5. Karen Gillan vs Ellie Thumann
Feb 23, 2024 7:07:06 GMT -6
Lookout! Boxing and countrymouse like this
Post by Queens of Absolution on Feb 23, 2024 7:07:06 GMT -6
AG 24: Karen Gillan vs Ellie Thumann
(Results: Lookout / Words: Queens)
Karen Gillan:
(36, 5’11”, 128lbs, 22:17 FCBA, Queens of Absolution)
Ellie Thumann:
(22, 5’10.5”, 3:4 FCBA, Femme Fight Club)
BEFORE:
Ellie Thumann was a vision of ferocity rolled up in a white-hot ensemble, with each muscle tensing in anticipation for the incoming storm. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other in the middle of the ring, a coiled spring ready to unleash hell. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in her stance—no, just a raw, untamed energy that screamed she was about to turn this ring into a battlefield.
Her abs were nothing but a sick display of dedication, each one etched into her torso like they were sculpted from freaking marble. Picture a warrior, her white gloves itching for the fight, each breath she drew forged the promise of reigniting an age-old fire inside her. This wasn’t just a boxing match; it was her statement, her declaration of war against anyone who thought they could best her.
Eyes trained on the entrance, the intensity in Ellie's glare could’ve burned holes through steel. She bounced on the balls of her feet, each strand of hair tied back, betraying not a single sign of weakness. She was a beast in white, every bit of her body honed and chiseled, screaming power. She didn’t just come to win; she came to conquer, to dominate, and to walk out of that ring leaving nothing but whispers and legends of her might.
Karen stood there, bathed in the sick glow of Queens Purple and Queens Blue, looking like some kind of avenging angel about to bring the apocalypse. A navy blue sports bra clung to Karen like it was damn well painted on, each curve of her muscles a testament to the hellish hours spent in the gym. I mean, her abs looked as if someone carved them out of pure grit and fed them nothing but a steady diet of blood, sweat, and tears. Her skin seemed like it was forged from the very essence of victory, the stadium lights reflecting off it just to remind everyone the kind of celestial force they were reckoning with.
The crowd went silent as Karen's stance echoed power, her navy blue gloves like extensions of her iron will. No words needed to fly from her mouth – hell, her presence alone was like a battle cry that could shake the gods from their slumber. Each footstep that followed was a testament to her dominance, the navy blue boots hitting the ramp with the promise of doom for anyone who dared cross her path.
And those navy blue panties? They weren't just a choice — they were a freaking declaration. A statement that Karen meant business, and she wasn't there to play nice, no sir. Her thighs, powerhouses in their own right, flexed with an easy confidence. They weren't just thighs; they were twin engines of destruction, waiting to push her to the limits of human speed and ferocity.
The eyes of every soul in the stadium were glued to her, to those eyes that held whirlwinds within them. Karen's gaze cut through the dim light and settled on the ring — her target, her conquest, her bloody throne. Each blink was like the hammering of a war drum, each flutter of her eyelashes a prelude to the chaos she was about to unleash.
Her hair, free-flowing and beeautiful, whispered tales of discipline, of a Queen's spirit that wouldn't be tangled or tamed. Red strands just catching the light and throwing it back, a silent challenge to those watching. Look at her — was there any damn doubt she was about to march down there and serve up a feast of knuckle sandwiches?
Karen Gillan, she didn't just stand atop that ramp. She owned it, and every molecule of air that lay between her and her adversary. The stadium's dimmed lights might as well have spelled out 'doom' for Ellie; Karen was the oncoming storm — the queen of this ring, the destroyer of worlds, and the soon-to-be legend that'd leave everyone's jaw on the damn floor.
As the stadium began to chant Karen's name, she made her way down the ramp like the reigning queen of the damn apocalypse, stopping to pose for photos with fans that were practically frothing at the mouth to get a piece of the action. With each flash of the camera, Karen's smirk told a tale of absolute authority, like she's already won the match, and she’s just there to give the masses the bloodbath they're dying for.
Karen sauntered up to the ring, every eye locked on her. She didn’t just climb the ropes – oh no, she freaking owned them. Like some sort of siren luring sailors to their doom, she slid between those ropes with a seductive grace that was all "come hither" and "I’m your end". She strut like she had the entire place under her spell, took center stage like she was the ringmaster of this circus, and every soul in the crowd was eating right out of the palm of her hand.
Karen snapped around to face Ellie, a venomous laugh slicing through the tension. "Femme Fight Club? Pfft, more like a bunch of jobbers! You stepping to me?" she spat out, her voice dripping with disdain. "You're dreaming if you think you'll leave this ring walking. I'm gonna wreck you so bad, they'll need to peel you off the mat, sweetheart."
Ellie’s face turned a shade of livid that would’ve made a sunset jealous. She lunged at Karen, fiery as a damn comet with her gloves looking more like war clubs than sporting gear. It was like watching a torpedo cut through water; she was that kind of unstoppable force, but the ref – quick as a hiccup, slipped between them like some kind of peacekeeping ninja. The crowd was freaking baying for blood now, wolves starved of their fight, as the ref’s arms barred them like a human fortress. No one was gonna throw down 'til that bell rang, and the air was vibrating, so thick with tension you could carve it with a knife.
The ref, a brave soul stuck between two blazing infernos, rattled off the rules like they were the only thing keeping the universe from imploding. "I want a clean fight, no dirty tricks, no low blows - you hear me?" But let's be real, the rules might as well have been whispered sweet nothings for all the attention Karen and Ellie gave them.
