SS21 - Death Bunny vs Rebecca Tomko

Death was as unaccustomed to being manhandled as the general audience was to witnessing it transpire. The Grim One practically, and appropriately, was all but dead weight upon being savagely rammed and squished into submission from Rebecca's titanic embrace as she further sagged against Tomko, breathing lightly against her shoulder in the uncomfortably romantic position. A testament towards The Enforcer's brutal strength if their ever was one, and yet one that was circumvented immediately by Tomko hefting D.B. to be slung midsection first over her shoulder like a sack of undead potatoes. Death huffing out an exhaled pant with half-lidded eyes and supple backside right beside Beck's head, a flaccid limpness to her limbs aside from an errant hike to one of her legs that was more adorable than anything else.

Impractical as it may seem, downtrodden times like these definitely called for optimistic viewpoints. Scarce though they were to ascertain considering she'd just been squeezed into flaccid gelatin by a two hundred and forty pound behemoth seemingly more intent on brutalizing her adversary than actually scoring the dub. A theory Death postulated whilst still in the unflattering position of being slung over The Enforcer's shoulder like a bunny-eared bale of hay. Fans taken aback from never having witnessed the brawler overpowered to this degree...and this was before being unceremoniously discarded onto the sandy flooring.

Death would have...really, appreciated it if management hadn't skimped on the beach sand considering it would have cushioned her plummet substantially as she languished at Tomko's feet. The props department, at General Manager Maximillian's request for utmost authenticity, having taken his unorthodox insistence to heart with tiki torches littered about, tropical lighting, and indeed a stacked fridge showcasing beverages for teetotalers and hard drinkers alike. However, unbeknownst to Rebecca a wooden oar would be ominously overseen rising above her from behind before being thwacked down by a seething bunny girl making practical usage of the scenery.

Unaware and altogether uncaring that thwacking people upside the head with a wooden oar was practically a hallowed Summer Splash tradition at this point, Death peered down at what was now nothing more than firewood in her hand and indifferently chucked over her shoulder. Death breathing hoarsely and with a sweat sheened perspiration thanks to being unwillingly squished like a bunny-eared tube of toothpaste within Rebecca's unrelenting embrace. Not that she ever wondered, but there's less of a debate than ever now in terms of why she's called the Big Guns.

Death gathered herself as best she could and started arranging her tasks in terms of priority. Firstly, she'd saunter towards the bar and nimbly spring over towards the other side. Helping herself to whatever lager Maximilian ponied up for authenticities sake, gulping down the frosty brew before slamming down the mug with a hearty exhale. Secondly, approaching the waylaid enforcer and twisting herself around by her shoulder. Death clutching into Rebecca's chin with her upraised arm proceeding to attempt her Ten Bells series of battering pummels before releasing her.

Death relinquished Rebecca once the tenth bell chimed via countdown from the raucous audience, although she started vaguely reminiscing about performing this exact same maneuver in actual beer soaked bar brawls. Deja vu beginning to creep in thanks to exchanging fisticuffs in this specific set decoration as The Murder Rabbit hopped over the bar table once again. Nothing like a refreshing pint of lager to get Death in the mood for a donnybrook, and she sought to capitalize on a beleaguered Becks in as definitive a manner possible. If the enforcer recouped in a timely manner, she might notice her head being snugly affixed between Death's powerful thighs. Accompanying this was the swelled softness against Beck's back and hugging waistlock further hinting at the Reaper's Gravestone Piledriving intentions...

An abundance of overconfidence tended to be one symptom of drinking like a fish. Hence why sauced up average slobs start brawls with tattooed bikers who can, and invariably do, end up exiting them out the pub with their face being used to open the door. Now while Death certainly hasn't imbibed enough liquid courage to disorientate her sensibilities to that intoxicated degree, it may have contributed to the Reaper's decision making and ironically titled downfall. An unforgiving steel floor still laid buried beneath the patches of sand. Rebecca's muscled physique potentially tacking on extra kayoing impact. Death mentally prepping herself for the piledriving feat of strength by huffing out against the warmth of the Ebon Amazon's sweat soaked back...but instead gawking with widened eyes when noticing the unsettling weightlessness that came afterward. One gasped yelp and flail of her legs later, Death would be frightfully slammed spine first over the bar. Mouth agape in wordless anguish and swelled bosom puffed up as she opted to just...stay here for now.