Hannah Ferguson versus Brooklyn Decker (Hall of Fame Bout)

Hannah:
(31, 5’10, 130, 97:26 FCBA, VIXENs)


Brooklyn:
(36, 5’9, Lioness Club of America)


Hannah’s Road to the Hall-of-Fame: 1 WIN to qualify.

BEFORE:
An hour later, the roar of the crowd echoes across the sun-drenched shores of Malibu Beach. Gone are the sterile lights and plush seats of a traditional stadium, replaced by the raw energy of the ocean and the boundless expanse of the evening sky. Four thick, weathered wooden poles are sunk deep into the sand, forming the ring's frame. Thick, frayed ropes, weathered from countless sparring sessions under the Florida sun, demarcate the fighters' battleground.

The makeshift stands, a vibrant tapestry of colorful towels and beach chairs, stretch back from the ring, their occupants a kaleidoscope of bronzed bodies and enthusiastic faces. Tourists with oversized sunglasses mingle with local fight aficionados, their cheers punctuated by the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. Vendors already weave through the crowd, hawking souvenir t-shirts and cold drinks, adding to the festive atmosphere.

As the fight night lights blaze to life, casting the beach in an ethereal glow, the crowd falls silent. A spotlight slices through the darkness, landing on the makeshift entrance tunnel fashioned from brightly colored fabric. The emcee's booming voice crackles over the loudspeakers: "And first, in the blue corner, hailing from Los Angeles, California, weighing in at 147 pounds… THE GOLDEN GIRL... HANNAH FERGUSON!"

Ferguson emerges from the tunnel. Barefoot and clad in her lime green bikini and matching boy board shorts, the muscles in her toned legs rippled with controlled power. Her fiery blonde hair, usually tamed in a braid, flowed freely around her shoulders. Raising her fists high, she met the crowd's ear-splitting roar with a fierce nod, her gaze scanning the stands until it lands on the figure of her opponent.

The crowd barely has time to catch their breath before the emcee's voice booms again: "And in the red corner, fighting out of Miami, Florida, weighing in at a hefty 149 pounds... THE CHICAGO MAULER... BROOKLYN DECKER!"

Decker, a stark contrast to Ferguson, saunters into the spotlight with a swagger. Her long blonde hair, pulled back in a tight ponytail, accentuates the sharp angles of her face. Sporting the same red bikini top and board shorts, she cuts a striking figure against the backdrop of the ocean. As the crowd erupts in cheers, Decker grins, flashing a row of perfectly white teeth. She raises a single fist in acknowledgment, her eyes locked on Ferguson across the ring.

As the referee steps into the ring to deliver the pre-fight instructions, one thing’s certain: this open-air battle, under the watchful gaze of the moon and the relentless roar of the ocean, promises a night of unforgettable brutality.

ROUND 1:
ROUND 2:
And the second erupts with renewed ferocity! Ferguson wastes no time launching another offensive. Across the sand, the California-born Lioness, Decker, a statuesque beauty with long, flowing blonde hair, weathers the initial storm, bobbing and weaving, her blue eyes laser-focused on her foe’s movements, waiting for an opening. Ferguson throws a relentless barrage of punches, but they lack their earlier sting. The California sun seems to be taking its toll, and the shifting sand fights for traction under her bare feet. Then, Decker seizes on her hesitation. With a lightning-fast counter, she catches Hannah flush on the jaw with a powerful right cross, the CRACK echoing across the beach arena, sending tremors through the already unsteady wooden stakes that hold the ropes aloft. For a fleeting moment, Ferguson seems wobbly, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her! But the Vixen grits her teeth and digs deep, again clinching up with Decker, both blondes snarling for control, the ropes straining against their weight as they wrestle in a display of raw power. Soon, the referee pries them apart with a sharp whistle, and the fight resumes.

This time, Ferguson seems to have learned her lesson. She utilizes her superior footwork, honed from years of dancing around heavier opponents, to dance across the unforgiving canvas. She peppers the Lioness with stinging jabs, leaving angry red welts blooming on her face. Decker, frustrated by her inability to land a clean punch, starts swinging wildly. Her powerful blows, thrown with frustration, miss their mark, finding nothing but air or a glancing blow on Ferguson's arms, and sending plumes of sand flying with each missed swing. And as the bell signals the end of the round, the outcome is clear: Ferguson, despite the scare in the middle of the round, has dominated with her technical mastery. She bounces back to her corner with a triumphant swagger, while Decker retreats to hers, her face a mask of frustration and a growing sense of desperation. The judges' scorecards reflect the one-sided nature of the round, awarding it decisively to Ferguson. The Vixen has taken a commanding lead, but with only two rounds passed, anything can still happen in this captivating beachside brawl.

