#fightclub31

[theundergroundlondon]

VITALY SELEZNYOV (RU) VS. PARK SEUNG-HYUN (GB)

From the first punch to land, it was abundantly clear that the fighters were not particularly well-matched. Despite the Russians cheering on their man as loyally as any other, it was not enough to carry him through the fight with the only man in Lara’s arsenal whose reputation rivalled Daryani’s. With speed as terrifying as his brute force, Seung-hyun dispatched his opponent quickly, cleanly, and with comparatively little effort to those who fought in the ring before them. It was enough to give many in the crowd pause, and a new person for the other fighters to fear facing at some point in the future. 

At least the Russian was able to exit the ring of his own accord.

Perhaps, an act of mercy.

[varden-lefebvre]

@mobscene-starters

The glass of ice cold vodka he had pressed to his temple wasn’t offering nearly as much relief as he was hoping it would. Crowds roaring, lights overhead catching his eyes uncomfortably, all contributing to the uncomfortable aching at the back of his skull--was he really getting too old for this shit? 

Given how hard Parsons had gone down, quite possibly.

Luckily for the Frenchman, despite the fact he’d exited the ring looking like something out of Carrie, most of the wounds responsible had been superficial. Oh, he was bruised to fuck, and his headache was going to blind him tomorrow, but given his opponent’s determination to annihilate him, Varden considered himself lucky to still be coherent enough to find his way to the bar and order another drink. The fight was out of the way. He had the win under his belt. As much as he wanted to try and enjoy himself, though, there was one impending fight that still had him anxious...

As he finally settled at the bar, too exhausted to fight for the bartender’s attention, he instead took to commenting toward the person beside him: “Hope I didn’t lose you any money on my fight.” Eitan had certainly been the favourite. “Then again, given how hard that last guy went down, maybe I’m not that sorry.”

[lararutherford]

@castillo-adrian​

“You know, it’s a pity we never got to see you in the ring.”

Birthday parties truly were exhausting. Sometimes she wondered whether skipping the niceties and jumping straight into the fighting was such a bad idea. Having to split her time between so many made her feel as though she wasn’t really giving anybody her time at all; even less, the people who deserved it most. But now they had a moment. The privacy of the balcony—before the others joined them, at least—was a welcome five minutes from prying eyes, and she wasn’t planning to waste it. The kiss was brief, if only because she couldn’t help but laugh out loud at her next train of thought.  

“Then again, I think I saw Zhanna down there, somewhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have to fight her off at some point. Bonus round? My money is on her.”

[kathleenzhao]

@mrofontaine​

The night was proving to be more interesting than she’d expected.

Unlike some of the others who seemed as if they’d wandered into the event by accident, she’d been enjoying the night’s proceedings, rarely without a glass of champagne in hand, like she had many of those that’d come before. The French were also on such a high in the wake of Johnathan’s loss to Jean, that their corner of the room—the one the Vixens tended to gravitate toward naturally—was almost certainly the best place to be. Kathleen hated to admit it, but it usually was. 

When she’d spotted Olivier, sat alone, probably able to let his guard down around Delphine whilst she was perched on their literal boss, the dancer approached. Kathleen often did her rounds; talking to those who frequented the club, showing an interest, all the things that kept them sweet. It was hard to say if she felt any particular affinity toward the French Organization as a whole, but if she didn’t, they at least made it easy to pretend. With a drink in hand (though without one for the man she suspected took himself too seriously to dabble in such frivolity before an important run-in with the Russians) she lowered herself into the empty seat beside him.

“Well, you don’t look nearly as nervous for your fight as Laurent does his.” There was a fine line between confidence and complacency, though. “Really think you can ruin his winning streak over the French?”

[spencerberkeley]

@amaroadriana

It was their last chance at freedom before the doors locked, the horde was pressed into a certifiable powder keg, and they were deprived of the outside world until the sun began its ascent. Not that he minded much. Whilst he appreciated a good party and everybody knew it, birthdays were tiring. At least the start of Lara’s fight club meant that attention would swiftly switch from them, to the fighters dogging it out in the ring.