Their eyes locked, saying a thousand words a second - each one a war cry, each one a spit in the face of defeat. When they touched gloves, it wasn’t some hallmark of sportsmanship, no. It was the clashing of titans, two forces of nature colliding with a crack that could wake the dead. It wasn't friendly - it was a promise, a damn declaration of the havoc they were about to wreak. These warrior queens didn't touch gloves; they slammed them together, the sound echoing off the walls, a prelude to the earthquake about to erupt.
Ready? More like chomping at the bit, frothing at the mouth, adrenaline pumping like oil fires burning through their veins. They were more than ready. They were gladiators poised to turn that ring into an arena of destruction. This wasn't just a fight; it was a goddamn saga about to be etched into the annals of the Queens of Absolution and Femme Fight Club history.
The ref's hand dropped, and like a cannon blast, that bell rang through the stadium—Boom! It was on! Karen and Ellie exploded from their corners, like two supernovas on a collision course. The crowd's roar was ear-splitting, like a thousand storms breaking all at once, as these two titans charged into the fray, ready to unleash an unholy beatdown the likes of which mere mortals had only dreamed of.
Round 01:
Ellie Thumann was a damn whirlwind of destruction, her fists like hammers of the gods, raining down on Karen Gillan's core. Karen's abs may have been carved from the finest marble, but even marble cracks under relentless fury. Each punch was like a freaking sledgehammer smashing into stone, and boy, did those sculpted abs resonate with the echoes of Ellie's wrath. When that uppercut blasted through Karen's guard, it was a freakin’ meteor strike straight from the bowels of hell, crashing into Karen’s jaw and sending a spray of sweat and defiance into the ravenous crowd.
But Karen, oh Karen, with those Cobra-like legs, wasn't about to be anybody’s punchbag! She whipped back like she was made of nothing but springs and spite, snapping punches with the precision of a sniper. She had range and she knew how to use it, hammering Ellie’s guts with a fury that would’ve made a war drum weep. When she thrust that jab forward, it was like a flashing blade, parting the sea of air and leaving a crimson mark across Ellie’s brow. That jab wasn’t a hit; it was a damn signature, right there on Ellie’s face.
Yet, when Karen zeroed in to find Ellie’s off button, Ellie unleashed a torrent of punches that would’ve made a jackhammer green with envy. Ellie's gloves were like twin pistons, battering Karen’s ribs, drumming on her abs until they sang a tune of bruise-purple and hurt. With each crushing hit, Karen’s breath turned to fire, her abs singing anthems of agony that no human should endure. But endure she did, clenching Ellie in a vice grip that was part ‘let’s dance’ and part ‘give me a damn second’.
In the clinch, Karen got gritty, downright dirty, with a late jab to Ellie’s solar plexus that doubled her over like she’d swallowed an anvil. That hit wasn't a love tap; it was a dirty trick pulled from the depths of the fiery chasm, and it echoed through the whole damned stadium as the bell clanged their temporary salvation.
That bell couldn’t have come soon enough. As the round ended and Ellie stood ahead on points, Karen’s body was a canvas of battle, her exquisite abs painted in the vivid hues of pain and determination – a testament to the war she was waging. Sweat mingled with Ellie’s blood on her skin, each droplet a story, each bruise a verse in the epic they were writing with their fists.
Ellie stood there, face streaked with blood like warrior stripes, her body heaving from the effort. Her torso bore the marks of Karen’s reach – red patches that would bloom into bruises as badges of her resilience. The late shot to her core was a tremor that ran through her frame, a shockwave from Karen’s desperate bid for dominance that merely fueled Ellie’s burning desire to win. As the bell summoned them to their corners, they were more than fighters; they were chiseled statues of war, resolute and unfaltering, ready for round two in this clash of titans.
Round 02:
As the seconds drained away between rounds, Karen's spirit burgeoned like a tempest, raw and wild. She launched from her corner with a vengeance at the chime of the bell, a lioness in full hunt. Her legs, long and lethal, devoured the distance between her and Ellie, sweeping across the canvas with a power that turned each step into a proclamation of her resolve. Ellie, a warrior poised for battle, barely escaped her corner before she found herself trapped – the turnbuckle at her back, Karen's wrath before her.
Karen unleashed a barrage upon Ellie, each punch a symphony of destruction aimed with terrifying precision at Ellie's battered abdomen. Her fists, blurring in motion, were like relentless waves battering a steadfast cliff, chiseling away with every blow. With eloquent cruelty, she taunted, her voice slicing through the din, "Seems you've grown fond of the taste of leather in your stomach, Ellie." Each word punctuated with fist meeting flesh in a gut-wrenching rhythm.
Then came the hammer, a cataclysmic solar plexus punch thrown with the sort of ferocity that speaks of something personal. It doubled Ellie over, a devastating blow that seemed to suck the very wind from the venue itself. Ellie, her body folding like a willow in a storm, was a visage of agony and shock. Spectators, their breaths collectively seized, became a silent chorus, bearing witness to this display of power.
In the aftermath of that strike, as Ellie's legs quivered, Karen forged on with a bone-rattling uppercut. Her glove, like the maul of Thor, collided with Ellie's chin, an uppercut so severe it snapped Ellie’s head back – caught in the merciless embrace between Karen's iron fist and the unyielding turnbuckle. The sound was sickening, the impact an exclamation mark on Karen's resurgence.
Ellie’s response was born of pure instinct; survival etched into every fiber of her being as she clinched desperately. Their bodies merged in a tortured dance, where every second was a lifetime, every gasp for air a plea for reprieve. The turnbuckle, now not an enemy but a brace, held Ellie upright as she clung to Karen, clinging to consciousness as much as to her opponent.
