Post by hawkeye on Aug 15, 2019 1:31:16 GMT
With the Sweethearts repelling Diamonds and Pearls at Summer Swelter, many of the ‘new blood’ teams that could be and were considered the pick of the litter among challengers have already been swept aside by the most beloved tag champs perhaps ever.
It makes the FAWNatics usual rumble of nervousness prior to a title match all the more pronounced.
Who would the champs select or, if the choice didn’t fit Bethany’ Christian’s bill, who would be assigned?
‘Hearts wait with eagerness and not a little trepidation literally and figuratively as the countdown to arrival is on. The sound of a voice through the PA system sends each fan in the house to the edge of their seat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is for the FAWN Tag Team Championship! Introducing first, hailing from Galway, Ireland, weighing in at a combined total of two hundred and fifty-five pounds, they are former Tag Champs, Maeve and Moira…the Ríúil KAAAAAAAAAAAANES!”
Celtic pipes waft through the arena's sound system, but it quickly morphs into an electronica beat as the curtain tears open, the spotlight fixing upon the two women who emerge.
MAEVE KANE
MOIRA KANE
Back to the future continues as the return of Shea London and the success of Red Lisa might have been considered a heralding of Ireland’s Greatest Export.
The elder Kane, Maeve, is clad in a hunter green one-piece which hugs her lush curves and pushes up her impressive 36DD’s, while her sister Moira (an "Irish twin" at a mere 10 months younger), is garbed in a two-piece ensemble that was of a darker shade of green than that of her sibling, but likewise highlighted her not-unimpressive 34D’s.
The Irishwomen stride to the ring exuding nothing but absolute confidence. They’ve faced...and beaten...the best teams in the sport and it’s obvious they are bound and determined to do the same again tonight.
The more observant in the crowd notice not only has Maeve kept her more recent golden tresses but has cut them into a flirty bob that surely has a certain Hawkeye crying about copycats, though Kane’s mane isn’t quite as short and is not the silvery blonde of the Platinum Pixie. Moira remains with her classic long honey-gold locks.
Climbing the steps to the apron, the Kanes demand the referee sit on the bottom rope and open the cables for them. This he does, begrudgingly. Moira and Maeve step through and into their squared circle.
If their foes hadn’t been America’s faves, the Kanes might have received a more positive reception, but the crowd buries them with boos when Maeve raises her fists and Moira jumps to the middle turnbuckle of one corner, holding her arms wide to encourage and absorb adulation.
Receiving precious little love from Orlando save for a few foreign nationals in for a trip to Disney World and it’s more exciting counterpart, FAWN Arena, the Kanes sneer at the easily duped, Guinness-hating Floridians. The Riuls meet in the middle and share a hug.
It’s clear the opinions of these slags don’t mean a thing to the Celtic warriors and, if the throngs are even more upset at the end of the night, it could only mean the Kanes had become FAWN Tag Team Champions a record FOURTH time, lapping the field, the Mitchell Sisters next closest with two.
Maeve and Moira choose their corner of choice, each turning with a predatory look in their eyes, awaiting the now proven but still questioned champions.
But instead of the arrival of the title holders, ‘Fancy’ by Iggy Azalea and Charli XCX pumps through the speakers, jaws dropping throughout the arena. With the imminent arrival of Hot&Bothered, the crowd usually unleashes its heavy artillery of jeers on the Corps’ former traitorous leader and her big booty-ed backup, but they can’t believe their ears enough to verbalize.
Nor their eyes it seems when, behind the first chords of the hip-hop anthem, the Pleasant Valley Pariah strides to center stage, confident smirk in place despite her harrowing surrender to Cynthia at Swelter. Somehow, Sanders’ bankability entered into whatever equation Christian whiteboarded, as there was no way in heaven or hell, the Sweethearts requested this herculean task.
Vanilla is flanked by her partner J-Dogg, the principal combination of Hot&Bothered back in place after Kylie’s temporary successful dalliance with cousin Kristy.
KYLIE SANDERS
JASMINE WASHINGTON
Sanders sports her unique, multi-strapped yellow-gold sports bra topside with black boy-cut shorts, black boots and pads.
(https://www.yandy.com/Multi-Strapped-Microfiber-Sports-Bra.php )
On the FAWNtron behind her, ‘‘VANILLA CHILL IN DA HOUSE BYTCHES!’ appears in ten-foot high, gold letters. Jasmine shows off her teammate and legendary FAWN original as if presenting her with a grander flourish will melt the icy hearts of the fans. No such luck.