Hopefully, the spectators didn’t walk away with so many injuries, this time...

Spencer had just finished stubbing out his last cigarette of the evening when he’d spotted his best friend a few people over. If he’d had his way, he’d have preferred his actual birthday had just been spent with the important few. Adri was always one of them. Doing his best to move through the crowd undetected, it wasn’t until he was squarely behind her that he grabbed her around the waist, lifting her off the ground and pressing a string of obnoxious kisses to her cheek. 

“You’re sitting with me tonight,” he informed, finally placing her back down on her own two feet. A moment later, and he was in front of the woman, narrowing his eyes dramatically. “Birthday girl has had enough of your attention. My turn.”

[cassandra-acton]

@william-robathan​

“Looking for a posthumous ‘dumbest bitch’ trophy at the next awards?”

Well, so much for avoiding fight club this year.

If the thought of abandoning ship and leaving Spencer behind to deal with the unknown hadn’t been hard enough after last year’s fucking riot, when she’d heard William was fighting, Cassie couldn’t bring herself to skip out. They couldn’t call, they couldn’t message; he could’ve ended up slaughtered by a Russian with an axe to grind and she’d what, be sat watching fucking Netflix like nothing was wrong? The only thing worse than the anxiety of watching his fight unfold, was not knowing what was going on at all. So, there she stood, scolding him in her semi-inebriated state with no care as to who might’ve overheard their exchange about his upcoming fight.

“Did you not see what these fucking psychos did to each other last time? They could literally kill you, William. Are you out of your tiny mind? He’s a fucking Russian.”

[theundergroundlondon]

ELIJAH NABIRYE (GB) VS. GUILLAUME FOURNIER (FR)

Fresh off the (hopefully not literal) high of the previous French victory, Fournier entered the ring with an energy that would ultimately prove unmatchable for the duration of their fight. Despite the comfortable dominance of the older man, however, Nabirye was not without shining moments that had people hoping that this wouldn’t be both his first and last fight. The brawling nature of his attacks combined with a quick, well-refined defence smacked of future potential in the ring.

Eventually, though, Fournier’s experience, spanning back to an impressive record at the Porto Velho venues, was enough to carry him over the finish line in a relatively timely manner. It hadn’t been pretty, but it also hadn’t been as bloody as many of those that’d come before. The crowd seemed to have been expecting more of a battle. Content, but not fully satisfied.  

[theundergroundlondon]

EITAN COHEN (GB) VS. VARDEN LEFEBVRE (FR)

On paper, they were so evenly matched (at least in skillset) that it seemed near impossible to predict who the victor would be.

Naturally, that didn’t stop people from trying. 

The former soldier was quick to take advantage of the Frenchman’s slow start, and seemed to have entered into the exchange hoping to end it as quickly as he possibly could. The amount of time Cohen had spent in the ring compared with his opponent certainly made him seem more comfortable, but it didn’t take long for Lefebvre to find impressive stride. What was expected to be a masterclass of professional hand-to-hand soon descended into anything but. Neither man seemed interested in keeping things clean. Tensions were high, tempers seemed frayed, and the roaring of each fighter’s respective corner did little to deter them from seemingly looking for more than just a win. 

Though slightly lengthier than the fights that came before it, eventually, both men so bloodied it was hard to believe either remained on their feet, Varden mustered the energy to deliver a decisive enough blow to take both a win, and a KO. The noisy response from the crowd made it impossible to tell what he crouched down to say to his opponent before exiting the ring.

[theundergroundlondon]

ROMAN BARANOVSKY (RU) VS. OLIVIER FONTAINE (FR)

Roman had been thrilled to find out that he was fighting another Frenchman. After last year’s victory, he had upped the training. It was good on the streets, but it also kept him in shape for the big event - to make sure that the French were put in their place. Stepping into the ring, he scanned his opponent: tall, blonde, cocky. Nothing that Roman had ever dealt with before.