But as the bell’s toll sang of the round’s conclusion, it was a dirge for the moments lost to Ellie's defense and a hymn of resurgence for Karen. The fighters peeled away from their desperate embrace, each gasping for the breath stolen by exertion and pain. The air was rife with the acrid tang of sweat, the copper scent of willpower bleeding into the arena.
Karen, now the embodiment of a conquering hero, her physique a living monument to tenacity. Each muscle rippled in glorious evidence of her relentless assault; her abs, a carved fresco of strength stood visible testament to her dominance in this round. And Ellie, forged in the fires of this brutal exchange, bore the brunt of Karen’s storm. Her midsection – a canvas of distress, painted in hues of torment and resolve, would carry the story of this round – Ellie's spirit, battered but unbroken. As they retreated to their corners, their eyes told the tale of a battle far from over, their bodies the chronicles of war, etched in sweat and determination.
Round 03:
Round Three unfurled like a storm-swept sea, the two titans emerging from their corners with a ferocity that made the air crackle with electricity. Karen, her eyes alight with the unquenchable fire of combat, met Ellie’s gaze—a challenge unspoken yet resounding through the expanse of the ring. Ellie's arms rose with the grave solemnity of a knight donning her shield; each breath she exhaled cut through the thick tension like a herald announcing the continuation of an epic saga.
A haunting silence fell upon the onlookers as if the whole world held its breath, awaiting the ballet of brutality to resume. In an instant, the symphony of the fight crescendoed with Karen lunging forward, a marauding juggernaut. Ellie pivoted with the grace of a gazelle, her counters were deft strokes that painted the air with promises of pain. The thrumming of gloves against flesh sang a relentless chorus, each blow by Karen met with Ellie's elegant savagery—a tempest beneath her calm. Their dance was one of devastation, each footfall a drumbeat, each strike a note in this opera of wills.
Then Ellie, with a sudden surge, launched her own offensive, her fists the twin engines of her soul's fury. Karen's defenses, taut and precise, frayed beneath the relentless barrage. Each jab Ellie threw carved a line of fire across the air, her resolve etched into the fibers of her beings, composing an ardent declaration that she would not yield, that she would not be outshone. Their movements merged into a tapestry of kinetic ferocity, a whirlwind of aggression that no single fighter could claim as their dominion.
As the bell tolled, a solemn hymn to the end of the round, both warriors stood locked in the gaze of mutual respect, their breaths ragged from the tempest they had weathered. No victor emerged in the tumult; the scoreboard reflected a perfect equilibrium, a scrawled testament to a clash where force met force with such balance that the universe itself seemed to pause in reverence. Sweat-soaked and breathing the fire of fatigue, Karen and Ellie turned towards their corners, their spirits undiminished, the story of round four etched into the annals of the ring—a chapter concluding with both heroines standing tall, unbowed and indomitable, awaiting the call to arms for yet another dance amongst the stars.
Round 04:
As the ghostly echo of the bell faded into obscurity, Round Four unfurled its voluminous cloak of violence across the squared circle. Karen, once more the architect of agony, transformed the ring into her canvas, her reach an unyielding scepter that commanded the space with autocratic disdain. She was a tempest reborn, her every jab a thunderbolt sent to punish the mortal form of Ellie, who could do naught but weather the storm. Karen's legs, long and lethal, became the very pillars of her dominion, cornering Ellie against the ropes like a falcon corralling its prey.
Ellie, her visage the picture of suffering, had become a mere shadow before the prodigious rapture of Karen's wrath. The thud of glove on flesh became the drumbeat of Ellie’s undoing, a steady, brutal cadence that told a tale of dominance and despair. Her torso, awash with the inky blooms of bruising, appeared as if night itself had laid claim to her skin, painting each blow in morbid succession. Karen, with predatory precision, rained down a hailstorm of fists upon Ellie, each connection spelling a litany of unspoken agony.
Blood—crimson and defiant—etched its way across Ellie's battered face, painting a savage tapestry upon her once-unmarred features. Gashes, each a grotesque grin, wept the blood of battle, as Karen, resplendent in her brutality, uncoiled her arms with the inevitability of a guillotine’s fall. The cruel symphony played on, every punch a note in a requiem for Ellie's resistance, every strike serving to further mire her in the quagmire of defeat.
Amidst the cacophony of combat, Karen's voice cut through the din, as sharp and merciless as her strikes. "Does it hurt, Ellie? Does your hope bleed as freely as your face?" she taunted, her words a serrated edge that sought to slice through the remnants of Ellie’s beleaguered spirit. Each syllable was a barb, intricately woven into the tapestry of Ellie’s torment, as if to unravel her very soul.
And there stood Karen, the deific destroyer, her body a paragon of conquest. Muscles rippled under her satin skin—a sculptor's dream forged in the violence of her sport. With every movement, she broadcast the power and majesty of a gladiator in her primed ascent, a lioness adorned in the resplendence of her power. Yet, there was an artistry to her savagery, a cruel elegance to the way she wielded her physical poetry to dismantle and dominate.
Ellie's body bore the narrative of her struggle, each bruise a wordless stanza chronicling her tenacity against the hurricane of Karen’s fury. Her heart beat to the rhythm of a war drum, her survival an act of sheer will that defied the relentless downpour of despair. Even as she withstood the barrage—her face a canvas streaked with lines of red—there was a defiance in her eyes, a fire that refused to be quenched. She stood, though barely, a testament to the resilience etched in the very marrow of fighters.