The FAWNatics finally unleash their hatred on the duo at earsplitting levels, the arena air reverberating with the decibels.
After an embrace, J-Dogg flashes signs and shakes dat ass as she leads the team in a march to the squared circle.
Dressed in a tiny black hoodie, (black version of the following: i2.photobucket.com/albums/y32/biggerb/Jasmine-clothing.jpg~original ) the Dogg snaps her head back to clear the hood and her shoulder-length ebony locks behind.
Beneath, the woman wears camo boy-cut trunks (http://s2.photobucket.com/user/biggerb/media/Jasmine-clothing%20below.jpg.html ) which accentuate her bootylicious backside. Below are black pads and boots.
Reaching the ring, she waggles her way around as if she owns the place, her face only turning sour when shying away from the extended hands of the crowd.
Neither does Vanilla Chill bother with the lowlifes on the rail as the women take a lap around the empty ring, grinning up at the Kanes who seem more disappointed than surprised. Maeve puckers and pushes her gurls together, pointing her cavernous cleavage in Sanders’ direction. Ky scrunches her nose, doing her best not to look impressed at the weaponry.
Meeting at the steps, Jas leads the Platinum Pixie up. Washington sits on the middle strand, pushing up the top to make plenty of room and Sanders steps through, extending her record of most FAWN matches in company history by one more.
J-Dogg joins her partner in crime, both women moving to the middle, the crowd still thrown off their game enough no ‘TROLL’ chant is forthcoming.
“…and the second team in tonight’s Triple Threat Elimination match…from Da Space where Da Man ain’t got no place…weighing in at a combined 237 pounds…Vanilla Chill…Kylie Sanders; J-Dogg…Jasmine Washington…HOT & BOTHERED!”
The second set of challengers ease into a backpedal to their corner, apparently no pronouncements from the Platinum Pixie tonight other than unamplified derision at Maeve for trying to rip off her look…badly.
With two sets of foes situated, the commissioner apparently determined to not have the Sweethearts as champs heading into FAWNamania, the crowd explodes with excitement as Taylor Swift’s ‘Style’ washes over the assembled.
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CmadmM5cOk )
A moment later, a stunning, dimpled platinum blonde bursts through the curtains, the crowd raising the decibels to outrageous levels.
CHARLIE DAWSON
The grappler raises a gaudy gold belt high with one hand and cups the other to an ear, daring the throng to get louder and, when the blushing blonde drops to one knee to show the capacity crowd her partner standing behind, they manage to make it happen.
The frenetic Lil’est Mitchell, tag belt around her slender waist, waves her arms upward, beckoning the FAWNatics to keep the love coming. Charlie, having strapped her belt in place, raises her hands high and the babyfaced brunette laces fingers with her fellow Sweetheart.
SKYLAR MITCHELL
Skye pulls her partner up and they pivot into an adorable hug, their foreheads pressing together, words exchanged under the roar of the crowd, the beloved duo no doubt acknowledging what a ride it’s been from lovable losers to FAWN’s top team and the incredible task awaiting them tonight.
The ring announcer makes the gravity of the situation clear, raising his voice over Tay-Tay’s.
“And their opponents, at a total combined weight of two-hundred and twenty-six pounds ... Charlie Dawson... Skylar Mitchell, you know them, you love them, you can’t love without them...the FAWN Tag Team Champions…AMERICA’S SWEETHEARTS!”
Charlie and Skye break from their huddle and head for the ring, blonde and brunette making it a point to slap EVERY single hand offered their way, becoming the title holders in no way affecting the love for their supporters.
Reaching the squared circle, the Darling of the Desert and the Carolina Cutie slide under the bottom rope, spring to their feet and unzip their hot pink hoodies, Charlie slips hers off to reveal a light blue fightin’ two piece that, in spite of its somewhat modest and innocent cut still manages to raise blood pressures. For her part, Skye sports a royal purple lycra bikini top and short shorts, with white pads and boots, the old school fans no doubt noting the distinct similarity in Skylar’s togs with the gear worn by her older sister Cynthia at the beginning of her career.
Charlotte and Skye eye both sets of challengers, some of the most dangerous and well-versed players in the game. They share a high-five center stage as their music fades.
