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« on: July 31, 2025, 04:27:34 pm »Sin City Slugfest VI – TOURNAMENT ROUND 1
Dove Cameron vs. Ariana Grande
10-Round Boxing Match | Standard Rules |
Dove Cameron
Age: 29 — Prime fighting years — 9/10
Height: 5'2" — Slightly taller than Ariana — 7/10
Weight: 110 lbs — Slight edge in strength/mass — 7/10
Reach: 63" — Advantage in striking distance — 8/10
Stance: Orthodox — Standard, effective base — 7/10
Affiliation: The Disney Princesses — Strong camp reputation — 8/10
Fighting Style: Tactical, cerebral counter-puncher — Patient, intelligent, and calculated — 9/10
Overall: 55/70
Ariana Grande
Age: 31 — Still sharp, just slightly past peak — 8/10
Height: 5'0" — Shorter, slightly less reach — 6/10
Weight: 104 lbs — Less mass, more agility — 6/10
Reach: 61" — Slight disadvantage in range — 6/10
Stance: Orthodox — Solid fundamentals — 7/10
Affiliation: The Lost Wildcats — Fierce, aggressive camp — 8/10
Fighting Style: Fast-handed, combo-heavy — High volume, pressure-based — 9/10
Overall: 50/70
Background & Training:
Dove Cameron:
Trained in hand-to-hand combat and boxing for her work in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Descendants, with real sparring experience and tactical discipline.
6 time UCC Lightweight Champion.
Exceptional cardio and fight IQ.
Her strengths lie in movement, range control, and a crisp, punishing double jab.
Tough as nails with an iron chin and solid counterpunching skills.
Weakness: Dislikes fighting in close; struggles when smothered or pulled into fast-paced exchanges.
Ariana Grande:
A lifetime of dance training gives her elite footwork and balance in the ring.
She glides around opponents, keeping them off rhythm.
Trains in boxing and cardio conditioning for her tours; known for extremely fast hands and clean combinations.
Currently in the top 10 in the UCC Featherweight Division Her flurry-style offense—three to five punch combos delivered with precision—can overwhelm opponents before they react.
Though she lacks Dove’s reach and raw power, she makes up for it by beating opponents to the punch, using her agility and timing.
Weakness: Can be overpowered in extended exchanges; vulnerable to stiff counters if caught square.
Pre-Fight Odds & Analysis Odds:
Dove Cameron (-125)
Ariana Grande (+115)
Analysis:
This is a classic clash of styles: power and precision vs. speed and volume.
Dove Cameron holds the edge in reach, ring awareness, and raw durability. If she can keep Ariana at the end of her jab, control the pace, and force Ariana to chase, she’ll score rounds and maybe even break her opponent down by the late rounds.
But Ariana’s game plan is built on speed. Her explosive flurries and non-stop movement can overwhelm even disciplined fighters. If she stays light on her feet, cuts angles, and peppers Dove with quick combinations, she could rack up early rounds and frustrate Dove into mistakes.
Expect Ariana to dart in and out, firing sharp three-punch combos before slipping away. If Dove hesitates or throws single shots, she’ll get beaten to the punch. However, if Dove can time Ariana’s entries and walk her into a right cross or a stiff counter, she could swing momentum fast.
Prediction:
Dove by late-round TKO if she slows Ariana down and lands big counters.
Ariana by decision if she keeps her pace, stays elusive, and wins the volume game.
Stakes: A spot in the Sin City Slugfest final. Neither woman can afford a misstep.
Sin City Slugfest VII – Match Reveal
Backstage at the MGM Grand, the lights dim for dramatic effect. The arena is buzzing as the next main event is about to be announced. The camera pans backstage where Dove Cameron sits on a bench, gloved hands resting on her knees, her face still bearing the lingering bruises from her last war. Her team is quietly prepping her—wrapping ankles, taping gloves—when a production assistant enters with a clipboard and a smirk.
“It’s time,” he says, and hands Dove a black envelope.
She rips it open, curious, maybe even hopeful. She reads the name once… twice… and her face tightens.
Ariana Grande!
Dove’s lips press into a hard line. Her jaw clenches. A low, bitter breath escapes her nose.
“No. No way,” she mutters.
She crumples the paper and stands abruptly, her stool falling behind her with a clatter. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
From down the hall, a voice chimes in—light, sweet… smug.
“Well, well. Guess we’re doing this again, huh?”
Ariana steps into view wearing a cropped Sin City warm-up hoodie, her dark eyes gleaming beneath perfectly shaped brows. She’s already got her gloves hanging loose around her neck, like a predator showing off a fresh kill. There’s a slight limp in her step from their last encounter—but that only adds to the menace of her smile.
“You remember the last time, right?” Ariana says, voice dripping with sugar. “When I turned your legs into jelly?”
Dove’s fists curl.
“That was MMA,” she growls. “This is different.”
Ariana laughs. “Sure. Different gloves. Same result.”
Dove takes a step forward. Her team instinctively holds her back—not because she’s outmatched, but because they know the fire in her is about to explode. She hates Ariana. Not just for beating her in the UCC, but for enjoying it. For humiliating her in the later rounds. For the smug interviews. The grinning walkout. The way she never let Dove forget it.
“This time,” Dove hisses, “you don’t get to kick me.”
Ariana leans in, whispering with venomous delight.
“No… but I’ll still break you.”
Dove doesn’t blink. She just stares, breathing through her nose like a coiled snake, fists at her sides, heart already hammering.
The match is set. The grudge is real. And both women know—this time, only one walks out proud.
Round 1:
The bell rang, crisp and sharp.
Ariana Grande sprang forward like a dancer hitting her mark—light on her toes, gliding sideways and then backward in a graceful semi-circle. Dove Cameron took a slower step out of her corner, her feet planted firmly, hands high, chin tucked, calculating. Ariana wasn’t going to give her the center, not yet. She darted left again, her ponytail snapping behind her as she pumped out a lightning-quick jab that flicked off Dove’s guard. Another jab—then a blur of a right-left-right combo zipped toward Dove’s head.
The crowd roared. Ariana’s speed was dazzling.
But Dove didn’t flinch. She took the first glancing shots on her gloves, felt Ariana’s range, and stepped forward. Her jab was heavier, more deliberate, aimed not to score but to disrupt. Ariana ducked under one and spun left, her feet barely brushing the canvas, then shot back in—three punches to the body, rapid-fire: tap-tap-CRACK to the ribs. Dove winced, more annoyed than hurt, and fired back a brutal hook that just missed Ariana’s retreating jaw.