And being placed in the middle, he knew he was going to have to make this a show. It would be embarrassing if people were too bored to watch. So he waited, he wasn’t going to shake the man’s hand, he wasn’t that polite, and waited for the bell

-

Olivier was fighting a battle of nerves that had managed to wind itself into his core, as his feet planted onto the slightly sprung floor, a bounce to his step as eyes of cerulean blue landed upon his opponent, Roman. Instantly he fell into his usual way of checking around the room, landing upon an array of eyes trained to the both of them, sucking in a haggard breath. When he felt like he had everything mapped in his mind, he tried to centre himself once more. He had something to prove, a title to uphold and many people to impress. Taking those few steps to the middle of the ring, eyes dead on the outside. ‘’Let the games begin, Roman.’’ he calls.

-

Roman’s eyes narrowed at the Frenchman’s words. He already wasn’t a talker, so he never would have responded even if this was a regular fight; but there was something about his opponent saying his name that just made Roman’s blood boil. He flipped the man off as the fight started, turning the hand into a fist as he threw a punch aiming at the man’s throat.

-

Olivier managed to scramble back on his feet, dancing now as he hopped from one foot to the other, a beckoning smile taunting as he cocked his head to the side. ‘’That’s all we’ve got?’’ Olivier let himself freely move around the ring; Roman was unpredictable, which was what made this harder than a usual fight that Olivier may have found himself involved in. Trying to watch his body movements to see if there are weak spots; he lunges forward himself, trying to get a hook in, hoping to keep the show alive just a little longer. Anticipation was key.

-

Roman rolled his eyes at the French man - honestly wishing that he would shut up. His words in that horrendous accent just took away from the beauty of the fight - the art form that Roman had worked hard to become an expert in. Though one of the better things about Olivier being bigger is that it took that much more effort to move. Half a second more to throw a punch, take a step, everything because he had so much more body mass than Roman. He dodged the hook, and threw another punch, aiming for the man’s jaw. With a hit, it would at least get things going, and with luck, it would shut his opponent up.

-

How could he have missed that, a drop of his right arm and the connection to his jaw was almost instantaneously painful as a sound of air flew from his mouth, he stumbled back just slightly as the spinning room slowly came back into focus and for the first time the nerves were gone from Olivier as the anger ignited deep within the pit of his stomach? This was now pure rage, but amidst that, the pain was there creeping across the side of his face. ‘’Fuck you.’’ He spat spots of blood landing upon the floor. He beckons him with his hand, now purposefully taunting and luring. It took only a few moments as he watched the steps of his feet before he took a lunge, making his first connection with Roman.

-

He was angry - which was what Roman had wanted. People were more prone to mistakes when they were angry, when they let emotions run their fight. it was a great way to see a person’s weaknesses. They tended to be more prominent when they were acting on emotion. Was it the same for everyone? No. But Roman had fought enough people to see the trend. Roman smirked at the blood on the floor, he always as a fan of making his opponent bleed first. 

The lunge caught Roman off guard - he didn’t expect a man of that size to move that fast, but it was a learning experience. Enough of one that he could see what Olivier did and adapt, not to leave that kind of opening again. He felt his nose crack, and the blood seep down, and while he knew that Vika would be annoyed that his nose was inevitably broken. He moved back, walking around the ring for a moment, looking for a weak spot, before quickly turning on his foot, going to try and kick in the man’s knee. 

-

The sound of a crack and the sight of gushing blood gave him the dose of confidence he’d been sourly lacking throughout the day, as he hopped from one foot to the other. In his time training they’d always told him to be light on his feet, for a man of his statue he needed to be able to move around in order to get his attacks in from different positions and angles. Seeing that he’d finally managed to land one on Roman, the crowd was a battle crowd — screams for both their names could be heard from each side. He was sure Evelyne was watching somewhere; he didn’t have time to look.