“Guess Bethy figures she can’t beat us with our own generation, so pull in the museum pieces,” Charlie chirps, loud enough for the Kanes and Kylie to hear, the younger Jasmine brushing off their jibe as irrelevant to her.
But with a chance at gold on the line, the Riuls and Chill seem just that, the match more important than some knock from a girl who’d be sleeping in emerald-covered cleavage or be Driven into Chilly Valley.
The champs move to their corner to unclip their belts and hand over their prizes for safe keeping then take a moment to adjust their togs before intermittently stretching and nervously hopping, ready for yet another opportunity to show everyone just how far the Sweethearts have come.
It’s hardly a surprise when the presumed leaders of each team choose themselves as the women who will start the match. Champion Skylar heads to center stage, the youngest of this Mitchell generation having fully fledged into a force that requires Bethany use two legends of FAWN to unseat her and Charlie. Those cropped-cut blondes stride to a meeting in the middle, Kylie and Maeve sneering at each other as they approach the Carolina Cutie.
The bell brings the match to order but there’s no attack from any of the threesome. They stare at each other in turn. Mitchell tenses noticeably, waiting for someone to make the move, while the Hawkeye and Irishwoman, in numerous title matches through the years, remain relaxed, at least on the surface.
“Why are ya sitckin’ yur nose where it dunna belong?” Kane asks the Pleasant Valley Pariah.
“Apparently the boss wants a team someone is interested in,” Sanders responds, a smirk emerging that is promptly removed from Kylie’s cupid’s arrow lips with a nasty bytch slap from Maeve.
Ky’s head slowly returns to its previous position, Sanders massaging her reddened cheek.
“If I were as unsuccessful at singles as you and poor Moira and dedicated myself to the tag titles, you and your slag sister would never have become what you are. Be grateful.”
Kane backhands Kylie’s opposite cheek with a stinging rebuke and a shrieking Sanders immediately ducks a shoulder, wraps her arms around the waist of Kane and upends the Irishwoman, the challengers tumbling to the deck in a free-for-all, fisticuffs flying.
A bemused Mitchell watches from a few feet away as the blondes have at each other, Moira and Jasmine trying to remind their partners of the ultimate goal. But Kylie and Maeve aren’t interested at the moment.
Only when Maeve begins to get the better of Sanders, landing several right hands in succession, does Skye intervene, wrapping her hands around Maeve’s noggin and pulling her off. She spins Kane into an aptly named Irish Whip toward a neutral corner, the busty blonde turning into a back-first collision that ripples through her emerald spandex-clad frame.
Instead of following her in for a splash, Mitchell plucks Sanders off the canvas and repeats the process, Vanilla Chill SMASHING into Maeve, sandwiching Kane into the corner behind her. The blondes remain upright if somewhat dazed. They only grow more so when Skye races in after them and leaps into an avalanche splash of both veterans, burying Maeve and Kylie beneath.
As Mitchell bounces away, pumping her first to the crowd, Kylie staggers out from the splash, spinning and flopping to her back after a couple steps. Beneath, Maeve’s taken the brunt and she timbers immediately. Unfortunately, her head drops directly into the juncture of Ky’s thighs.
Sanders sits bolt upright from the unintended underhanded attack, elfin features twisted in pain, Kane’s face still buried between her legs.
A furious Sanders pushes Maeve off and tends to her crushed kitty, folding into a fetal ball as Kane flops to her back, blinking her emerald eyes wide.
On the sidelines, neither Jasmine nor Moira are nearly as amused as the crowd. J-Dogg encourages Kylie to push through her pain and the stupidity of the Riul. Moira doesn’t appreciate the Dogg’s barking and threatens to muzzle her immediately.
Wash turns to the younger ‘Irish twin’ with an ‘oh-no-you-didn’ look but Kane returns a stare decidedly confirming that oh-yes-she-did. Egos the size of Jasmine and Moira can’t abide and they charge down the apron’s edge, taking each other down with simultaneous clotheslines.
Wrecked by the impact, each flops off the thin strip of mat outside the ropes, dropping to the floor below in an intertwined heap of badassery from Hotlanta and nastiness from Galway.
Inside, the gifted brunette peels both blondes to their feet by their limited locks, Kane’s golden, Sanders’ platinum. She turns Kylie and Maeve to face each other and draws their heads back, trying to initiate a meeting of the minds. However, the challengers are able to place a braking boot against the other’s thigh to keep their craniums separated.