ROUND 3:
ROUND 4:
The Florida sun hangs low in the sky, casting the fighters in long, dramatic shadows. Ferguson, frustration simmering beneath the surface, emerges from her corner with a renewed determination. Suddenly, she charges across the sand, hoping to catch Decker off guard with a whirlwind of punches aimed at her head. But the Lioness meets the challenge head-on. The Vixen throws wild punches angrily, but her newfound aggression leaves her openings. Decker ducks under a looping right hook, and counters with a brutal short right cross that explodes on her jaw. Hannah’s head snaps back, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it's replaced by a mask of rage. She throws another left hook with growing desperation, this time catching Decker clean on the temple, sending a spray of sand flying and momentarily halting her onslaught. But the other blonde resets and pushes forward, landing a vicious right jab that splits Ferguson's lip, crimson blooming like a grotesque flower. Hannah, tasting blood, lets out a primal roar and lunges back, throwing caution to the wind. Both girls trade punches in the center of the ring, a flurry of lefts and rights that leave them both staggering: a right uppercut catches Ferguson flush on the nose, sending a spray of red and fluids arcing through the air. But before Decker can capitalize, she connects with her own looping left hook that whips her face to the side, sending the Lioness stumbling back, momentarily stunned, her vision swimming. The rivals clinch in a furious embrace, a tangle of limbs and sweat. The ropes strain against their combined weight as they wrestle for control. The referee steps in periodically, shoving them apart with a stern warning. But the fight resumes with more punches and grunts. Decker throws a flurry of punches, but this time, Ferguson manages to block or deflect most of them, and lands a few stinging jabs of her own in return to the nose and lips. Just as one girl begins to take control, the bell rings, and both fighters stumble back to their corners, exhausted and battered. Ferguson, her face a canvas of welts and bruises, leans heavily against the ropes, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Decker, though clearly worse for wear, has a triumphant glint in her blue eyes. This round was a brutal war, a close contest that could have gone either way. The judges huddle to discuss the score, one thing is certain: she’s clawed her way back into the fight!

ROUND 5:
Ferguson, her once vibrant spirit flickering like a dying ember, tries to fight back with wild, desperate swings. But Decker easily anticipates her move, effortlessly slipping inside her guard to land more short, brutal punches to the body. With each blow, the Vixen is being pushed back towards the ropes, where Decker corners her, unleashing more hooks and uppercuts against her defenseless frame. Another right hook catches her on her left kidney, which sends a jolt of pain shooting up her back, a radiating ache that momentarily paralyzes her entire left side. Ferguson lets out a yelp, her body lurching to the right before being slammed back against the unforgiving ropes. The only sound that escapes her now are ragged gasps for breath, as the round becomes a one-sided beatdown, a brutal display of dominance. Once the aggressor, she’s now in trouble now reduced to a battered shell, her dreams of victory dissolving like sandcastles under the relentless tide.
A renewed sense of urgency crackles in the air, as this time, Ferguson emerges from her corner with a newfound focus. No more reckless aggression from the previous round; she seems to have learned a valuable lesson from Decker's brutal assault. She utilizes superior footwork, dancing around the older blonde, staying just out of reach of her powerful punches. She peppers her with a steady stream of jabs, targeting her face and body with quick, stinging blows. A left jab catches her flush on the cheek, drawing a crimson bloom that quickly spreads across her tanned skin. For the first two minutes of the round, Ferguson dictates the pace of the fight, frustrating Decker with her hit-and-run tactics. Decker throws wild swings in an attempt to cut her off, but the Vixen anticipates each move, effortlessly slipping away like a wisp of smoke. Soon, frustration begins to cloud her judgment, a dangerous development for the Lioness. Just past the halfway mark of the round, she lunges forward with a desperate right hook, and though Ferguson ducks under the wild swing, just as she comes up, she gets NAILED with a glancing blow to the temple, the sound like a thunderclap, sending a jolt of pain through her head and rest of her torso! Her vision swims, the world tilting precariously on its axis! Her legs wobble for a moment, threatening to betray her! Decker RUSHES in, slamming Ferguson back against the ropes with a thunderous shove. The referee, sensing the urgency but allowing the fight to flow, takes a wait-and-see approach, allowing the Lioness to pin her arms inwards with a vice-like grip, even as she struggles against her overwhelming strength. But Brooklyn already has her other hand pulled back and ready to strike: a short, brutal left hook lands on the ribs, the sound like a muffled hammer blow. Hannah lets out a pained grunt, her breath momentarily stolen from her, but Decker has already followed up with a right uppercut that punctures the center of her sternum, driving the air from her lungs with a whoosh, her face contorting in agony, and her body curling inwards, as she tries to absorb the punishment.
ROUND 7:
ROUND 8:
The eighth round opens with a cautious dance, the lingering echoes of the previous round hanging heavy in the air. Ferguson emerges from her corner, her body still bruising and her face etched with the memory of that brutal knockdown. Decker, though moving slowly, has her mind still on dominance, and she stalks towards her with predatory intent. The first few seconds are a slow waltz of tentative movements. Ferguson circles cautiously, her eyes flitting between Decker's fists. The Lioness fighter throws a tentative jab, but she leans away on reflex. Another right hook follows, a wild swing that carries little conviction. Ferguson sidesteps it with a dancer's grace, the movement almost imperceptible. Then, a flicker of defiance sparks in her eyes. She sees the telltale signs of fatigue in Decker's posture - the slight slump of her shoulders, the ever-so-shallow rise and fall of her chest. With a newfound resolve, she steps forward, unleashing a sharp jab that catches the other blonde flush on the cheek. The small victory seems to ignite a fire within Ferguson, and she throws another jab, and another, each one finding its mark. Decker, surprised by the sudden shift in momentum, tries to fight back, throwing wild swings towards her. But the Vixen slips under and counters with short, stinging punches to both face, breast, and body. Frustrated by her dwindling stamina and her opponent’s sudden surge, the Lioness lunges forward in a desperate attempt to clinch. She found success smothering her rival against the ropes before. But this time, Hannah anticipates the move and pivots on her toes, circling behind and then throwing another vicious left hook that impacts the outer side of her right breast, the orb rippling momentarily, the flesh visibly wobbling before snapping back into place. A guttural gasp escapes her lips, and the force of the blow spins her partially around, her momentum carrying her forward off-balance. And Ferguson follows her, following through with another right cross right to the nose, sending her stumbling back towards the ropes!