But his moment was fleeting as he felt the world slip from beneath him as he hit the deck with an almighty crack. His knee was most likely out of place, as cerulean eyes looked for a second and tears welled in his eyes — the pain was almost unbearable as he let out what could only be described as a feral animal growling in the face of danger. He would not cry. Instead he let his mind go his job, there is always a way out, he thought. He saw it straight away like it’d been staring him in the face, Roman’s leg. Reaching out he took no time to grab both his hands around Roman’s ankle as he yanked it from beneath him, the thud satisfying. 

‘’If I go down, you come with me mother fucker.’’

-

How the fuck does this asshole keep talking? 

Roman thought to himself, pain radiating through his body as he hit the hard floor. It took a second to recalibrate and work through is body. He didn’t think there were any major injuries, though he was sure to be bruised not that long after the fight. But Roman didn’t care about that. Glancing at his opponent, he noticed the tell-tale signs that Olivier’s knee was dislocated. The man wasn’t getting back up. 

It was Roman’s time to shine. 

Rolling over, he straddled the man’s chest, and began punching. With the height difference gone, and Roman with the advantage, his aim was the man’s face. It would only be a few more punches before the man was unconscious - and Roman would no longer have to hear his annoying banter anymore. 

-

It only took a few seconds before the weight was on top of him, each hit sending a searing shot through his head, sure enough the damage would be lasting. His knee added to the pain that was mounting up as each second passed, he was grasping for anything he could get his hands on; Roman was prepared and way too powerful. Olivier knew there was no way he was going to be able to get back up on his feet at this point, trapped beneath him and struggling to move. THINK. His mind was screaming as another hit pushed his thought process to halt for just a second, he managed to open an eye that was already beginning to close up. The eyes. 

His eyes. 

It was like a new lease of life had been poured into Olivier, a new found strength as he reached up with both hands quickly, thumbs heading towards Roman’s face, just one kick move and his thumb had jabbed into the left eye, and the right just a few seconds after. He screamed in anger, pain and emotion as he used every ounce of strength he had left to push inwards. ‘’I hope to god I fucking blind you, you absolute russkaya pizda.’’ Using the Russian language to hurl his insult to the other male.

-

Roman had assumed that the fight was over. It was cocky, but normally people in Olivier’s position didn’t keep fighting. So when the man’s thumbs were in Roman’s eyes, it took him by surprise. The pain rushed through his eyes, through his brain, and when he pulled away it didn’t disappear. HIs eyes watered and his vision went blurry. And that was the point that Roman knew he had to finish it. 

Even with blurry vision, the man’s face hadn’t moved. And Roman’s punches were coming faster, with more intensity. It took a second for him to realize that Olivier was unconscious - that he had most definitely won. Roman got up, but there was something that still stayed with him. The talking, the bastardization of his mother tongue, just the general arrogance of the French. And with an evil, monstrous grin, he stomped as hard as he could on the man’s throat. Hard enough that if there wasn’t damage to his larynx Roman would be legitimately surprised. 

Maybe that would finally shut him the fuck up. it was at least worth the shot as he left the man on the floor of the ring. 

[theundergroundlondon]

THIERRY VENDROUX (FR) VS. MAKSIM KURYLENKO (RU)

Thierry Vendroux was not a foe to underestimate. Big, mean, and practically undefeated. But, after the embarrassment that was fight club last year Maks was not going down easily. He got in one last stretch of his arms and wiped his face down with the towel before going and taking his place with his arms up and ready. The referee signaled the start of the fight and Maks swung at the Frenchman's head.

-

Thierry had been quite eager for a new fight. He knew he had taken the last one far too easy and had allowed himself to be defeated by someone he still to this day knew he could’ve beaten. Yet he hadn’t taken the fight seriously enough. He hadn’t trained. And while he had certainly trained for this fight, there was still a shred of doubt in his mind. He may not have taken it quite seriously enough, especially with how distracted he had been recently. But that would all be a problem for the Thierry at the end of the fight, right now, he had to do what the Thierry at the start of the fight was worried about. Which almost as soon as the fight was signaled to start seemed to be a fist coming for his head. Foregoing the opportunity to block or dodge the punch, Thierry instead moved forward, knowing he would feel the punch in a second but taking the opportunity to throw a punch of his own at the other man’s liver.