The bell rang, a poignant dirge that marked the temporary cessation of violence. Karen retreated with the swagger of victory, her every step a testament to her unrivaled command of the ring. Ellie stumbled to her sanctuary, the corner that had become both her crucible and her haven. The air, thick with anticipation and the iron tang of blood, whispered of the ballet of brutality suspended by time but destined to resume. And in that moment of reprieve, the crowd sat spellbound, knowing this was a story far from its last verse—a tale of two warriors locked in an odyssey of pain and glory.
Round 05:
As the fifth round unfurled its fierce embrace, the ring became an amphitheater of wrath. Ellie, her spirit unbroken by Karen’s recent onslaught, matched her adversary with a resurgence of her own. Each punch Karen hurled was met by two from Ellie—the resounding crack of glove on abdomen a symphony of equal exchange. They circled, locked in a dance of mirrored fury, the ring becoming their labyrinth from which neither could escape. Ellie’s blows to Karen’s midsection were brutal, precise—each one a declaration of her undying resolve; with every hard-earned breath, Karen's abs tensed, betraying the furtive twinge of reawakening vitality.
In a relentless torrent of violence, Ellie’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving, "You’re just a statue, Karen—a statue I'm chiseling away, piece by piece!" Her taunts sliced through the clamor, needle-sharp and barbed with intent, as her fists sculpted a bruising narrative upon the canvas of Karen's body. With each hit, she painted her warrior’s ode across the glistening, tensile expanse of Karen’s abs, converting pain into a grisly spectacle.
Yet, Karen's body was no mere stone but a living monument to her indomitable will—a marvel honed by countless battles. She was a beacon of strength; her physique responding with a flex and recoil that bespoke her relentless fire. Her muscles, hardened by trials and triumphs, absorbed the punishment with a silent resilience, speaking a wordless vow to withstand, to endure.
And there, amidst the fray, Ellie's form bore a poignant contrast—the lithe silhouette of her shadow bruised but unbowed. She, who had been the anvil, was now the hammer, her movements articulating the unspoken poetry of a warrior reborn. Each fiber in her being screamed a testament to her undying grit—a portrait of determination etched in sweat and blood, set against the backdrop of a battle for the ages. The bell rang, its clear note hanging like a specter over the two titans, their eyes reflecting the savage splendor of the tempest they had once more weathered.
Round 06:
Round six unfurled like a catastrophic tempest, with Ellie embodying the fierce resolve of an avenging angel. Her form was poised, muscles taut and ready, as Karen—an empyrean figure incarnate—hovered before her, celestial yet unaware of the starless fate awaiting her. Ellie's eyes held a steadfast glare, a challenge etched into her very essence, beckoning Karen to cast the first stone into the still waters of the imminent storm.
Karen, with a celestial betrayal of copper locks framing her face, launched forth the fated jab—a comet streaking across the firmament. Yet, as fluid as a shadow beneath the moon's caress, Ellie evaded with serpentine grace. In that breathless instant, she rose from beneath—her fist, the harbinger of downfalls, plunged deep into Karen’s solar plexus. The sound—a guttural anthem of shock—tore from Karen’s lips, a groan that resounded in the wild expectation of the masses.
The titan staggered, her resplendent form crumpling as a kingdom under siege. Ellie, with harrowing intent, reared back and, with the ferocity of a lioness, she unleashed an uppercut—a tempest's kiss upon the visage of the shocked goddess. The impact found its mark; a sensational ‘off switch’, as the stone idol of Karen Gillan shattered, her consciousness flickering like a snuffed candle in the oppressive dark of defeat.
The stadium stood, a witness to the reverie of desolation as the referee's count echoed like the drums of judgment. At the sixth beat of destiny's heart, Karen willed her sculptured form onto all fours—a Grecian statue displaced from its pedestal to the harsh reality of earth and sweat. Her vermilion hair, a flame subdued, cascaded around a countenance etched in agony.
Eight—a harrowing octave resounded. There, amidst the echoes of battle, Karen cradled her stomach, an echo of the void left by Ellie's tempestuous blow still wrenching guttural coughs from her depths. In this arena where legends were both made and mourned, Karen's visage bore the marks of the war that raged—the tapestry of her trials narrated in the bruises that bloomed like midnight roses on alabaster skin.
The final toll, ten, passed over Karen like a shadow gilt with unforgiveness, its decree irrevocable. Defeat's mantle settled upon her shoulders as surely as the twilight claims the day. The climax had found its zenith; the fiery-haired sylph's reign had tasted mortality.
Ellie, in stark relief to her fallen adversary, stood—a warrior sculpted not in stone but in will and undying fervor. Her body bore the silent testament to the odyssey she had weathered, each bead of sweat a crystal story, each streak of crimson a hallowed scar. In victorious agony, she lifted her arms in vainglory's salute; the undying flame within her igniting the skyward whispers of glory's birthright. The crowd roared its thunderous ode to the relentless tempest that was Ellie—a triumph etched in time and memory's indelible ink.
Official Decision: Ellie Thumann defeats Karen Gillan via KO 6!
AFTER:
In the post-match stillness, where sweat and spirit had danced their ferocious ballet, the moment of reckoning unfurled beneath the glaring lights. Karen, her gaze a blend of scorn and shattered pride, could only watch as Ellie's hand was lifted high by the arbiter of their fate. The announcer's voice boomed like a deity proclaiming the twist of destiny, declaring Ellie the victor, a proclamation that tipped the scales in the monumental "Queens versus the World" to a score of 3 to 2. The stadium erupted, its foundations quaking with the seismic force of the gathered voices. Ellie stood, her arm raised as if to touch the very heavens—a conqueror of both flesh and the unfathomable depths of fortitude.