As Brooklyn’s body folds inwards from the continued assault, Ferguson adds insult to injury and seizes the flimsy fabric of her boxing shorts. With a sickening riiiiiipp, she tugs downwards, the unforgiving canvas offering minimal resistance, and the elastic waistband stretches precariously, threatening to snap under the pressure. An inch, two inches – the descent is agonizingly slow, each millimeter revealing more of her taut abdomen. Then, Ferguson's feral snarl splits the air, and before she can even react, her leathered fist rockets forward one last time. Her glove compresses against Decker's exposed flesh, just above the waistband. There's a sickening whap as the fist connects, the flesh beneath rippling and distorting in protest, and the imprint stark against her pale skin. Decker's breath explodes from his lungs in a surprised grunt, and her body buckles once more. Her knees begin to fold inwards, a wave of pain radiating from the point of contact. She lets out a choked gasp, a cry for the referee to save her, which he finally does, pulling Hannah off and pushing her towards her own corner, warning the VIX side for their illegal move.
ROUND 9:
The referee rushes in, his voice a monotone as he begins the count. "One... Two... Three..." But Brooklyn lies motionless, the only sign of life the shallow rise and fall of her chest upon the sand, her gloves uselessly pawing the sides. "...Eight... Nine..." Brooklyn's eyelids fluttered, a desperate attempt to push her head and upper torso upwards, but those red welts all over aren’t cooperating, the rest of her limbs lying heavy and unresponsive. "...Ten!" The referee shoots a final hand up into the air, before WAVING it OVER! That’s it, folks! What a BRUTAL conclusion to this bout!!
Official Result: Hannah Ferguson defeats Brooklyn Decker via KO9! Hannah QUALIFIES for the FCBA Hall-of-Fame!

AFTER:
"Still think you could handle me, sweetheart?" she rasps. The words hang in the air, with no response from Brooklyn but the shallow rise and fall of her chest. A flicker of something akin to pity dances in Hannah's eyes, but it’s quickly extinguished by the embers of triumph. Reaching down, she helped herself to two fistfuls of sweat-matted hair, hauling the spent girl up to her feet.
The maneuver sends them both CRASHING back onto the sand in a heap. Brooklyn lands with a choked gasp, the wind momentarily knocked out of her. And Hannah, on top, quickly rains down more punches, each blow muffled by the sand beneath them, trying to subdue the beast.
Her forearms, trapped beneath Brooklyn's weight, begin to pulse with a fiery ache. Yet, Hannah refuses to submit. She drives her elbows back with every ounce of remaining strength, each thud against Brooklyn's torso a tiny victory. The repeated impact forces a grunt from Brooklyn's lips, the suffocating pressure lessening ever so slightly. Sensing the shift, Hannah redoubles her efforts. Every inch she gains, every ragged breath, fuels her determination. As the world around her turns into a blur of pain and exhaustion, she finds a focus within the torment. She won't be broken. She won't submit. She won't be the queen's plaything.

With a final, desperate heave, Hannah manages to free her face. Gasping for air, she writhes her body, getting her arms to push against shoulder and torso. Then, she digs her feet into the sand, and using both legs, she shifts her hips, forcing them out of the hold and forward, and bringing Brooklyn closer into the smothering embrace. She lifts her legs higher and shifts them forward, wrapping them over Brooklyn's own thighs and effectively immobilizing her lower body. Finally, she twists her torso, squirming and wriggling until she maneuvers herself into a sitting position directly on Brooklyn's lap. The maneuver is more difficult than expected; sweat making their bare skin slippery, their movements awkward and clumsy.

