Series: shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.
Socials/Tip Jar: linktr.ee/TheCelticFire
Sora AI Video: 1
When
men stepped into the ring, a certain understanding that normal
socially unusual (and sometimes batshit insane) mentalities were
accepted here. You understood pain was weakness leaving the body, you
understood bruises were badges of honor, broken bones were temporary
inconveniences, blood came as easily as sweat, and you never half
assed anything. Here boys became men. That's why CelticFire
didn't question the man on the other side of the ring. His smaller
(muscle) size didn't manner, his lack of experience didn't matter. He
manned up and entered the ring, so no matter what, he earned some
respect.
Now it was time to earn some more.
With the lights above the ring blazing hot, two ants stood below ready to dance the violence dance. Many of the men in the gym had stopped their workouts to watch the fight, enjoying the social experience of it all. The crowd swelled in dozens of voices, but all of it, every sound, every face, every emotion on display, blurred into a dull hum for Dante. They, and all of it, was just background noise. He stood in his corner, shoulders twitching with nervous energy, he tried to calm himself. Gloved fists tapping against each other like he was trying to coax the courage out of them, he still tried to calm himself. He was far to excited for this fight, far to nervous, far to everywhere.
“Keep your hands up!” his friend turned corner man barked, tugging at his mouth-guard. “He’s not here to dance with you.”
“I dunno?” Dante quipped, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I brought my best two-step. Think he likes salsa?”
Across the ring stood CelticFire, or Celtic for short. He was a wall of muscle and menace. His skin, haired not smooth like Dante, was leathered with age and lined with ink. Previous battle scares danced around Gaelic knots coiled across his arms, chest and ribs, telling tales only fists could read. He didn’t bounce. He didn’t blink. He just waited, still and terrifying, like the moment before a wave crushes you. This was a man who enjoyed the fight, but did not let it control him.
The bell rang, the battle was joined.
Dante surged forward, light on his feet, ducking low, testing with a jab. Celticfire swatted it aside like it was an insult. Dante grinned, circling. “What do you call a boxer who makes pancakes?” he called out. Celticfire narrowed his eyes.
“A whisk-taker.”