(Results: Lookout / Words: Queens)
Karen Gillan:
(36, 5’11”, 128lbs, 22:17 FCBA, Queens of Absolution)
Ellie Thumann:
(22, 5’10.5”, 3:4 FCBA, Femme Fight Club)
BEFORE:
Ellie Thumann was a vision of ferocity rolled up in a white-hot ensemble, with each muscle tensing in anticipation for the incoming storm. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other in the middle of the ring, a coiled spring ready to unleash hell. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in her stance—no, just a raw, untamed energy that screamed she was about to turn this ring into a battlefield.
Her abs were nothing but a sick display of dedication, each one etched into her torso like they were sculpted from freaking marble. Picture a warrior, her white gloves itching for the fight, each breath she drew forged the promise of reigniting an age-old fire inside her. This wasn’t just a boxing match; it was her statement, her declaration of war against anyone who thought they could best her.
Eyes trained on the entrance, the intensity in Ellie's glare could’ve burned holes through steel. She bounced on the balls of her feet, each strand of hair tied back, betraying not a single sign of weakness. She was a beast in white, every bit of her body honed and chiseled, screaming power. She didn’t just come to win; she came to conquer, to dominate, and to walk out of that ring leaving nothing but whispers and legends of her might.
Karen stood there, bathed in the sick glow of Queens Purple and Queens Blue, looking like some kind of avenging angel about to bring the apocalypse. A navy blue sports bra clung to Karen like it was damn well painted on, each curve of her muscles a testament to the hellish hours spent in the gym. I mean, her abs looked as if someone carved them out of pure grit and fed them nothing but a steady diet of blood, sweat, and tears. Her skin seemed like it was forged from the very essence of victory, the stadium lights reflecting off it just to remind everyone the kind of celestial force they were reckoning with.
The crowd went silent as Karen's stance echoed power, her navy blue gloves like extensions of her iron will. No words needed to fly from her mouth – hell, her presence alone was like a battle cry that could shake the gods from their slumber. Each footstep that followed was a testament to her dominance, the navy blue boots hitting the ramp with the promise of doom for anyone who dared cross her path.
And those navy blue panties? They weren't just a choice — they were a freaking declaration. A statement that Karen meant business, and she wasn't there to play nice, no sir. Her thighs, powerhouses in their own right, flexed with an easy confidence. They weren't just thighs; they were twin engines of destruction, waiting to push her to the limits of human speed and ferocity.
The eyes of every soul in the stadium were glued to her, to those eyes that held whirlwinds within them. Karen's gaze cut through the dim light and settled on the ring — her target, her conquest, her bloody throne. Each blink was like the hammering of a war drum, each flutter of her eyelashes a prelude to the chaos she was about to unleash.
Her hair, free-flowing and beeautiful, whispered tales of discipline, of a Queen's spirit that wouldn't be tangled or tamed. Red strands just catching the light and throwing it back, a silent challenge to those watching. Look at her — was there any damn doubt she was about to march down there and serve up a feast of knuckle sandwiches?
Karen Gillan, she didn't just stand atop that ramp. She owned it, and every molecule of air that lay between her and her adversary. The stadium's dimmed lights might as well have spelled out 'doom' for Ellie; Karen was the oncoming storm — the queen of this ring, the destroyer of worlds, and the soon-to-be legend that'd leave everyone's jaw on the damn floor.
As the stadium began to chant Karen's name, she made her way down the ramp like the reigning queen of the damn apocalypse, stopping to pose for photos with fans that were practically frothing at the mouth to get a piece of the action. With each flash of the camera, Karen's smirk told a tale of absolute authority, like she's already won the match, and she’s just there to give the masses the bloodbath they're dying for.
Karen sauntered up to the ring, every eye locked on her. She didn’t just climb the ropes – oh no, she freaking owned them. Like some sort of siren luring sailors to their doom, she slid between those ropes with a seductive grace that was all "come hither" and "I’m your end". She strut like she had the entire place under her spell, took center stage like she was the ringmaster of this circus, and every soul in the crowd was eating right out of the palm of her hand.
Karen snapped around to face Ellie, a venomous laugh slicing through the tension. "Femme Fight Club? Pfft, more like a bunch of jobbers! You stepping to me?" she spat out, her voice dripping with disdain. "You're dreaming if you think you'll leave this ring walking. I'm gonna wreck you so bad, they'll need to peel you off the mat, sweetheart."
Ellie’s face turned a shade of livid that would’ve made a sunset jealous. She lunged at Karen, fiery as a damn comet with her gloves looking more like war clubs than sporting gear. It was like watching a torpedo cut through water; she was that kind of unstoppable force, but the ref – quick as a hiccup, slipped between them like some kind of peacekeeping ninja. The crowd was freaking baying for blood now, wolves starved of their fight, as the ref’s arms barred them like a human fortress. No one was gonna throw down 'til that bell rang, and the air was vibrating, so thick with tension you could carve it with a knife.
The ref, a brave soul stuck between two blazing infernos, rattled off the rules like they were the only thing keeping the universe from imploding. "I want a clean fight, no dirty tricks, no low blows - you hear me?" But let's be real, the rules might as well have been whispered sweet nothings for all the attention Karen and Ellie gave them.