-

Maks’ fist collided with the Frenchman’s jaw in a sharp uppercut. The leather wrappings Vika gave him lessened the sting and he drew his hand back for another punch just as his opponent landed a punch of his own. Maks grunted as a sharp burst of pain radiated through his abdomen. Clenching his teeth, he fired off a quick one-two at Thierry’s gut and lungs.

-

Okay so the whole idea of the best defense being a good offense was not seeming to work out for Thierry. Or at least, that was what the little voice inside his head started seeming to say as his head snapped upwards from the uppercut. As his head popped back into place though, he noticed the two punches coming for his body. He quickly moved to the side, trying to avoid the majority of the punches and forcing them to glance off him as he retaliated with a left hook, now that his opponent was closer to his left hand.

-

It was only sheer luck, and the thought of what Vika would do to him if he broke his nose for a fourth time, that Maks stepped back and out of range of the uppercut, though he could feel the rush of air from the fist against his nose. He followed up with another uppercut followed by a jab to the ear with his off hand. The time for playing was over and he was determined that the Frenchman would go down before he did.

Thierry fell to the ground and Maks hovered with his fists at the ready in case his opponent felt inspired by an earlier fight and started getting ideas about a second wind. But the Frenchman stayed down and rather than elation, his victory simply left Maks with a sense of relief. Without another word he turned and climbed out of the ring, all while searching the crowd for his sister’s face. At least she couldn’t give him shit about another broken nose. 

[theundergroundlondon]

JEAN PALFROIX (FR) VS. JOHNATHAN PARSONS (GB)

Jean hopped in place, his weight shifting from one foot to the other was his arms swung in front of and then behind his body, his gaze never wavering from his opponent. The first time he’d heard of Lara Rutherford’s fight club, he couldn’t help but scoff. It seemed like nothing more than a chance for eager young peacocks to strut their stuff and pretend to be the baddest bastard in town. His fighting had always had a purpose, whether it be survival or dominance, never just fighting for the sake of fighting. Elliot was the one who truly excelled and thrived in the ring….until he didn’t. And now, well Jean finally understood the rush and excitement of the ring.

Johnathan Parsons was not a man Jean had the pleasure of facing face to face, but his reputation preceded him. It didn’t take much to get his blood boiling these days, but his connection to Lara Rutherford, the slaughter in Porto Velho, and Théo’s coma did the trick quite nicely. The bell rang and Jean was off with two quick but forceful jabs to his opponent’s chest.

-

He circled the Frenchmen, a wolf about to sink his fangs into a lamb.

That wasn’t to say that Jean was defenseless, no. Though respect for the St. Clair Organization wasn’t an asset that Johnathan exhausted regularly––if at all––he wasn’t naïve enough to underestimate them in the ring. They could throw a good punch, knew how to hit where it hurt. And that was exactly how Johnathan wanted it. He wanted the pain, the adrenaline, the dirty fighting that would leave them both with nasty injuries.

For months now, Johnathan had been harboring rage within that he had yet to express. So many things he kept quiet about, kept biting his tongue––for the sake of a relationship he had ruined and now attempted to rebuild. In the ring, he could allow this to surface, to be released in the form of punches that would be relentless.

Jean had age and agility on Johnathan, and this, he knew. The man was quick to jump the Rutherford boss when the bell rang, and Johnathan took a defensive position until he found an opening in which he could break the attack and step in. What Jean delivered, Johnathan returned in kind, his punches connecting with Jean’s chest, looking for an opportunity to go for his abdomen.

-

Jean wasn’t dumb enough to underestimate Johnathan Parsons, despite his age. Reputations grew for a reason and Johnathan’s as a monster preceded him, even before the shit war that he started. Getting in quick and moving as much as he could before Johnathan could build up a solid hit was the only way to take advantage of the slight edge his age afforded him. Which unfortunately didn’t mean he wouldn’t take hits.

