@Truloo's flashfic
The champion is a compact, tightly-muscled American, every inch of him a weapon. A former SEAL. A twenty-year veteran of underground fighting, undefeated for 62 matches. Dude barely reaches the challenger's tits. She towers over him head and shoulders, her frame eclipsing his. She's been undefeated in her first four matches. This is her fifth.

The instant the fight begins, the champion lunges for her, erupting into a withering volley of punches. She turns and puts her massive biceps directly in the path of his blows, shoulder-checking him mid-attack, her massive bulk driving him back while absorbing every hit. He tries to swing high, to duck underneath her guard, but she's too close. Far too close.

One hit is all it takes to end this dude's career. Poor guy never stood a chance. And probably won't ever have kids.

As the announcer drones on she turns, looks right at you, and gives you a puppy-dog wink, sweat drenching her face.

Celt's Cause

@Truloo's flashfic
Every part of you feels like sand. Your legs threaten to collapse under you as you take each stride. Your arms barely move on their own. Your lungs burn, and all you can concentrate on is the count.

One, two, in -- a shudder, a rush of tiny, icy relief, then a flaming explosion of pain, from every muscle, every nerve. Three, four, out -- shudder again, sounds drop away. You feel in your head, in your ears, rather than hear the next two impacts of your feet. The feet themselves were numb an hour ago. One, two, in. Three, four, out. Ringing. Pounding. The shudder.

Your vision is focused squarely on the ground, staring at the pavement to place each footfall. A droplet of sweat burns the corner of your eye. You raise your head unconsciously as you wipe it away, blinking through the everything-pain and trying desperately to keep your breathing steady. Suddenly hearing rushes back. A roar, like a crowd. You stumble as you realize the finish is barely a block away. "No," you croak, and the pain vanishes, and your body explodes, driving you across the finish in a numb whirlwind of memorized motion. The breathing happens on its own. You couldn't stop your legs if you tried.

Your feet cross the line but you can't slow down, and then a moment later you're tipping sideways, sliding, you get one staggering foot under you but the leg has no strenth left. You feel the knee collapse, and then a towering, dripping pillar of muscle catches your elbow one-handed and hauls you upright. The water-bottle in her hand looks miniscule by comparison. "Great final sprint!" She beams at you. "Want a drink?"

Celt's Cause