tough, but she sensed that wasn’t the case here. Safiyah was the real deal.

But she didn’t want to just sense it, she wanted to know it. There was only one way to do that.

Contact.

The Morrigan was just moving for her opening volley, when Safiyah beat her to the punch - or, rather, the kick. A quick one, slicing through the air and smacking against her thigh, landing with a meaty thwack. It made her stagger back a step, but only a step - if Safiyah thought it was going to earn her distance, she was about to be sorely disappointed.

Instead of retreating, Morrigan brought her fists up and charged in, muscling her way into her opponent’s territory with powerful strides. She lashed out, swinging wide and hard - two strong hooks, left and right, both aimed her foe’s head with enough power to leave her reeling if they connected.

Safiyah’s eyes never shifted as Morrigan absorbed the kick. She had expected the stagger, nothing more. The weight difference was too vast for anything else. She had not aimed to topple the giant, only to remind her that smaller did not mean weaker, that precision could cut where raw strength could only bludgeon.

The Morrigan pressed forward without pause, fists rising with intent, her long strides closing the gap in a heartbeat. Safiyah did not step back. She had seen this kind of charge before, the kind that sought to overwhelm, to smother, to crush. Most would crumble beneath it. She did not. Her body bent at the waist, head slipping just under the first swing, the whoosh of air grazing the crown of her hair.

The second hook came just as fast. Safiyah twisted, the strike skimming the air where her face had been an instant earlier. Her body moved like water, folding and sliding around the storm of fists.

“Slow.” she whispered, soft and clipped, the word meant only for Morrigan’s ears.

Her right foot planted against the mat, weight balanced, and then she struck. A sudden pivot of her hips, her leg whipped up in a sharp, snapping motion aimed at Morrigan’s ribs. It was neither wild nor desperate, but surgical. A side kick designed to bite into soft muscle between the woman’s towering frame and her lunging stride. A strike to halt momentum, to remind her that every step closer carried a cost.

The sound of her foot meeting flesh echoed in the basement, sharp and low. Safiyah did not linger to admire it. She slid back at once, shoulders squared, eyes steady, breath calm. Morrigan was taller, heavier, and stronger. Safiyah would not let her forget that speed and precision had their own weight.

Her hands lifted, fingers loose, body light on the balls of her feet. She was not running. She was waiting. Testing. The giant wanted contact. Safiyah would decide when and how that contact came.

The Morrigan wasn’t formerly trained in boxing, but you’d be forgiven for not knowing that at a glance. As cliche as it might’ve been to say, she was an avid student in the School of Hard Knocks - everything she knew about fighting, she’d acquired through trial and error. She’d always been the sort who learned by doing. She could have something explained to her all day and not pick up on, but after one or two tries it would stick like glue. Just how she was wired.

So when she lashed out and tried to strike Safiyah, she wasn’t doing so with clumsy, weak blows - no, if they’d hit they would’ve dropped her opponent straight away. This woman wasn’t in bad shape, but a body like that wasn’t meant to be taking hammer hits. She would fold like a deck of cards.

And, despite her blasé face, she suspected Safiyah knew as much, hence her haste in dodging both of them. Swift movements, fluid, graceful. The fear didn’t show on her face, but her body knew well enough to respect her power.

‘Slow’. The word made Morrigan’s smile grow an inch wider, though she had to replace that smile with a grimace when Safiyah landed the first blow of the match. Not a pleasant sensation, enough to make Morrigan wince, but slow her down? Not even close. ”Weak.”

There was only a second’s pause before Morrigan rushed in again, once more attempting to close the distance with a crushing attack. She leaped up, raised her leg, and shot it out all at once, aiming her heel right at her opponent’s chest with her entire weight behind the blow.

The air moved with each swing, as Safiyah felt the power of Morrigan in the ring. Even untrained, even raw, those fists could cave in bone if they found their mark. Safiyah knew it. Her body recognised it instinctively, a deep warning thrumming through her muscles. A size like that carried danger. Precision would have to be her answer. Precision and patience.

The Morrigan’s smirk cut sharper when Safiyah called her slow, but it twisted as the kick bit into her ribs. Safiyah did not mistake the brief wince for weakness. It was only proof that the giant bled like anyone else, even if it would take much, much more to bring her down. Her reply, spat back in that thick accent, only confirmed what Safiyah already knew. Morrigan thrived on defiance, on a contest of wills.