Thinking quickly, Skye releases her hair holds and levels dual backhand chops that blister the cleavage of each, Maeve with far more cushion, but each attack echoes its stinging result throughout the arena.
Distracted by the burning rosy welts growing on their chests, Maeve and Kylie don’t notice as Mitchell regains her handfuls of mane and by the time their heads are drawn back, they can’t react speedily enough to stop the beaming Skye from BANGNING LEGENDARY COCONUTS together. The crowd erupts as Sanders and Kane sway drunkenly from the blunt blow of forehead to forehead contact.
The blondes fall together, shoulders leaning against each other, each with a chin on the other’s nape as they remain upright in an ‘A’ frame. Showing her usual stubborn resistance, Kylie’s able to shift an arm around Maeve’s braincase in a front facelock. As she does, Chill glances up at a flash of movement from above. Skye, who’d climbed to the penthouse point of the nearest buckles is mid-flight on her way to a Missile Dropkick that hits home, striking Kylie dead between her hazel eyes.
Flattened by the impeccable aerial assault, Sanders is laid out and draws Maeve down with her in a brutal if not entirely intended DDT, sending the busty Kane into a headstand then through to a somersault that leaves her a twitching mess on the other end, starfished and semi-conscious.
Reaching their feet on the outside, Moira and Jasmine continue their war, unable or unwilling to separate, each violently tearing into the other, oblivious to the dire straits of their partners.
Meanwhile, Skye kips to her feet and excitedly strides by her fellow champ in a sweeping arc. Mitchell slaps hands and continues on toward a slowly rising Chill, timing her arrival as Kylie makes it to vertical but leaning against the ropes to stay there.
Showing the innate ability of her siblings and momma, Skye delivers Greetings From Charlotte to the already slobberknocked Sanders and Skylar’s perfectly-placed superkick sends Chill into orbit. The Platinum Princess backflips over the top rope and CRASHES to the floor, out cold before she settles on the thinly-padded cement.
Turning to the continued catfight on the opposite outskirts, the fearless Skye lives up to her name. The Carolina Cutie rushes across the canvas, leaping through the ropes to join the melee in a Suicide Dive that sends all three women into a pile of jumbled limbs and torsos.
With “HOLY SHIT” echoing through the arena, the FAWNatics chanting vociferously at Skylar’s flight and its devastating result, the Sweethearts’ legal combatant Charlie Dawson is perched and patient. Slowly Maeve struggles to stooped feet. She shakes some cobwebs and raises her head to try and find why she’s the lone grappler remaining in the ring. As she’s about to call out to Moira, the Desert Diva launches from her corner, soaring halfway across the ring, flipping mid-air as she does, to catch Maeve’s head in a ¾ facelock fly-by.
Dragging the mangled Maeve with her, Dawson lands on her backside and obliterates Kane in the process with her calamitous Charlie Cutter.
Charlie Cutter (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P53Lflg9OC0 )
Like Kylie ‘chilling’ on the outside, Maeve’s senses have been removed by the Sweethearts and, when Charlie scrambles atop the curvy Irish ragdoll left splayed on the canvas, the ref’s count is a foregone conclusion the crowd enjoys amplifying.
ONE…
TWO…
THREEEE!
As the bell tolls, Skye tears herself free of the continued three-for-all, pushing off and away from a confused Moira and Jasmine. Kane climbs to her feet, hands going to her head as she sees her sister’s stilled frame beneath the doe-eyed Charlie. Dawson rises and accepts the entering Skye into a huge embrace as the ring announcer makes the unbelievable official.
“Your winners and STILL Tag Team Champions…Skye Mitchell…Charlie Dawson…America’s Sweethearts!”
J-Dogg is at even more a loss with Kylie nowhere in sight. Some helpful and overjoyed former members of the Corps give Jasmine the bad news. She walks around the ring in a state of disbelief, finding the unconscious Chill stretched out where Greetings From Charlotte placed her.
It’d be a reasonable guess all Wash could think is maybe it’s better Kylie is blissfully unaware a Mitchell has ruined her AGAIN.