Dove snarled, stepping in harder. She caught Ariana’s rhythm—saw how she danced in to flurry, then danced out again. This time, Dove feinted low and when Ariana bit, Dove fired a stiff jab right to Ariana’s chest, stopping her cold for half a beat.
That half-beat was all Dove needed.
She lunged in, muscling Ariana backward with a clubbing right cross that landed high on the guard but drove her toward the ropes. Ariana slipped sideways, but Dove stayed on her, cutting off the angle and digging a left hook into Ariana’s side. The pop echoed through the arena. Ariana gasped and clinched instinctively, holding Dove around the shoulders to smother the pressure.
"Break!" the ref barked.
They separated clean.
Now it was Dove stalking forward, jabbing to the body, her feet sliding, her eyes like a laser. But Ariana wasn’t panicking—she reset, bounced sideways, then launched a clean three-punch combo—jab, cross, jab—cracking Dove’s head back just slightly.
The crowd reacted with awe. Dove reset her guard, blinked once, then smiled grimly.
Seconds left. Ariana circled, landing a few quick taps to the arms, trying to steal the round with volume. But Dove suddenly leapt in, timing Ariana’s exit path and hammering a hook to the ribs that folded the smaller fighter sideways. Ariana staggered, but kept moving, eyes wide now—respect showing.
The bell rang.
Both women returned to their corners with flushed faces and heaving chests—Dove the bruiser, Ariana the blur. Each had landed clean shots. Each had taken a few. The first round was a war of contrast—volume vs. venom, footwork vs. firepower—and the judges had their first hard call of the night.
Round 1 – Judge Scorecards:
Judge 1: 10-9 Ariana Grande
Judge 2: 10-9 Dove Cameron
Judge 3: 10-10 Even Round
Running Total After Round 1:
Dove Cameron: 9 - 10 - 10
Ariana Grande: 10 - 9 - 10
Round 2:
The bell for Round 2 clangs sharp, slicing through the electric air. The fighters surge from their corners like they’ve been uncaged.
Dove is all business now—head low, chin tucked, gloves high, stalking Ariana with crisp footwork and murderous intent. The bruises from their MMA bout still haunt her, and every punch she throws now feels personal. Ariana, light on her feet as always, jabs at Dove’s guard, testing range, smirking as she dances just outside her reach.
“You look stiff, babe,” Ariana taunts, flicking a jab off Dove’s cheek. “Still limping from last time?”
Dove answers with a hook to the ribs—THUMP—and Ariana gasps, the grin disappearing for a beat.
“That feel stiff to you?” Dove snaps, and she comes alive.
She pins Ariana with a jab, then rips a right to the belly, a left to the chest, and snaps a jab to the nose that rocks Ariana’s head back. The crowd roars as Dove presses her back, stalking her toward the ropes.
But Ariana’s not just taking damage. She’s measuring.
As Dove overextends on a right cross, Ariana dips low and counters—POP!—a clean left hook to Dove’s temple. Dove stumbles, stunned, blinking rapidly. Ariana pivots and slams a right to her ribs, then another—CRACK!—to the same spot. Dove snarls, trying to clinch, but Ariana ducks out and lands a quick left to the mouth.
“You’re already breathing heavy,” Ariana whispers, circling. “Cute.”
Dove wipes her mouth with the back of her glove, blood mixing with sweat. She grits her teeth and charges.
The next thirty seconds are war.
Leather flies. Dove tags Ariana’s jaw with a right. Ariana snaps Dove’s head back with a jab. Dove answers with a two-punch combo to the belly and breast. Ariana slaps a left across Dove’s cheek and spins out.
Then it happens.
Dove eats a sharp jab, but walks through it, throwing a hook of her own. Ariana times it perfectly—DUCKS—and fires a brutal uppercut into Dove’s solar plexus. Dove folds for half a second, eyes wide—and Ariana steps in and blasts a right cross flush on the mouth.
Dove reels back into the ropes. Her legs wobble. She’s dazed. She is in trouble, big trouble!
The ref surges in—arms out.
Standing 8 count.
Dove steadies herself in the corner, breathing hard, glaring across the ring.
Ariana bounces on her toes, hands high, smiling.
“This time,” she mouths, “I finish it standing.”
The bell sounds. Round 2 ends—but the fire is just getting started.
Judge Scorecards – Round 2:
Judge 1: 10-8 Ariana Grande
Judge 2: 10-8 Ariana Grande
Judge 3: 10-8 Ariana Grande
Running Total After Round 2:
Dove Cameron: 17 - 18 - 18
Ariana Grande: 20 - 19 - 20
Round 3:
The bell rings for Round 3, and Ariana Grande is already smiling.
She bounces out of her corner, light on her toes, confidence oozing from every motion. Dove rises slower, jaw tight, bruises blooming along her ribs and under her eye. That standing eight count still echoes in her head, and Ariana knows it.
“Still dizzy, Dove?” Ariana sings, flicking a jab to her gloves, then a snappy right that pops off her shoulder. “I warned you.”
Dove doesn’t answer. Her eyes narrow, gloves high.
Ariana circles left, feinting low before snapping another jab up top. It taps Dove’s forehead—light, almost playful. She follows with a quick one-two to the chest and a smirk. “You’re just standing there,” she sneers. “You done already?”
Dove finally lunges—catching Ariana with a hard jab that rocks her head back. The crowd erupts, sensing life from the blonde.
But Ariana grins through it.
She ducks the follow-up, counters with a hook to the body and a short uppercut to Dove’s chin. Dove’s head jerks up, legs stutter—but she stays upright. Ariana pours it on—three quick shots to the belly, a jab to the nose, then a looping hook to the temple.
Dove stumbles.
“Yep,” Ariana says, cocky now, “definitely done.”
She spins off the ropes and drives a jab between Dove’s gloves, then a left-right combo that knocks the blonde’s mouthguard askew. Blood glistens across Dove’s lips as she bites down and resets, trying to fire a right hook—but Ariana’s already ducked out again, showboating.
She sticks her tongue out. “Missed me sweetie.”
Ariana’s momentum is building now—gloves flashing, feet dancing, voice taunting nonstop. She pops a jab to Dove’s breast, another to her cheek, then whirls around with a half-turn and a grin. She’s toying with her now.
Dove’s breathing heavy, gloves sagging just a little lower.
The crowd’s split—half screaming for a comeback, half roaring in admiration of Ariana’s dominance.
But Round 3 isn’t over yet.