When Morrigan lunged forward again, the ring shook beneath her weight. This time, there was no hesitation, no probing swing. She leapt, her boot hurtling forward like a battering ram, heel aimed squarely at Safiyah’s chest. The strike carried everything behind it: strength, size, momentum. Enough to flatten her outright if it landed.

Safiyah’s eyes narrowed. Her frame bent and slipped sideways, body twisting with a dancer’s economy of movement, letting the heel tear past her ribs by inches. The sound of it crashing into the canvas sent a thud reverberating up through the soles of her feet, a reminder of what had just been avoided.

“Reckless.” she breathed, the single word cool and clipped.

She did not waste the opening. As Morrigan’s leg met the mat, Safiyah dropped low, catching herself on her hands as her body twisted like a whip. Her heel shot out in a low, spinning kick, aiming for the back of Morrigan’s planted knee. The strike was not meant to break her down in one blow, but to test the joints that carried all that power and remind the powerhouse that even the strongest walls had hinges that could be struck.

Whether the kick connected or not, Safiyah would flow back to her feet in one smooth motion, circling away, her stance light, her gaze unreadable. She would not stand in front of the storm. She would chip away at it, one calculated strike at a time.

The Morrigan could already tell that, on paper, Safiyah was the worst kind of opponent for her. Fast. Smart. Agile. Excellent resources. Skill. If they were both weapons, the Egyptian would be a finely honed rapier, quick and precise, deadly in the right hands, while Morrigan was a hulking broadsword - mighty, but slow and predictable.

But this fight wasn’t on paper. It was in a ring, with a canvas, and ropes, and a referee. There was only so far that Safiyah could go. She could land all the little hits she wanted, but Morrigan was confident that one shot, one good shot, would fold her faster than a bad hand of cards.

That thought spurred her on, even as her foot sailed through the air and caught all of nothing. It put her in an awkward position, easily exploited, and she knew that Safiyah would take advantage. How? That was the question.

The answer come in the form of a whipping kick to the back of Morrigan’s knee, once that made her stumbled forward. She would’ve dropped all the way, but reflexes kicked in and she grabbed the rope for support, using them stay upright. Just barely. Only just.

The Morrigan looked back, and sure enough, Safiyah was already dancing away like the clever nymph she was. The sight brought out a deep, dark chuckle. ”Lucky.”

But luck had limits. That was the second time she’d swung out, and Morrigan had no intention of making it three. She pushed up, strode forward, and charged in again, but this time, she came with a plan.

The Morrigan’s leg rose up, as if she were going for another Big Boot, only for her to cancel the movement halfway - a feint, trying to draw Safiyah’s attention and make her dodge for nothing. The real attack came from the side, as she brought her arm around for a low left hook, aiming at her opponent’s ribs.

Safiyah had already read the story in Morrigan’s body. Every heavy stride, every lunging swing, every attempt to corner her was a script written in broad strokes. Power, overwhelming and absolute, but only if it landed. On paper, Morrigan was right. One clean shot could crush her. But paper was flat. Reality had depth.

The kick to the back of Morrigan’s knee had been deliberate, not to break but to bend, to make her stumble and prove that a mountain like her could be moved. When the ropes saved the giant from falling, Safiyah did not follow in. She circled, light and quiet, her chest rising evenly as she measured the distance once more. Chasing this kind of prey is risky. So she waited for it to lumber back into her reach.

Morrigan’s low laugh rippled across the ring, calling her “lucky.” Safiyah’s reply was a flicker of sound, barely above the hush of the crowdless basement. “Skill.”

She braced herself as Morrigan surged forward again, the larger woman’s sheer presence filling the canvas. The leg came up high, and Safiyah’s eyes narrowed. Another boot? No, something was wrong. The movement was too quick, too rehearsed - a trap.

Her body tensed, not committing to the dodge, and it was enough. The true strike came low and fast, a hook aiming to carve and break into her ribs. Safiyah dropped her elbow, the bone catching the edge of the blow and dulling its power, though the immense shock still rattled through her compact frame. She did not try to absorb more than she had to. Instead, she moved with it, her body rolling sideways, slipping just past the giant’s follow-through.

Her counter came in the same breath. A sharp knee snapped up toward Morrigan’s midsection, short and brutal, aimed to punish the opening created by the wide swing. She did not need it to end the fight. She only needed it to remind Morrigan that, while she can commend the brute using feints and tricks, those alone would not be enough to close the gap.

Safiyah would immediately back off, seeking to create more space, no matter the strike’s impact. Her stance was low, her hands loose, her eyes steady on Morrigan’s. She did not boast, did not smile. She only gave the woman one word, flat and final.

“Obvious.”