As Moira plucks an ankle of her sister from the outside and drags her comatose sibling out, ceding the ring to who could now only be considered dominant champions, the crowd roars with a furious delight. The Sweethearts enjoy their success with their supporters unabashedly stoking the fires quickly making them the biggest faces in FAWN many could remember.
It makes the FAWNatics usual rumble of nervousness prior to a title match all the more pronounced.
Who would the champs select or, if the choice didn’t fit Bethany’ Christian’s bill, who would be assigned?
‘Hearts wait with eagerness and not a little trepidation literally and figuratively as the countdown to arrival is on. The sound of a voice through the PA system sends each fan in the house to the edge of their seat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is for the FAWN Tag Team Championship! Introducing first, hailing from Galway, Ireland, weighing in at a combined total of two hundred and fifty-five pounds, they are former Tag Champs, Maeve and Moira…the Ríúil KAAAAAAAAAAAANES!”
Celtic pipes waft through the arena's sound system, but it quickly morphs into an electronica beat as the curtain tears open, the spotlight fixing upon the two women who emerge.
MAEVE KANE
MOIRA KANE
Back to the future continues as the return of Shea London and the success of Red Lisa might have been considered a heralding of Ireland’s Greatest Export.
The elder Kane, Maeve, is clad in a hunter green one-piece which hugs her lush curves and pushes up her impressive 36DD’s, while her sister Moira (an "Irish twin" at a mere 10 months younger), is garbed in a two-piece ensemble that was of a darker shade of green than that of her sibling, but likewise highlighted her not-unimpressive 34D’s.
The Irishwomen stride to the ring exuding nothing but absolute confidence. They’ve faced...and beaten...the best teams in the sport and it’s obvious they are bound and determined to do the same again tonight.
The more observant in the crowd notice not only has Maeve kept her more recent golden tresses but has cut them into a flirty bob that surely has a certain Hawkeye crying about copycats, though Kane’s mane isn’t quite as short and is not the silvery blonde of the Platinum Pixie. Moira remains with her classic long honey-gold locks.
Climbing the steps to the apron, the Kanes demand the referee sit on the bottom rope and open the cables for them. This he does, begrudgingly. Moira and Maeve step through and into their squared circle.
If their foes hadn’t been America’s faves, the Kanes might have received a more positive reception, but the crowd buries them with boos when Maeve raises her fists and Moira jumps to the middle turnbuckle of one corner, holding her arms wide to encourage and absorb adulation.
Receiving precious little love from Orlando save for a few foreign nationals in for a trip to Disney World and it’s more exciting counterpart, FAWN Arena, the Kanes sneer at the easily duped, Guinness-hating Floridians. The Riuls meet in the middle and share a hug.
It’s clear the opinions of these slags don’t mean a thing to the Celtic warriors and, if the throngs are even more upset at the end of the night, it could only mean the Kanes had become FAWN Tag Team Champions a record FOURTH time, lapping the field, the Mitchell Sisters next closest with two.
Maeve and Moira choose their corner of choice, each turning with a predatory look in their eyes, awaiting the now proven but still questioned champions.
But instead of the arrival of the title holders, ‘Fancy’ by Iggy Azalea and Charli XCX pumps through the speakers, jaws dropping throughout the arena. With the imminent arrival of Hot&Bothered, the crowd usually unleashes its heavy artillery of jeers on the Corps’ former traitorous leader and her big booty-ed backup, but they can’t believe their ears enough to verbalize.
Nor their eyes it seems when, behind the first chords of the hip-hop anthem, the Pleasant Valley Pariah strides to center stage, confident smirk in place despite her harrowing surrender to Cynthia at Swelter. Somehow, Sanders’ bankability entered into whatever equation Christian whiteboarded, as there was no way in heaven or hell, the Sweethearts requested this herculean task.
Vanilla is flanked by her partner J-Dogg, the principal combination of Hot&Bothered back in place after Kylie’s temporary successful dalliance with cousin Kristy.
KYLIE SANDERS
JASMINE WASHINGTON
Sanders sports her unique, multi-strapped yellow-gold sports bra topside with black boy-cut shorts, black boots and pads.
(https://www.yandy.com/Multi-Strapped-Microfiber-Sports-Bra.php )
On the FAWNtron behind her, ‘‘VANILLA CHILL IN DA HOUSE BYTCHES!’ appears in ten-foot high, gold letters. Jasmine shows off her teammate and legendary FAWN original as if presenting her with a grander flourish will melt the icy hearts of the fans. No such luck.