Dove fires a wild overhand right. Ariana steps inside it and rips a left hook to the body. Dove winces—but doesn’t back off. Instead, she answers with a gut shot of her own—THUMP—and Ariana suddenly gasps.
Both women are swinging as the seconds tick down, fists flying. Ariana seems in control—but Dove is still dangerous, still hunting that one opening. The bell rings—and both women step back, breathing hard.
Judge Scorecards – Round 2:
Judge 1: 10-9 Ariana Grande
Judge 2: 10-9 Dove Cameron
Judge 3: 10-9 Dove Cameron
Running Total After Round 3:
Dove Cameron: 26 - 28 - 28
Ariana Grande: 30 - 28 - 29
Round 4:
The bell for Round 4 echoes through the arena—and this time, Dove charges.
No hesitation. No circling. Just forward pressure and raw intent.
Ariana backpedals fast, surprised. Her showboating grin is gone as Dove barrels in, fists tight and eyes blazing. She throws a stiff jab to stop the rush—but Dove eats it and plows forward, slamming a right hook into Ariana’s ribs. THUMP. Ariana grunts, folds slightly—and Dove unleashes hell.
Left to the body. Right to the chest. Left hook to the chin. Ariana stumbles back into the ropes. Dove smells blood and goes in for the kill—digging savage hooks to Ariana’s sides, whipping her torso left and right.
“You’re not dancing now, are you?” Dove growls through clenched teeth.
Ariana’s gloves are high but shaky. She clinches—gasping into Dove’s neck, trying to tie her up—but Dove muscles free and hammers another body shot just above the waistband. Ariana lets out a choked gasp and bends at the waist.
The crowd rises, sensing it. Dove steps in—
CRACK! A brutal left hook to Ariana’s jaw snaps her head sideways.
DOWN SHE GOES.
Ariana crumples onto all fours, coughing, head sagging. The ref yells, “ONE!... TWO!...”
Dove paces in the neutral corner, breathing hard, face flushed, gloves shaking at her sides.
“Stay down,” she mutters under her breath.
But Ariana blinks. She plants a foot. Her corner is screaming. “THREE!... FOUR!...” She reaches for the ropes. “FIVE!... SIX!...” Slowly—achingly—Ariana drags herself upright.
Seven… Eight…
She stands.
Barely.
The ref checks her eyes. Ariana nods, blood in her mouth, defiance in her stare. She’s allowed to continue.
The crowd is losing it.
Dove storms in again, looking to end it—but Ariana clinches desperately, tying her up, forehead pressed against Dove’s shoulder. “You had one shot,” Ariana mumbles through blood. “You missed it.”
Dove snarls, wrenching a glove free to slam two short shots to Ariana’s belly before the ref forces the break.
Ten seconds left.
They square off—both wobbling, both raw.
Dove throws a jab. Ariana parries and counters with a slick right hook that lands square—but Dove doesn’t budge. She plants her feet and fires a straight left into Ariana’s breast that doubles her over again as the bell rings.
The crowd explodes.
Dove walks slowly to her corner, chest heaving, sweat pouring off her. Ariana barely makes it back to hers, collapsing onto the stool.
She’s still in it.
But that was Dove’s round.
SCORECARD – ROUND 4
Judge 1: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Judge 2: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Judge 3: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Running Totals After Round 4:
Dove Cameron: 36 - 38 - 38
Ariana Grande: 38 - 36 - 37
Round 5:
Ariana Grande sits on her stool, chest rising and falling quickly. Her corner wasn’t interested in pleasantries.
“You’re twice as fast as that blonde slug,” her trainer barked, dabbing her brow. “Snap that jab. Use your legs. And if you have to hit her in the **** to back her off, do it. Whatever it takes—win this damn fight!”
Ariana nodded, eyes hard now. She’d won Round 1 with a knockdown, but Dove had bullied her in Round 2 and 3—walking her down, jabbing her into the ropes, and punishing her flanks. It was time to shift the momentum.
Across the ring, Dove Cameron was calm, confident. Her corner told her the same thing they had since the fight began: “Stay tight, time her entries. She’s flinching at the feints now. Break her rhythm.”
The bell rang for Round 5.
Ariana came out blazing. Her jab flicked out with renewed purpose—snapping at Dove’s face, chest, and gloves. She was bouncing again, lighter, smarter, making Dove turn and pivot. Dove snarled and stalked, cutting off the angles, but Ariana was sharper than in the last two rounds. She tagged Dove with a sharp one-two to the mouth, then ducked low and circled away.
Dove kept pressing forward, pounding a jab to Ariana’s chest, then hooking hard to the ribs. Ariana winced, backpedaled, and lunged in again—this time throwing a looping hook that missed, followed by a short uppercut to the midsection that strayed dangerously low.
Thump.
The shot landed right on Dove’s bikini line—too borderline to be called illegal, but low enough that Dove’s body jolted. She groaned and folded forward slightly, eyes wide in shock. The ref gave Ariana a quick warning—“Watch it!”—but Dove waved it off, shaking her head and resetting.
Ariana saw her opening and pounced.
She snapped a flurry up top—jab, cross, jab—then again dropped low with a short right hand that clearly veered below the belt. This time it landed square between Dove’s legs.
Thud.
Dove gasped, knees buckling, and dropped to a crouch, her glove instinctively going between her thighs. The crowd erupted in boos and gasps. The ref jumped in immediately.
“Time! Time! That was low!” he barked, waving Ariana away.
Dove knelt, grimacing, sweat dripping down her face, one glove on the canvas, the other clenched around her midsection. Her body twisted in pain, and for the first time in the fight, her aura of control ****.
The ref issued a stern warning to Ariana and gave Dove time to recover. Ariana stood across the ring, hands on her hips, chest rising. No apology. Just cold focus.
After nearly a full minute, Dove rose, breathing hard. She nodded to the ref—ready.
The round resumed with 30 seconds left. Dove surged forward, rage in her eyes, trying to trap Ariana in a corner. But Ariana moved, danced, jabbed, staying just out of reach, stealing the last seconds with slick footwork.
Bell.
Dove stormed to her corner, jaw clenched. Ariana? She just smirked. She’d bent the rules—but she was back in the fight.
SCORECARD – ROUND 5
Judge 1: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Judge 2: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Judge 3: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Running Totals After Round 5:
Dove Cameron: 46 - 48 - 48
Ariana Grande: 46 - 44 – 45
Round 6:
The bell rings for Round 6, and Ariana is still shaky—but there’s something in her eyes.
Desperation. Fire. Malice.