The hit connected with the center of Jean’s chest, sending him stumbling back a couple steps. He gritted his teeth and pulled his hands back up into a defensive position. One leg crossed over another as he circled the other man, never turning away or taking his eyes off of him. His eyes scanned for a weakness, any weakness before his arms shot out hoping to connect with Johnathan’s shoulder in a quick, percussive series of blows.

-

Every blow Jean landed enraged Johnathan more, a build up that was exponential and would eventually boil over. The older man snarled, upper lip curled in anger, as he tried to block Jean’s blows in vain. They connected with his shoulder, send Johnathan stumbling back and throw his footing off enough for him to have to dodge the next few attacks. Only once he was steady again did Johnathan go in again, this time with such ferocity that it should catch Jean off guard.

Johnathan struck his opponent, again and again, not letting up until he found that perfect opportunity he was waiting for. Wherever he could hit, he did, his fists connecting with flesh, bones, whatever Johnathan could reach.

-

The rhythm of the fight was emerging, and Jean went along with the symphony of blows and dodges with what would have been a smile on his face if he wasn’t focused on one thing and one thing only. Johnathan’s stumble threw off the rhythm for just a moment, but Jean recouped enough to continue on with his timing….until Johnathan struck.

The force he’d been so desperately trying to stop his opponent from building up was in every blow. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t remain sturdy and unwavering against the barrage, stumbling back with his arms held up in a futile attempt to stop Johnathan’s hands from landing. In a brief break from blows, Jean swung for Johnathan’s nose, but Jean miscalculated and his swing went wide, leaving him open and vulnerable for just a millisecond.  

-

And there it was.

Johnathan didn’t hesitate for even a moment to abuse Jean’s mistake. He saw it, saw how he left himself wide open, and went in for. He ducked the swing, came back up from under Jean’s arm, and let his fist connect with the other’s jaw. One uppercut was enough to catch the Frenchman off guard––the second punch was what broke the bones.

More than hearing it, Johnathan felt how the bones gave way under his fist. He had done it so many times, he knew the sensation. He grinned, pleased with himself. And because he was a ruthless man, because he learned to fight dirty in order to survive out on the streets, he delivered a third blow to Jean’s broken jaw.

For good measure.

Johnathan would only be satisfied when Jean spat blood.

-

Merde.

The first hit wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t the first time a man’s fist came in contact with his jaw and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But the second punch. Jean saw Johnathan’s arm swinging towards him and heard the sickening crunch of bone before he registered the pain the started in his jaw and radiated out through his entire body. It took all of Jean’s energy to stay standing through the pain.

The third blow sent him to his knees with one hand stabilizing him, but not before spitting a mouthful of blood (and one tooth) directly at Johnathan’s face on his way down. Jean breathed heavily before looking up and seeing himself level with Johnathan’s knees. In one fluid moment, he swept his leg around and wrapped it behind Johnathan’s knee and tugged the leg back towards him and out from beneath Johnathan.

-

It was completely his own stupidity to not expect the unexpected. All these years spent in Lara’s ring, and he chose to not see this coming. Perhaps his reputations, the wins under his belt, had made him cocky––even more so than he already was. He should’ve stepped aside immediately instead of enjoying the view of Jean brought to his knees. But he stood there, blood all over his face, and gloated a second too many.

The dull, harsh contact of the floor against his back literally knocked the wind out of Johnathan. He could hear himself gasp, his chest tight with the desperate need for air, and for a moment––a long moment that left him vulnerable––he couldn’t move.

-

This was his chance. His only chance based on the pain radiating through his jaw. The moment Johnathan’s back hit the ground, Jean was on top of him, throwing punch after punch at his already tight chest, one after another until his own energy ran out and he was climbing, or was he pulled, off of the other man.

The adrenaline of the fight was wearing off and Jean stumbled to the edge of the ring, holding on to the ropes to hold himself up before he crumbled to the floor once again.