Brooklyn squirms and grunts, her struggles growing frantic and increasingly ineffective, as she does her best to keep hold of the smother. Both girls are still on their knees, locked in a primal struggle, as it’s Hannah’s turn to yank on wet hair, and pull Brooklyn's face into the suffocating valley between her breasts. This time, Brooklyn bucks and twists, her muffled cries a mixture of shock and anger echoing against the radiating heat of her foe’s skin. It's a reversal of roles, and a desperate counterattack.

But Hannah is relentless. She leans forward, reaching back, her fingers tangling in Brooklyn's blonde hair. She uses the grip to pull her even closer, forcing her face deeper into the swell of her chest. Brooklyn's struggles grow weaker, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps against the curves of the victor. The Vixen has her arms snaked round her back and about her head, securing her grip in a firm hold. With the sitting smother locked in tight, she forces Brooklyn's face down towards the soft flesh of her breasts.

Fight officials, alarmed by the escalating chaos, finally flood the ring. But separating the arch-rivals isn't easy. Hannah, filled with sudden defiance, clings to the smother with surprising tenacity. The officials shout and have to pry her arms loose, Decker still gasping for air into her bosom, still clawing weakly at Hannah's back, a silent plea for release etched on her face. Finally, with a collective heave, they manage to break her hold. Brooklyn, gasping and sputtering, scrambles away, collapsing onto the sand a few feet away. Hannah, chest heaving, can’t help but glare at the officials, a defiant fire still burning in her eyes.

AFTER AFTER:
The roar of the crowd had long faded, replaced by the sterile hum of fluorescent lights in the locker rooms. Ice packs lay heavy on battered flesh, a testament to the evening's brutality.
Hannah's Locker Room:

Hannah sat slumped on a bench, a throbbing ache radiating from every muscle. Her reflection in the mirror was a stranger – a swollen face marred by a blossoming purple bruise on her cheekbone. Beside her, her trainer, a grizzled veteran named Joe, shook his head in silent disapproval.

The locker room door creaked open, and a reporter entered, notepad and pen in hand. Hannah winced as the harsh light of the camera flashed, momentarily blinding her.

"Some say you instigated that brawl at the end of the fight. Can you comment on that?"

Hannah opened her eyes, a flicker of defiance crossing her features. "Emotions ran high after the fight. It happens sometimes. But especially with Decker around."

The reporter pressed on. "What are your thoughts right now?”

"Disappointed," she said flatly. "We both came to fight, and the fans deserved a proper ending. I wished they hadn’t broken up our melee. We’ll have to settle it again some time, properly." But even as she spoke, another memory surfaced - the primal satisfaction of pummeling Brooklyn on the sand.

"Do you regret your actions?"

“Of course not. She’s nothing but a sore loser. At the end of the day, I’m the one walking away with the win,” Hannah says, before flashing a smirk. “And guess what, Brooklyn’s invited to my Hall of Fame induction ceremony. I’ll save her a front row seat!”

Across the hall, Brooklyn sat in a similar state of physical and emotional disarray. Her right eye was swollen shut, and a long scrape ran across her forearm. But beneath the winces and grunts as the trainer tended to her wounds, a different kind of storm brewed.

"That wasn't you out there, Brooklyn," her trainer said gently but firmly. Brooklyn met her gaze, a flicker of shame in her glazed eyes.

"I… I just saw red," Brooklyn mumbled, her voice hoarse.

"I understand, but that wasn't the fight plan. You let your emotions dictate the outcome." his voice was firm, but laced with concern.

A reporter knocked on the door, and he gave her a curt nod. Brooklyn braced herself, steeling her nerves.

The reporter, looking slightly intimidated, managed to stammer out, "Do you think the officials should have broken up that brawl at the end?"

"Let's just say,” Brooklyn drawled, leaning back in her chair, "the officials got a little nervous when they saw me about to give Hannah the good ol' championship squeeze on the sand.
Wouldn't want a new Hall of Famer to get too roughed up before her induction ceremony, would we?" She winked at the reporter. "Besides, everyone knows a good brawl sells tickets. Maybe the fans secretly loved it."

"Do you regret your actions?"

Brooklyn's gaze turned steely. "Not a chance," she declared. “I may not have won today, but I got Hannah exactly where she needed to be – a reminder she’s not always going to be on top. Consider it a courtesy ride straight to the Hall of Fame, of yours truly."

She winked again, a victor basking in the aftermath of a very unconventional victory. The fight might have been a mess, but in Brooklyn's mind, she'd emerged the champion of chaos.