Dove marches forward like a machine—intent on finishing what she started in Round 4. Ariana backpedals fast, ducking under a hook and trying to circle out. Dove cuts her off and swings for the ribs—
BAM! Ariana leaps up and drives her knee square into Dove’s groin.
Dove lets out a strangled shriek, her gloves dropping, knees buckling as she stumbles forward and collapses to the canvas, curled around herself in agony.
The ref—on the wrong side—didn’t see it. He waves it off as a clean knockdown.
“KNOCKDOWN!”
The crowd explodes in confusion. Ariana skips to the neutral corner with an innocent shrug, wiping blood from her lip and adjusting her shorts.
Dove’s corner is furious, screaming and pounding the apron, but the ref’s count goes on.
“One! Two! Three!”
Dove groans, grabbing the middle rope.
“Four! Five!”
She hauls herself up, legs shaking, one glove still covering her aching core.
“Six… Seven… Eight!”
She’s up—but just barely. The ref gives her a long look, then waves Ariana back in.
And now Ariana strikes like lightning.
Jab—jab—jab—jab!
She peppers Dove’s face with piston-like lefts, each snapping the blonde’s head back. Dove’s guard is slow, her balance worse. Ariana darts in and out, gloves flying, crowd roaring louder with every combo.
Then comes the venom.
BOOM! A jab right into Dove’s breast. Then a right uppercut to the left breast. THWACK! Another uppercut, this time straight under the right one. Dove yelps, staggering into the ropes. Ariana unloads a flurry of hooks, crosses, and uppercuts all aimed at Dove's now tender breasts.
The ref jumps in—standing eight count!
Dove sways in place, mouth hanging open, sweat dripping down her chest and arms. Ariana bounces in place, ready to pounce.
The fight resumes—and now Ariana owns the ring and she now owns Dove.
She dances forward, mocking Dove. “How’s that chest feel, princess?” she smirks, sending another jab right into the left mound. Dove winces, biting back a scream.
But the pain unlocks something.
Rage.
Dove ROARS and explodes forward, teeth gritted, arms swinging wide. She barrels into Ariana, driving her backward into the corner with a thudding left-right combo to the body.
BAM! BAM!
Ariana’s eyes go wide—surprised at the sudden surge. Dove pins her and goes wild, burying punches in Ariana’s belly and breasts like she’s trying to cave them in.
“HOW DO YOU LIKE IT?” Dove bellows, slamming another fist into Ariana’s heaving chest.
The ref rushes in—standing eight for Ariana!
Ariana gasps for air, clutching her side as the ref checks her out. She nods, insists she’s okay, but Dove’s fury has rattled her.
The round isn’t done.
They meet in the middle—and now it’s pure chaos.
Fists fly. Hair snaps back. Blood flicks from lips. They exchange brutal hooks, uppercuts, slaps to the chest, and cruel body shots. Neither of them backs down. They’re snarling, grunting, and punching past all pain and pride.
Ten seconds left.
SMACK—CRACK—POP!
The crowd is on its feet, screaming.
And still—they don’t stop.
Even as the bell rings, they keep swinging. A jab from Ariana, a hook from Dove, another uppercut—and finally, the ref has to physically shove them apart.
Both stumble back to their corners—battered, panting, and soaked in sweat.
But Ariana is smiling again.
UNOFFICIAL SCORECARD – ROUND 6
Judge 1: 9-8 Ariana Grande
Judge 2: 9-8 Ariana Grande
Judge 3: 9-7 Ariana Grande
Official Decision:
The bell had rung, the round was over, and both women looked like they'd just crawled out of a warzone.
Ariana leaned against her corner post, chest heaving, sweat pouring from her brow, gloves dangling low. Her lips were split, her breasts bruised, and her arms barely lifted between breaths—but her eyes still sparkled. She knew what she’d done that round.
Dove, across the ring, was kneeling as her team poured water over her head and massaged her throbbing thighs and ribs. Her left eye was swollen halfway shut. Her breasts bore angry red welts, and her face was a pale mask of pain and exhaustion. Still, she was sitting upright, jaw clenched, staring daggers across the ring.
The ref stood in the center with his hand out, waiting for the final scores.
But the judges weren’t ready.
Not even close.
At ringside, three men huddled, holding the scorecards like sacred relics. Judge 1 jabbed his finger at the paper, shaking his head. Judge 2 crossed his arms and leaned back, visibly disagreeing. Judge 3 tapped his pen again and again against the table, muttering.
The crowd began to murmur, the arena thick with tension.
The ring announcer approached, mic in hand, ready to read the result—but Judge 1 yanked the scorecard back, shaking his head again. The ref looked annoyed. Officials came over to hurry the process, but the judges were locked in an intense, animated debate.
The crowd started to chant.
“DOVE! DOVE! DOVE!” “GRANDE! GRANDE!”
Back and forth, tribal and primal.
Another minute passed.
Finally, Judge 3 slapped his card down, nodding once. Judge 2 followed, begrudgingly scribbling something final and handing it to the ref.
But just as the ref reached for it—Judge 1 pulled it back again, shouting over the noise. The ring announcer threw his arms up, and even Dove’s trainer was pacing outside the ropes, gesturing furiously at the delay.
Dove and Ariana were both on their feet now, breathing hard. Neither could stand straight, but neither looked ready to concede anything.
Finally—after what felt like an hour—Judge 1 scribbled one last correction, initialed it, and slapped the card into the ref’s palm.
The ref turned. Walked to the center of the ring.
The announcer stepped forward. The crowd fell to dead silence.
You could hear the heavy breathing of both fighters from the third row.
“And after six rounds of brutal action… we go to the judges’ scorecards.”
The whole arena leaned in. After 6 rounds of insane action.
“Judge 1 scores the round 55-54… Ariana Grande.”
Ariana's fans scream as she raises her hand,
“Judge 2 scores it 56-53… Dove Cameron.”
The other half of the crowd explodes
“And Judge 3 scores the round 56-54… for your winner by decision…”
Now you can hear a in drop as everyone is holding their breaths and Ariana raises her hand and is about to celebrate. . . . .
Declaring the winner by split decision—Dove Cameron!
Post Fight:
Dove threw her arms into the air triumphantly, sweat-slicked, jaw clenched with satisfaction. Half the crowd roared in support, but the other half rose in fury, raining down boos as if they could erase the verdict with volume. Dove drank it in, letting it roll over her like a champion bathed in fire.
Then—perhaps in an act of sportsmanship, or defiance—she extended her glove toward Ariana.
Ariana glared, then slapped the offered hand aside with a snarl and stormed past her. She stalked to the ropes, leaned over, and pointed directly at the judges’ table.