The FAWNatics finally unleash their hatred on the duo at earsplitting levels, the arena air reverberating with the decibels.
After an embrace, J-Dogg flashes signs and shakes dat ass as she leads the team in a march to the squared circle.
Dressed in a tiny black hoodie, (black version of the following: i2.photobucket.com/albums/y32/biggerb/Jasmine-clothing.jpg~original ) the Dogg snaps her head back to clear the hood and her shoulder-length ebony locks behind.
Beneath, the woman wears camo boy-cut trunks (http://s2.photobucket.com/user/biggerb/media/Jasmine-clothing%20below.jpg.html ) which accentuate her bootylicious backside. Below are black pads and boots.
Reaching the ring, she waggles her way around as if she owns the place, her face only turning sour when shying away from the extended hands of the crowd.
Neither does Vanilla Chill bother with the lowlifes on the rail as the women take a lap around the empty ring, grinning up at the Kanes who seem more disappointed than surprised. Maeve puckers and pushes her gurls together, pointing her cavernous cleavage in Sanders’ direction. Ky scrunches her nose, doing her best not to look impressed at the weaponry.
Meeting at the steps, Jas leads the Platinum Pixie up. Washington sits on the middle strand, pushing up the top to make plenty of room and Sanders steps through, extending her record of most FAWN matches in company history by one more.
J-Dogg joins her partner in crime, both women moving to the middle, the crowd still thrown off their game enough no ‘TROLL’ chant is forthcoming.
“…and the second team in tonight’s Triple Threat Elimination match…from Da Space where Da Man ain’t got no place…weighing in at a combined 237 pounds…Vanilla Chill…Kylie Sanders; J-Dogg…Jasmine Washington…HOT & BOTHERED!”
The second set of challengers ease into a backpedal to their corner, apparently no pronouncements from the Platinum Pixie tonight other than unamplified derision at Maeve for trying to rip off her look…badly.
With two sets of foes situated, the commissioner apparently determined to not have the Sweethearts as champs heading into FAWNamania, the crowd explodes with excitement as Taylor Swift’s ‘Style’ washes over the assembled.
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CmadmM5cOk )
A moment later, a stunning, dimpled platinum blonde bursts through the curtains, the crowd raising the decibels to outrageous levels.
CHARLIE DAWSON
The grappler raises a gaudy gold belt high with one hand and cups the other to an ear, daring the throng to get louder and, when the blushing blonde drops to one knee to show the capacity crowd her partner standing behind, they manage to make it happen.
The frenetic Lil’est Mitchell, tag belt around her slender waist, waves her arms upward, beckoning the FAWNatics to keep the love coming. Charlie, having strapped her belt in place, raises her hands high and the babyfaced brunette laces fingers with her fellow Sweetheart.
SKYLAR MITCHELL
Skye pulls her partner up and they pivot into an adorable hug, their foreheads pressing together, words exchanged under the roar of the crowd, the beloved duo no doubt acknowledging what a ride it’s been from lovable losers to FAWN’s top team and the incredible task awaiting them tonight.
The ring announcer makes the gravity of the situation clear, raising his voice over Tay-Tay’s.
“And their opponents, at a total combined weight of two-hundred and twenty-six pounds ... Charlie Dawson... Skylar Mitchell, you know them, you love them, you can’t love without them...the FAWN Tag Team Champions…AMERICA’S SWEETHEARTS!”
Charlie and Skye break from their huddle and head for the ring, blonde and brunette making it a point to slap EVERY single hand offered their way, becoming the title holders in no way affecting the love for their supporters.
Reaching the squared circle, the Darling of the Desert and the Carolina Cutie slide under the bottom rope, spring to their feet and unzip their hot pink hoodies, Charlie slips hers off to reveal a light blue fightin’ two piece that, in spite of its somewhat modest and innocent cut still manages to raise blood pressures. For her part, Skye sports a royal purple lycra bikini top and short shorts, with white pads and boots, the old school fans no doubt noting the distinct similarity in Skylar’s togs with the gear worn by her older sister Cynthia at the beginning of her career.
Charlotte and Skye eye both sets of challengers, some of the most dangerous and well-versed players in the game. They share a high-five center stage as their music fades.