Their eyes locked, saying a thousand words a second - each one a war cry, each one a spit in the face of defeat. When they touched gloves, it wasn’t some hallmark of sportsmanship, no. It was the clashing of titans, two forces of nature colliding with a crack that could wake the dead. It wasn't friendly - it was a promise, a damn declaration of the havoc they were about to wreak. These warrior queens didn't touch gloves; they slammed them together, the sound echoing off the walls, a prelude to the earthquake about to erupt.
Ready? More like chomping at the bit, frothing at the mouth, adrenaline pumping like oil fires burning through their veins. They were more than ready. They were gladiators poised to turn that ring into an arena of destruction. This wasn't just a fight; it was a goddamn saga about to be etched into the annals of the Queens of Absolution and Femme Fight Club history.
The ref's hand dropped, and like a cannon blast, that bell rang through the stadium—Boom! It was on! Karen and Ellie exploded from their corners, like two supernovas on a collision course. The crowd's roar was ear-splitting, like a thousand storms breaking all at once, as these two titans charged into the fray, ready to unleash an unholy beatdown the likes of which mere mortals had only dreamed of.
Round 01:
Ellie Thumann was a damn whirlwind of destruction, her fists like hammers of the gods, raining down on Karen Gillan's core. Karen's abs may have been carved from the finest marble, but even marble cracks under relentless fury. Each punch was like a freaking sledgehammer smashing into stone, and boy, did those sculpted abs resonate with the echoes of Ellie's wrath. When that uppercut blasted through Karen's guard, it was a freakin’ meteor strike straight from the bowels of hell, crashing into Karen’s jaw and sending a spray of sweat and defiance into the ravenous crowd.
But Karen, oh Karen, with those Cobra-like legs, wasn't about to be anybody’s punchbag! She whipped back like she was made of nothing but springs and spite, snapping punches with the precision of a sniper. She had range and she knew how to use it, hammering Ellie’s guts with a fury that would’ve made a war drum weep. When she thrust that jab forward, it was like a flashing blade, parting the sea of air and leaving a crimson mark across Ellie’s brow. That jab wasn’t a hit; it was a damn signature, right there on Ellie’s face.
Yet, when Karen zeroed in to find Ellie’s off button, Ellie unleashed a torrent of punches that would’ve made a jackhammer green with envy. Ellie's gloves were like twin pistons, battering Karen’s ribs, drumming on her abs until they sang a tune of bruise-purple and hurt. With each crushing hit, Karen’s breath turned to fire, her abs singing anthems of agony that no human should endure. But endure she did, clenching Ellie in a vice grip that was part ‘let’s dance’ and part ‘give me a damn second’.
In the clinch, Karen got gritty, downright dirty, with a late jab to Ellie’s solar plexus that doubled her over like she’d swallowed an anvil. That hit wasn't a love tap; it was a dirty trick pulled from the depths of the fiery chasm, and it echoed through the whole damned stadium as the bell clanged their temporary salvation.
That bell couldn’t have come soon enough. As the round ended and Ellie stood ahead on points, Karen’s body was a canvas of battle, her exquisite abs painted in the vivid hues of pain and determination – a testament to the war she was waging. Sweat mingled with Ellie’s blood on her skin, each droplet a story, each bruise a verse in the epic they were writing with their fists.
Ellie stood there, face streaked with blood like warrior stripes, her body heaving from the effort. Her torso bore the marks of Karen’s reach – red patches that would bloom into bruises as badges of her resilience. The late shot to her core was a tremor that ran through her frame, a shockwave from Karen’s desperate bid for dominance that merely fueled Ellie’s burning desire to win. As the bell summoned them to their corners, they were more than fighters; they were chiseled statues of war, resolute and unfaltering, ready for round two in this clash of titans.
Round 02:
As the seconds drained away between rounds, Karen's spirit burgeoned like a tempest, raw and wild. She launched from her corner with a vengeance at the chime of the bell, a lioness in full hunt. Her legs, long and lethal, devoured the distance between her and Ellie, sweeping across the canvas with a power that turned each step into a proclamation of her resolve. Ellie, a warrior poised for battle, barely escaped her corner before she found herself trapped – the turnbuckle at her back, Karen's wrath before her.
Karen unleashed a barrage upon Ellie, each punch a symphony of destruction aimed with terrifying precision at Ellie's battered abdomen. Her fists, blurring in motion, were like relentless waves battering a steadfast cliff, chiseling away with every blow. With eloquent cruelty, she taunted, her voice slicing through the din, "Seems you've grown fond of the taste of leather in your stomach, Ellie." Each word punctuated with fist meeting flesh in a gut-wrenching rhythm.
Then came the hammer, a cataclysmic solar plexus punch thrown with the sort of ferocity that speaks of something personal. It doubled Ellie over, a devastating blow that seemed to suck the very wind from the venue itself. Ellie, her body folding like a willow in a storm, was a visage of agony and shock. Spectators, their breaths collectively seized, became a silent chorus, bearing witness to this display of power.
In the aftermath of that strike, as Ellie's legs quivered, Karen forged on with a bone-rattling uppercut. Her glove, like the maul of Thor, collided with Ellie's chin, an uppercut so severe it snapped Ellie’s head back – caught in the merciless embrace between Karen's iron fist and the unyielding turnbuckle. The sound was sickening, the impact an exclamation mark on Karen's resurgence.
Ellie’s response was born of pure instinct; survival etched into every fiber of her being as she clinched desperately. Their bodies merged in a tortured dance, where every second was a lifetime, every gasp for air a plea for reprieve. The turnbuckle, now not an enemy but a brace, held Ellie upright as she clung to Karen, clinging to consciousness as much as to her opponent.