“Are you f$cking BLIND!?” she shrieked, her voice raw with disbelief. “Look at her! She knows she lost! Everyone knows she lost!”
She whipped her arms out wide, gesturing toward the booing sections of the crowd. “You all saw it! I landed more! I dropped her!”
"f$ck!f$ck!” Ariana screamed again, smashing her gloves into the ropes in frustration.
Dove just stood in the center of the ring, arms folded now, unmoved, letting Ariana unravel.
A chant began to build in the arena, rising from Ariana’s furious fan section:
“Recount! Recount! Recount!”
Ariana turned and raised her arms to them like a rebellion’s queen. “You KNOW I won that damn fight!” she shouted, her voice breaking.
Meanwhile, Dove stepped onto the middle rope, raising a single fist high as if daring them all to deny her. She hadn’t just fought Ariana tonight—she’d fought perception, memory, and a smirking ghost from the cage. And she’d won.
Even if half the arena refused to accept it.
Post-Fight Interview – The Disney Princesses Locker Room
The camera cut to Dove Cameron’s locker room just minutes after her split decision victory over Ariana Grande. The scene was raw—sweat still glistening on her skin, her gloves half-peeled, a towel draped over her shoulders like a battle-worn cape. Despite the chaos in the arena, Dove wore a look of cool satisfaction, the kind only earned in a brutal, hard-won war.
A reporter leaned in, microphone raised. “Dove, congratulations on the win. Split decision—how close did it feel in there to you?”
Dove didn’t hesitate. She shook her head and offered a dry chuckle. “You know what? It really wasn’t that close. I mean, credit where it’s due—Ariana’s faster than hell. I knew that going in. Took me a couple rounds to adjust to her rhythm, yeah. But once I found it? I had her. Without those low blows, I beat her clean. Easy.”
The reporter raised an eyebrow. “Let’s talk about that. You looked visibly upset when Ariana started targeting your breasts. One of those punches led to a standing eight count from the ref. Was that the turning point?”
Dove’s face hardened slightly. “She caught me clean once, I’ll give her that. Hit me square in the left breast with a quick cross. Stung, yeah. But that standing eight? That was weak. I wasn’t rocked,no doubt about it but hurt enough for a standing eight? Absolutely not. ”
She leaned forward slightly, voice sharper now. “Let’s be real—she was throwing everything. And I mean everything. Knees, low blows, borderline rabbit punches. She wanted that win so bad, she didn’t care if it was clean. You saw it. She aimed low twice. First one hit the panty line—okay, whatever, close call. Second one? Blatant. Her knee crushed me hard.”
The reporter nodded slowly. “And yet the ref let it continue.”
“Exactly,” Dove snapped. “So what are the rules then? If it’s legal to knee me in the crotch, then fine—say that. But don’t tell me afterward that it’s a fair fight when I’m dealing with that kind of garbage. That’s the ref's job,” she added, looking dead into the camera, “ref’s job—to stop that crap before it flips the fight. Ariana just plays the innocent little girl but she's a dirty little ****. Always has been, always will be.”
She sat back, flexing her fingers, wincing slightly as the trainer pressed ice to her side. “But that’s the difference, isn’t it? I didn’t have to cheat to win. I didn’t panic and start throwing illegal shots when I couldn’t land. I stayed sharp. I stayed clean. I didn't stoop to her level and get dragged into the gutter. And you know what? I still walked out with the win.”
The reporter ventured carefully, “Ariana’s accusing the judges of being blind. That you knew you lost.”
Dove smirked. “Yeah, I heard. She’s still crying like a little baby, isn’t she? You’d think with all that speed, she’d have sprinted out of the building by now. I knew I won the second the final bell rang. You don’t need to scream for a recount when you actually got dominated. Let her cry about it—me? I’m on to the finals.”
“Any idea who you'll be fighting?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. We're gong to see when the blindfolds are removed.”
Post-Fight Interview – The Lost Wildcat Locker Room
The camera caught chaos the moment it entered Ariana Grande’s locker room. The tiny pop queen—her gloves ripped off and tossed across the floor—was pacing furiously in a storm of anger, her hair frizzed with sweat, her face red, her bare chest heaving. Her team gave her space, no one daring to calm her as the reporter stepped in, mic raised cautiously like a shield.
Ariana turned on them instantly, voice already at a fever pitch.
“Oh, boo-f$cking-hoo!” she snarled, flinging a towel to the ground. “I maybe hit her low? Grow a pair and nut up, Dammit! This is boxing, not frickin patty cakes.”
The reporter blinked but kept going. “Ariana, it was a split decision—”
“SPLIT!?” she roared, stomping toward the mic, her finger jabbing into the air like a dagger. “I KICKED HER ASS! I beat her **** ass in the cage and I beat her in the ring, and what do I get? Another rigged-ass decision handed to the princess from Disneyland!”
She practically spat the next words. “I guess all that Disney money finds its way to the judges’ pockets. Who the h#ll knew the mouse had this much pull in Vegas!?”
She threw her arms up and shouted toward the ceiling. “This is a goddamn outrage! I beat her! I BEAT HER! You saw it.”
The reporter tried to inject some balance, hesitating. “Maybe not every judge saw it that way…”
Ariana froze, then turned slowly with fire in her eyes. “WHAT?” she asked, low and dangerous. “Are you seriously trying to tell me I didn’t win that fight?”
The reporter tried again, “I mean, look at the scorecards—”
Ariana snapped.
“Look at the God Damm scorecards!?” she screamed, snatching a crumpled copy from her team’s bench and thrusting it into the camera. “Right here! I out-hit her in every round! EVERY. f$cking. ROUND. I was faster, cleaner, sharper. I dropped her in the second then again in the sixth. I ran circles around her pathetic ass the entire fight! She was swinging wild and gasping by Round 6 like a drunk brawler!”
“She needed that low blow break just to survive, and I STILL kept the pressure on her.”
She turned to the wall and slammed her fist into the locker door. BANG. “What do I gotta do—kill her to get a damn win!?”
One of her coaches approached carefully. “Ari—”
“Don’t ‘Ari’ me! Not now!” she snapped, turning away. “Dove’s out there celebrating like she earned it. Please. She was covering up and backing up. The ref practically gave her a pillow and blankie every time she got touched in those oh so perfect **** of hers. Next time I'll flatten them like pancakes and **** rip them right off!”
She pointed to the reporter again. “They want to paint me as the villain? Fine. I’ll BE the **** villain. But don’t you dare say I didn’t win that damm fight. I OWNED Dove. I outclassed her. I’m sick of this Disney pageant-show BS where the plastic face wins.”