“Guess Bethy figures she can’t beat us with our own generation, so pull in the museum pieces,” Charlie chirps, loud enough for the Kanes and Kylie to hear, the younger Jasmine brushing off their jibe as irrelevant to her.
But with a chance at gold on the line, the Riuls and Chill seem just that, the match more important than some knock from a girl who’d be sleeping in emerald-covered cleavage or be Driven into Chilly Valley.
The champs move to their corner to unclip their belts and hand over their prizes for safe keeping then take a moment to adjust their togs before intermittently stretching and nervously hopping, ready for yet another opportunity to show everyone just how far the Sweethearts have come.
It’s hardly a surprise when the presumed leaders of each team choose themselves as the women who will start the match. Champion Skylar heads to center stage, the youngest of this Mitchell generation having fully fledged into a force that requires Bethany use two legends of FAWN to unseat her and Charlie. Those cropped-cut blondes stride to a meeting in the middle, Kylie and Maeve sneering at each other as they approach the Carolina Cutie.
The bell brings the match to order but there’s no attack from any of the threesome. They stare at each other in turn. Mitchell tenses noticeably, waiting for someone to make the move, while the Hawkeye and Irishwoman, in numerous title matches through the years, remain relaxed, at least on the surface.
“Why are ya sitckin’ yur nose where it dunna belong?” Kane asks the Pleasant Valley Pariah.
“Apparently the boss wants a team someone is interested in,” Sanders responds, a smirk emerging that is promptly removed from Kylie’s cupid’s arrow lips with a nasty bytch slap from Maeve.
Ky’s head slowly returns to its previous position, Sanders massaging her reddened cheek.
“If I were as unsuccessful at singles as you and poor Moira and dedicated myself to the tag titles, you and your slag sister would never have become what you are. Be grateful.”
Kane backhands Kylie’s opposite cheek with a stinging rebuke and a shrieking Sanders immediately ducks a shoulder, wraps her arms around the waist of Kane and upends the Irishwoman, the challengers tumbling to the deck in a free-for-all, fisticuffs flying.
A bemused Mitchell watches from a few feet away as the blondes have at each other, Moira and Jasmine trying to remind their partners of the ultimate goal. But Kylie and Maeve aren’t interested at the moment.
Only when Maeve begins to get the better of Sanders, landing several right hands in succession, does Skye intervene, wrapping her hands around Maeve’s noggin and pulling her off. She spins Kane into an aptly named Irish Whip toward a neutral corner, the busty blonde turning into a back-first collision that ripples through her emerald spandex-clad frame.
Instead of following her in for a splash, Mitchell plucks Sanders off the canvas and repeats the process, Vanilla Chill SMASHING into Maeve, sandwiching Kane into the corner behind her. The blondes remain upright if somewhat dazed. They only grow more so when Skye races in after them and leaps into an avalanche splash of both veterans, burying Maeve and Kylie beneath.
As Mitchell bounces away, pumping her first to the crowd, Kylie staggers out from the splash, spinning and flopping to her back after a couple steps. Beneath, Maeve’s taken the brunt and she timbers immediately. Unfortunately, her head drops directly into the juncture of Ky’s thighs.
Sanders sits bolt upright from the unintended underhanded attack, elfin features twisted in pain, Kane’s face still buried between her legs.
A furious Sanders pushes Maeve off and tends to her crushed kitty, folding into a fetal ball as Kane flops to her back, blinking her emerald eyes wide.
On the sidelines, neither Jasmine nor Moira are nearly as amused as the crowd. J-Dogg encourages Kylie to push through her pain and the stupidity of the Riul. Moira doesn’t appreciate the Dogg’s barking and threatens to muzzle her immediately.
Wash turns to the younger ‘Irish twin’ with an ‘oh-no-you-didn’ look but Kane returns a stare decidedly confirming that oh-yes-she-did. Egos the size of Jasmine and Moira can’t abide and they charge down the apron’s edge, taking each other down with simultaneous clotheslines.
Wrecked by the impact, each flops off the thin strip of mat outside the ropes, dropping to the floor below in an intertwined heap of badassery from Hotlanta and nastiness from Galway.
Inside, the gifted brunette peels both blondes to their feet by their limited locks, Kane’s golden, Sanders’ platinum. She turns Kylie and Maeve to face each other and draws their heads back, trying to initiate a meeting of the minds. However, the challengers are able to place a braking boot against the other’s thigh to keep their craniums separated.