But as the bell’s toll sang of the round’s conclusion, it was a dirge for the moments lost to Ellie's defense and a hymn of resurgence for Karen. The fighters peeled away from their desperate embrace, each gasping for the breath stolen by exertion and pain. The air was rife with the acrid tang of sweat, the copper scent of willpower bleeding into the arena.
Karen, now the embodiment of a conquering hero, her physique a living monument to tenacity. Each muscle rippled in glorious evidence of her relentless assault; her abs, a carved fresco of strength stood visible testament to her dominance in this round. And Ellie, forged in the fires of this brutal exchange, bore the brunt of Karen’s storm. Her midsection – a canvas of distress, painted in hues of torment and resolve, would carry the story of this round – Ellie's spirit, battered but unbroken. As they retreated to their corners, their eyes told the tale of a battle far from over, their bodies the chronicles of war, etched in sweat and determination.
Round 03:
Round Three unfurled like a storm-swept sea, the two titans emerging from their corners with a ferocity that made the air crackle with electricity. Karen, her eyes alight with the unquenchable fire of combat, met Ellie’s gaze—a challenge unspoken yet resounding through the expanse of the ring. Ellie's arms rose with the grave solemnity of a knight donning her shield; each breath she exhaled cut through the thick tension like a herald announcing the continuation of an epic saga.
A haunting silence fell upon the onlookers as if the whole world held its breath, awaiting the ballet of brutality to resume. In an instant, the symphony of the fight crescendoed with Karen lunging forward, a marauding juggernaut. Ellie pivoted with the grace of a gazelle, her counters were deft strokes that painted the air with promises of pain. The thrumming of gloves against flesh sang a relentless chorus, each blow by Karen met with Ellie's elegant savagery—a tempest beneath her calm. Their dance was one of devastation, each footfall a drumbeat, each strike a note in this opera of wills.
Then Ellie, with a sudden surge, launched her own offensive, her fists the twin engines of her soul's fury. Karen's defenses, taut and precise, frayed beneath the relentless barrage. Each jab Ellie threw carved a line of fire across the air, her resolve etched into the fibers of her beings, composing an ardent declaration that she would not yield, that she would not be outshone. Their movements merged into a tapestry of kinetic ferocity, a whirlwind of aggression that no single fighter could claim as their dominion.
As the bell tolled, a solemn hymn to the end of the round, both warriors stood locked in the gaze of mutual respect, their breaths ragged from the tempest they had weathered. No victor emerged in the tumult; the scoreboard reflected a perfect equilibrium, a scrawled testament to a clash where force met force with such balance that the universe itself seemed to pause in reverence. Sweat-soaked and breathing the fire of fatigue, Karen and Ellie turned towards their corners, their spirits undiminished, the story of round four etched into the annals of the ring—a chapter concluding with both heroines standing tall, unbowed and indomitable, awaiting the call to arms for yet another dance amongst the stars.
Round 04:
As the ghostly echo of the bell faded into obscurity, Round Four unfurled its voluminous cloak of violence across the squared circle. Karen, once more the architect of agony, transformed the ring into her canvas, her reach an unyielding scepter that commanded the space with autocratic disdain. She was a tempest reborn, her every jab a thunderbolt sent to punish the mortal form of Ellie, who could do naught but weather the storm. Karen's legs, long and lethal, became the very pillars of her dominion, cornering Ellie against the ropes like a falcon corralling its prey.
Ellie, her visage the picture of suffering, had become a mere shadow before the prodigious rapture of Karen's wrath. The thud of glove on flesh became the drumbeat of Ellie’s undoing, a steady, brutal cadence that told a tale of dominance and despair. Her torso, awash with the inky blooms of bruising, appeared as if night itself had laid claim to her skin, painting each blow in morbid succession. Karen, with predatory precision, rained down a hailstorm of fists upon Ellie, each connection spelling a litany of unspoken agony.
Blood—crimson and defiant—etched its way across Ellie's battered face, painting a savage tapestry upon her once-unmarred features. Gashes, each a grotesque grin, wept the blood of battle, as Karen, resplendent in her brutality, uncoiled her arms with the inevitability of a guillotine’s fall. The cruel symphony played on, every punch a note in a requiem for Ellie's resistance, every strike serving to further mire her in the quagmire of defeat.
Amidst the cacophony of combat, Karen's voice cut through the din, as sharp and merciless as her strikes. "Does it hurt, Ellie? Does your hope bleed as freely as your face?" she taunted, her words a serrated edge that sought to slice through the remnants of Ellie’s beleaguered spirit. Each syllable was a barb, intricately woven into the tapestry of Ellie’s torment, as if to unravel her very soul.
And there stood Karen, the deific destroyer, her body a paragon of conquest. Muscles rippled under her satin skin—a sculptor's dream forged in the violence of her sport. With every movement, she broadcast the power and majesty of a gladiator in her primed ascent, a lioness adorned in the resplendence of her power. Yet, there was an artistry to her savagery, a cruel elegance to the way she wielded her physical poetry to dismantle and dominate.
Ellie's body bore the narrative of her struggle, each bruise a wordless stanza chronicling her tenacity against the hurricane of Karen’s fury. Her heart beat to the rhythm of a war drum, her survival an act of sheer will that defied the relentless downpour of despair. Even as she withstood the barrage—her face a canvas streaked with lines of red—there was a defiance in her eyes, a fire that refused to be quenched. She stood, though barely, a testament to the resilience etched in the very marrow of fighters.