Ariana dropped into the bench, elbows on knees, still seething.
“This ain’t over. Not even close,” she hissed, barely above a whisper. “If she wants to lace em' up again
I'll be all over her. No judges. No refs. Just the two of us? I’ll finish what I started. I’ll make sure there’s no one left to raise her hand. Sh!t! I'll do it right this second if the fragile little Disney Princess wants but I think we all know the answer.”
She looked up, eyes blazing. “Tell Dove: next time, it's in the UCC cage and I'm so kicking her ass AGAIN!”
Written by the Badass Barbies.
Dove Cameron vs. Ariana Grande
10-Round Boxing Match | Standard Rules |
Dove Cameron
Age: 29 — Prime fighting years — 9/10
Height: 5'2" — Slightly taller than Ariana — 7/10
Weight: 110 lbs — Slight edge in strength/mass — 7/10
Reach: 63" — Advantage in striking distance — 8/10
Stance: Orthodox — Standard, effective base — 7/10
Affiliation: The Disney Princesses — Strong camp reputation — 8/10
Fighting Style: Tactical, cerebral counter-puncher — Patient, intelligent, and calculated — 9/10
Overall: 55/70
Ariana Grande
Age: 31 — Still sharp, just slightly past peak — 8/10
Height: 5'0" — Shorter, slightly less reach — 6/10
Weight: 104 lbs — Less mass, more agility — 6/10
Reach: 61" — Slight disadvantage in range — 6/10
Stance: Orthodox — Solid fundamentals — 7/10
Affiliation: The Lost Wildcats — Fierce, aggressive camp — 8/10
Fighting Style: Fast-handed, combo-heavy — High volume, pressure-based — 9/10
Overall: 50/70
Background & Training:
Dove Cameron:
Trained in hand-to-hand combat and boxing for her work in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Descendants, with real sparring experience and tactical discipline.
6 time UCC Lightweight Champion.
Exceptional cardio and fight IQ.
Her strengths lie in movement, range control, and a crisp, punishing double jab.
Tough as nails with an iron chin and solid counterpunching skills.
Weakness: Dislikes fighting in close; struggles when smothered or pulled into fast-paced exchanges.
Ariana Grande:
A lifetime of dance training gives her elite footwork and balance in the ring.
She glides around opponents, keeping them off rhythm.
Trains in boxing and cardio conditioning for her tours; known for extremely fast hands and clean combinations.
Currently in the top 10 in the UCC Featherweight Division Her flurry-style offense—three to five punch combos delivered with precision—can overwhelm opponents before they react.
Though she lacks Dove’s reach and raw power, she makes up for it by beating opponents to the punch, using her agility and timing.
Weakness: Can be overpowered in extended exchanges; vulnerable to stiff counters if caught square.
Pre-Fight Odds & Analysis Odds:
Dove Cameron (-125)
Ariana Grande (+115)
Analysis:
This is a classic clash of styles: power and precision vs. speed and volume.
Dove Cameron holds the edge in reach, ring awareness, and raw durability. If she can keep Ariana at the end of her jab, control the pace, and force Ariana to chase, she’ll score rounds and maybe even break her opponent down by the late rounds.
But Ariana’s game plan is built on speed. Her explosive flurries and non-stop movement can overwhelm even disciplined fighters. If she stays light on her feet, cuts angles, and peppers Dove with quick combinations, she could rack up early rounds and frustrate Dove into mistakes.
Expect Ariana to dart in and out, firing sharp three-punch combos before slipping away. If Dove hesitates or throws single shots, she’ll get beaten to the punch. However, if Dove can time Ariana’s entries and walk her into a right cross or a stiff counter, she could swing momentum fast.
Prediction:
Dove by late-round TKO if she slows Ariana down and lands big counters.
Ariana by decision if she keeps her pace, stays elusive, and wins the volume game.
Stakes: A spot in the Sin City Slugfest final. Neither woman can afford a misstep.
Sin City Slugfest VII – Match Reveal
Backstage at the MGM Grand, the lights dim for dramatic effect. The arena is buzzing as the next main event is about to be announced. The camera pans backstage where Dove Cameron sits on a bench, gloved hands resting on her knees, her face still bearing the lingering bruises from her last war. Her team is quietly prepping her—wrapping ankles, taping gloves—when a production assistant enters with a clipboard and a smirk.
“It’s time,” he says, and hands Dove a black envelope.
She rips it open, curious, maybe even hopeful. She reads the name once… twice… and her face tightens.
Ariana Grande!
Dove’s lips press into a hard line. Her jaw clenches. A low, bitter breath escapes her nose.
“No. No way,” she mutters.
She crumples the paper and stands abruptly, her stool falling behind her with a clatter. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
From down the hall, a voice chimes in—light, sweet… smug.
“Well, well. Guess we’re doing this again, huh?”
Ariana steps into view wearing a cropped Sin City warm-up hoodie, her dark eyes gleaming beneath perfectly shaped brows. She’s already got her gloves hanging loose around her neck, like a predator showing off a fresh kill. There’s a slight limp in her step from their last encounter—but that only adds to the menace of her smile.
“You remember the last time, right?” Ariana says, voice dripping with sugar. “When I turned your legs into jelly?”
Dove’s fists curl.
“That was MMA,” she growls. “This is different.”
Ariana laughs. “Sure. Different gloves. Same result.”
Dove takes a step forward. Her team instinctively holds her back—not because she’s outmatched, but because they know the fire in her is about to explode. She hates Ariana. Not just for beating her in the UCC, but for enjoying it. For humiliating her in the later rounds. For the smug interviews. The grinning walkout. The way she never let Dove forget it.
“This time,” Dove hisses, “you don’t get to kick me.”
Ariana leans in, whispering with venomous delight.
“No… but I’ll still break you.”
Dove doesn’t blink. She just stares, breathing through her nose like a coiled snake, fists at her sides, heart already hammering.
The match is set. The grudge is real. And both women know—this time, only one walks out proud.
Round 1:
The bell rang, crisp and sharp.
Ariana Grande sprang forward like a dancer hitting her mark—light on her toes, gliding sideways and then backward in a graceful semi-circle. Dove Cameron took a slower step out of her corner, her feet planted firmly, hands high, chin tucked, calculating. Ariana wasn’t going to give her the center, not yet. She darted left again, her ponytail snapping behind her as she pumped out a lightning-quick jab that flicked off Dove’s guard. Another jab—then a blur of a right-left-right combo zipped toward Dove’s head.