Thinking quickly, Skye releases her hair holds and levels dual backhand chops that blister the cleavage of each, Maeve with far more cushion, but each attack echoes its stinging result throughout the arena.
Distracted by the burning rosy welts growing on their chests, Maeve and Kylie don’t notice as Mitchell regains her handfuls of mane and by the time their heads are drawn back, they can’t react speedily enough to stop the beaming Skye from BANGNING LEGENDARY COCONUTS together. The crowd erupts as Sanders and Kane sway drunkenly from the blunt blow of forehead to forehead contact.
The blondes fall together, shoulders leaning against each other, each with a chin on the other’s nape as they remain upright in an ‘A’ frame. Showing her usual stubborn resistance, Kylie’s able to shift an arm around Maeve’s braincase in a front facelock. As she does, Chill glances up at a flash of movement from above. Skye, who’d climbed to the penthouse point of the nearest buckles is mid-flight on her way to a Missile Dropkick that hits home, striking Kylie dead between her hazel eyes.
Flattened by the impeccable aerial assault, Sanders is laid out and draws Maeve down with her in a brutal if not entirely intended DDT, sending the busty Kane into a headstand then through to a somersault that leaves her a twitching mess on the other end, starfished and semi-conscious.
Reaching their feet on the outside, Moira and Jasmine continue their war, unable or unwilling to separate, each violently tearing into the other, oblivious to the dire straits of their partners.
Meanwhile, Skye kips to her feet and excitedly strides by her fellow champ in a sweeping arc. Mitchell slaps hands and continues on toward a slowly rising Chill, timing her arrival as Kylie makes it to vertical but leaning against the ropes to stay there.
Showing the innate ability of her siblings and momma, Skye delivers Greetings From Charlotte to the already slobberknocked Sanders and Skylar’s perfectly-placed superkick sends Chill into orbit. The Platinum Princess backflips over the top rope and CRASHES to the floor, out cold before she settles on the thinly-padded cement.
Turning to the continued catfight on the opposite outskirts, the fearless Skye lives up to her name. The Carolina Cutie rushes across the canvas, leaping through the ropes to join the melee in a Suicide Dive that sends all three women into a pile of jumbled limbs and torsos.
With “HOLY SHIT” echoing through the arena, the FAWNatics chanting vociferously at Skylar’s flight and its devastating result, the Sweethearts’ legal combatant Charlie Dawson is perched and patient. Slowly Maeve struggles to stooped feet. She shakes some cobwebs and raises her head to try and find why she’s the lone grappler remaining in the ring. As she’s about to call out to Moira, the Desert Diva launches from her corner, soaring halfway across the ring, flipping mid-air as she does, to catch Maeve’s head in a ¾ facelock fly-by.
Dragging the mangled Maeve with her, Dawson lands on her backside and obliterates Kane in the process with her calamitous Charlie Cutter.
Charlie Cutter (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P53Lflg9OC0 )
Like Kylie ‘chilling’ on the outside, Maeve’s senses have been removed by the Sweethearts and, when Charlie scrambles atop the curvy Irish ragdoll left splayed on the canvas, the ref’s count is a foregone conclusion the crowd enjoys amplifying.
ONE…
TWO…
THREEEE!
As the bell tolls, Skye tears herself free of the continued three-for-all, pushing off and away from a confused Moira and Jasmine. Kane climbs to her feet, hands going to her head as she sees her sister’s stilled frame beneath the doe-eyed Charlie. Dawson rises and accepts the entering Skye into a huge embrace as the ring announcer makes the unbelievable official.
“Your winners and STILL Tag Team Champions…Skye Mitchell…Charlie Dawson…America’s Sweethearts!”
J-Dogg is at even more a loss with Kylie nowhere in sight. Some helpful and overjoyed former members of the Corps give Jasmine the bad news. She walks around the ring in a state of disbelief, finding the unconscious Chill stretched out where Greetings From Charlotte placed her.
It’d be a reasonable guess all Wash could think is maybe it’s better Kylie is blissfully unaware a Mitchell has ruined her AGAIN.
As Moira plucks an ankle of her sister from the outside and drags her comatose sibling out, ceding the ring to who could now only be considered dominant champions, the crowd roars with a furious delight. The Sweethearts enjoy their success with their supporters unabashedly stoking the fires quickly making them the biggest faces in FAWN many could remember.