The bell rang, a poignant dirge that marked the temporary cessation of violence. Karen retreated with the swagger of victory, her every step a testament to her unrivaled command of the ring. Ellie stumbled to her sanctuary, the corner that had become both her crucible and her haven. The air, thick with anticipation and the iron tang of blood, whispered of the ballet of brutality suspended by time but destined to resume. And in that moment of reprieve, the crowd sat spellbound, knowing this was a story far from its last verse—a tale of two warriors locked in an odyssey of pain and glory.
Round 05:
As the fifth round unfurled its fierce embrace, the ring became an amphitheater of wrath. Ellie, her spirit unbroken by Karen’s recent onslaught, matched her adversary with a resurgence of her own. Each punch Karen hurled was met by two from Ellie—the resounding crack of glove on abdomen a symphony of equal exchange. They circled, locked in a dance of mirrored fury, the ring becoming their labyrinth from which neither could escape. Ellie’s blows to Karen’s midsection were brutal, precise—each one a declaration of her undying resolve; with every hard-earned breath, Karen's abs tensed, betraying the furtive twinge of reawakening vitality.
In a relentless torrent of violence, Ellie’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving, "You’re just a statue, Karen—a statue I'm chiseling away, piece by piece!" Her taunts sliced through the clamor, needle-sharp and barbed with intent, as her fists sculpted a bruising narrative upon the canvas of Karen's body. With each hit, she painted her warrior’s ode across the glistening, tensile expanse of Karen’s abs, converting pain into a grisly spectacle.
Yet, Karen's body was no mere stone but a living monument to her indomitable will—a marvel honed by countless battles. She was a beacon of strength; her physique responding with a flex and recoil that bespoke her relentless fire. Her muscles, hardened by trials and triumphs, absorbed the punishment with a silent resilience, speaking a wordless vow to withstand, to endure.
And there, amidst the fray, Ellie's form bore a poignant contrast—the lithe silhouette of her shadow bruised but unbowed. She, who had been the anvil, was now the hammer, her movements articulating the unspoken poetry of a warrior reborn. Each fiber in her being screamed a testament to her undying grit—a portrait of determination etched in sweat and blood, set against the backdrop of a battle for the ages. The bell rang, its clear note hanging like a specter over the two titans, their eyes reflecting the savage splendor of the tempest they had once more weathered.
Round 06:
Round six unfurled like a catastrophic tempest, with Ellie embodying the fierce resolve of an avenging angel. Her form was poised, muscles taut and ready, as Karen—an empyrean figure incarnate—hovered before her, celestial yet unaware of the starless fate awaiting her. Ellie's eyes held a steadfast glare, a challenge etched into her very essence, beckoning Karen to cast the first stone into the still waters of the imminent storm.
Karen, with a celestial betrayal of copper locks framing her face, launched forth the fated jab—a comet streaking across the firmament. Yet, as fluid as a shadow beneath the moon's caress, Ellie evaded with serpentine grace. In that breathless instant, she rose from beneath—her fist, the harbinger of downfalls, plunged deep into Karen’s solar plexus. The sound—a guttural anthem of shock—tore from Karen’s lips, a groan that resounded in the wild expectation of the masses.
The titan staggered, her resplendent form crumpling as a kingdom under siege. Ellie, with harrowing intent, reared back and, with the ferocity of a lioness, she unleashed an uppercut—a tempest's kiss upon the visage of the shocked goddess. The impact found its mark; a sensational ‘off switch’, as the stone idol of Karen Gillan shattered, her consciousness flickering like a snuffed candle in the oppressive dark of defeat.
The stadium stood, a witness to the reverie of desolation as the referee's count echoed like the drums of judgment. At the sixth beat of destiny's heart, Karen willed her sculptured form onto all fours—a Grecian statue displaced from its pedestal to the harsh reality of earth and sweat. Her vermilion hair, a flame subdued, cascaded around a countenance etched in agony.
Eight—a harrowing octave resounded. There, amidst the echoes of battle, Karen cradled her stomach, an echo of the void left by Ellie's tempestuous blow still wrenching guttural coughs from her depths. In this arena where legends were both made and mourned, Karen's visage bore the marks of the war that raged—the tapestry of her trials narrated in the bruises that bloomed like midnight roses on alabaster skin.
The final toll, ten, passed over Karen like a shadow gilt with unforgiveness, its decree irrevocable. Defeat's mantle settled upon her shoulders as surely as the twilight claims the day. The climax had found its zenith; the fiery-haired sylph's reign had tasted mortality.
Ellie, in stark relief to her fallen adversary, stood—a warrior sculpted not in stone but in will and undying fervor. Her body bore the silent testament to the odyssey she had weathered, each bead of sweat a crystal story, each streak of crimson a hallowed scar. In victorious agony, she lifted her arms in vainglory's salute; the undying flame within her igniting the skyward whispers of glory's birthright. The crowd roared its thunderous ode to the relentless tempest that was Ellie—a triumph etched in time and memory's indelible ink.
Official Decision: Ellie Thumann defeats Karen Gillan via KO 6!
AFTER:
In the post-match stillness, where sweat and spirit had danced their ferocious ballet, the moment of reckoning unfurled beneath the glaring lights. Karen, her gaze a blend of scorn and shattered pride, could only watch as Ellie's hand was lifted high by the arbiter of their fate. The announcer's voice boomed like a deity proclaiming the twist of destiny, declaring Ellie the victor, a proclamation that tipped the scales in the monumental "Queens versus the World" to a score of 3 to 2. The stadium erupted, its foundations quaking with the seismic force of the gathered voices. Ellie stood, her arm raised as if to touch the very heavens—a conqueror of both flesh and the unfathomable depths of fortitude.