The crowd roared. Ariana’s speed was dazzling.
But Dove didn’t flinch. She took the first glancing shots on her gloves, felt Ariana’s range, and stepped forward. Her jab was heavier, more deliberate, aimed not to score but to disrupt. Ariana ducked under one and spun left, her feet barely brushing the canvas, then shot back in—three punches to the body, rapid-fire: tap-tap-CRACK to the ribs. Dove winced, more annoyed than hurt, and fired back a brutal hook that just missed Ariana’s retreating jaw.
Dove snarled, stepping in harder. She caught Ariana’s rhythm—saw how she danced in to flurry, then danced out again. This time, Dove feinted low and when Ariana bit, Dove fired a stiff jab right to Ariana’s chest, stopping her cold for half a beat.
That half-beat was all Dove needed.
She lunged in, muscling Ariana backward with a clubbing right cross that landed high on the guard but drove her toward the ropes. Ariana slipped sideways, but Dove stayed on her, cutting off the angle and digging a left hook into Ariana’s side. The pop echoed through the arena. Ariana gasped and clinched instinctively, holding Dove around the shoulders to smother the pressure.
"Break!" the ref barked.
They separated clean.
Now it was Dove stalking forward, jabbing to the body, her feet sliding, her eyes like a laser. But Ariana wasn’t panicking—she reset, bounced sideways, then launched a clean three-punch combo—jab, cross, jab—cracking Dove’s head back just slightly.
The crowd reacted with awe. Dove reset her guard, blinked once, then smiled grimly.
Seconds left. Ariana circled, landing a few quick taps to the arms, trying to steal the round with volume. But Dove suddenly leapt in, timing Ariana’s exit path and hammering a hook to the ribs that folded the smaller fighter sideways. Ariana staggered, but kept moving, eyes wide now—respect showing.
The bell rang.
Both women returned to their corners with flushed faces and heaving chests—Dove the bruiser, Ariana the blur. Each had landed clean shots. Each had taken a few. The first round was a war of contrast—volume vs. venom, footwork vs. firepower—and the judges had their first hard call of the night.
Round 1 – Judge Scorecards:
Judge 1: 10-9 Ariana Grande
Judge 2: 10-9 Dove Cameron
Judge 3: 10-10 Even Round
Running Total After Round 1:
Dove Cameron: 9 - 10 - 10
Ariana Grande: 10 - 9 - 10
Round 2:
The bell for Round 2 clangs sharp, slicing through the electric air. The fighters surge from their corners like they’ve been uncaged.
Dove is all business now—head low, chin tucked, gloves high, stalking Ariana with crisp footwork and murderous intent. The bruises from their MMA bout still haunt her, and every punch she throws now feels personal. Ariana, light on her feet as always, jabs at Dove’s guard, testing range, smirking as she dances just outside her reach.
“You look stiff, babe,” Ariana taunts, flicking a jab off Dove’s cheek. “Still limping from last time?”
Dove answers with a hook to the ribs—THUMP—and Ariana gasps, the grin disappearing for a beat.
“That feel stiff to you?” Dove snaps, and she comes alive.
She pins Ariana with a jab, then rips a right to the belly, a left to the chest, and snaps a jab to the nose that rocks Ariana’s head back. The crowd roars as Dove presses her back, stalking her toward the ropes.
But Ariana’s not just taking damage. She’s measuring.
As Dove overextends on a right cross, Ariana dips low and counters—POP!—a clean left hook to Dove’s temple. Dove stumbles, stunned, blinking rapidly. Ariana pivots and slams a right to her ribs, then another—CRACK!—to the same spot. Dove snarls, trying to clinch, but Ariana ducks out and lands a quick left to the mouth.
“You’re already breathing heavy,” Ariana whispers, circling. “Cute.”
Dove wipes her mouth with the back of her glove, blood mixing with sweat. She grits her teeth and charges.
The next thirty seconds are war.
Leather flies. Dove tags Ariana’s jaw with a right. Ariana snaps Dove’s head back with a jab. Dove answers with a two-punch combo to the belly and breast. Ariana slaps a left across Dove’s cheek and spins out.
Then it happens.
Dove eats a sharp jab, but walks through it, throwing a hook of her own. Ariana times it perfectly—DUCKS—and fires a brutal uppercut into Dove’s solar plexus. Dove folds for half a second, eyes wide—and Ariana steps in and blasts a right cross flush on the mouth.
Dove reels back into the ropes. Her legs wobble. She’s dazed. She is in trouble, big trouble!
The ref surges in—arms out.
Standing 8 count.
Dove steadies herself in the corner, breathing hard, glaring across the ring.
Ariana bounces on her toes, hands high, smiling.
“This time,” she mouths, “I finish it standing.”
The bell sounds. Round 2 ends—but the fire is just getting started.
Judge Scorecards – Round 2:
Judge 1: 10-8 Ariana Grande
Judge 2: 10-8 Ariana Grande
Judge 3: 10-8 Ariana Grande
Running Total After Round 2:
Dove Cameron: 17 - 18 - 18
Ariana Grande: 20 - 19 - 20
Round 3:
The bell rings for Round 3, and Ariana Grande is already smiling.
She bounces out of her corner, light on her toes, confidence oozing from every motion. Dove rises slower, jaw tight, bruises blooming along her ribs and under her eye. That standing eight count still echoes in her head, and Ariana knows it.
“Still dizzy, Dove?” Ariana sings, flicking a jab to her gloves, then a snappy right that pops off her shoulder. “I warned you.”
Dove doesn’t answer. Her eyes narrow, gloves high.
Ariana circles left, feinting low before snapping another jab up top. It taps Dove’s forehead—light, almost playful. She follows with a quick one-two to the chest and a smirk. “You’re just standing there,” she sneers. “You done already?”
Dove finally lunges—catching Ariana with a hard jab that rocks her head back. The crowd erupts, sensing life from the blonde.
But Ariana grins through it.
She ducks the follow-up, counters with a hook to the body and a short uppercut to Dove’s chin. Dove’s head jerks up, legs stutter—but she stays upright. Ariana pours it on—three quick shots to the belly, a jab to the nose, then a looping hook to the temple.
Dove stumbles.
“Yep,” Ariana says, cocky now, “definitely done.”
She spins off the ropes and drives a jab between Dove’s gloves, then a left-right combo that knocks the blonde’s mouthguard askew. Blood glistens across Dove’s lips as she bites down and resets, trying to fire a right hook—but Ariana’s already ducked out again, showboating.
She sticks her tongue out. “Missed me sweetie.”
Ariana’s momentum is building now—gloves flashing, feet dancing, voice taunting nonstop. She pops a jab to Dove’s breast, another to her cheek, then whirls around with a half-turn and a grin. She’s toying with her now.
Dove’s breathing heavy, gloves sagging just a little lower.
The crowd’s split—half screaming for a comeback, half roaring in admiration of Ariana’s dominance.
But Round 3 isn’t over yet.
Dove fires a wild overhand right. Ariana steps inside it and rips a left hook to the body. Dove winces—but doesn’t back off. Instead, she answers with a gut shot of her own—THUMP—and Ariana suddenly gasps.
Both women are swinging as the seconds tick down, fists flying. Ariana seems in control—but Dove is still dangerous, still hunting that one opening. The bell rings—and both women step back, breathing hard.
Judge Scorecards – Round 2:
Judge 1: 10-9 Ariana Grande
Judge 2: 10-9 Dove Cameron
Judge 3: 10-9 Dove Cameron
Running Total After Round 3:
Dove Cameron: 26 - 28 - 28
Ariana Grande: 30 - 28 - 29
Round 4:
The bell for Round 4 echoes through the arena—and this time, Dove charges.
No hesitation. No circling. Just forward pressure and raw intent.
Ariana backpedals fast, surprised. Her showboating grin is gone as Dove barrels in, fists tight and eyes blazing. She throws a stiff jab to stop the rush—but Dove eats it and plows forward, slamming a right hook into Ariana’s ribs. THUMP. Ariana grunts, folds slightly—and Dove unleashes hell.
Left to the body. Right to the chest. Left hook to the chin. Ariana stumbles back into the ropes. Dove smells blood and goes in for the kill—digging savage hooks to Ariana’s sides, whipping her torso left and right.
“You’re not dancing now, are you?” Dove growls through clenched teeth.
Ariana’s gloves are high but shaky. She clinches—gasping into Dove’s neck, trying to tie her up—but Dove muscles free and hammers another body shot just above the waistband. Ariana lets out a choked gasp and bends at the waist.
The crowd rises, sensing it. Dove steps in—
CRACK! A brutal left hook to Ariana’s jaw snaps her head sideways.
DOWN SHE GOES.
Ariana crumples onto all fours, coughing, head sagging. The ref yells, “ONE!... TWO!...”
Dove paces in the neutral corner, breathing hard, face flushed, gloves shaking at her sides.
“Stay down,” she mutters under her breath.
But Ariana blinks. She plants a foot. Her corner is screaming. “THREE!... FOUR!...” She reaches for the ropes. “FIVE!... SIX!...” Slowly—achingly—Ariana drags herself upright.
Seven… Eight…
She stands.
Barely.
The ref checks her eyes. Ariana nods, blood in her mouth, defiance in her stare. She’s allowed to continue.
The crowd is losing it.
Dove storms in again, looking to end it—but Ariana clinches desperately, tying her up, forehead pressed against Dove’s shoulder. “You had one shot,” Ariana mumbles through blood. “You missed it.”
Dove snarls, wrenching a glove free to slam two short shots to Ariana’s belly before the ref forces the break.
Ten seconds left.
They square off—both wobbling, both raw.
Dove throws a jab. Ariana parries and counters with a slick right hook that lands square—but Dove doesn’t budge. She plants her feet and fires a straight left into Ariana’s breast that doubles her over again as the bell rings.
The crowd explodes.
Dove walks slowly to her corner, chest heaving, sweat pouring off her. Ariana barely makes it back to hers, collapsing onto the stool.
She’s still in it.
But that was Dove’s round.
SCORECARD – ROUND 4
Judge 1: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Judge 2: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Judge 3: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Running Totals After Round 4:
Dove Cameron: 36 - 38 - 38
Ariana Grande: 38 - 36 - 37
Round 5:
Ariana Grande sits on her stool, chest rising and falling quickly. Her corner wasn’t interested in pleasantries.
“You’re twice as fast as that blonde slug,” her trainer barked, dabbing her brow. “Snap that jab. Use your legs. And if you have to hit her in the **** to back her off, do it. Whatever it takes—win this damn fight!”
Ariana nodded, eyes hard now. She’d won Round 1 with a knockdown, but Dove had bullied her in Round 2 and 3—walking her down, jabbing her into the ropes, and punishing her flanks. It was time to shift the momentum.
Across the ring, Dove Cameron was calm, confident. Her corner told her the same thing they had since the fight began: “Stay tight, time her entries. She’s flinching at the feints now. Break her rhythm.”
The bell rang for Round 5.
Ariana came out blazing. Her jab flicked out with renewed purpose—snapping at Dove’s face, chest, and gloves. She was bouncing again, lighter, smarter, making Dove turn and pivot. Dove snarled and stalked, cutting off the angles, but Ariana was sharper than in the last two rounds. She tagged Dove with a sharp one-two to the mouth, then ducked low and circled away.
Dove kept pressing forward, pounding a jab to Ariana’s chest, then hooking hard to the ribs. Ariana winced, backpedaled, and lunged in again—this time throwing a looping hook that missed, followed by a short uppercut to the midsection that strayed dangerously low.
Thump.
The shot landed right on Dove’s bikini line—too borderline to be called illegal, but low enough that Dove’s body jolted. She groaned and folded forward slightly, eyes wide in shock. The ref gave Ariana a quick warning—“Watch it!”—but Dove waved it off, shaking her head and resetting.
Ariana saw her opening and pounced.
She snapped a flurry up top—jab, cross, jab—then again dropped low with a short right hand that clearly veered below the belt. This time it landed square between Dove’s legs.
Thud.
Dove gasped, knees buckling, and dropped to a crouch, her glove instinctively going between her thighs. The crowd erupted in boos and gasps. The ref jumped in immediately.
“Time! Time! That was low!” he barked, waving Ariana away.
Dove knelt, grimacing, sweat dripping down her face, one glove on the canvas, the other clenched around her midsection. Her body twisted in pain, and for the first time in the fight, her aura of control ****.
The ref issued a stern warning to Ariana and gave Dove time to recover. Ariana stood across the ring, hands on her hips, chest rising. No apology. Just cold focus.
After nearly a full minute, Dove rose, breathing hard. She nodded to the ref—ready.
The round resumed with 30 seconds left. Dove surged forward, rage in her eyes, trying to trap Ariana in a corner. But Ariana moved, danced, jabbed, staying just out of reach, stealing the last seconds with slick footwork.
Bell.
Dove stormed to her corner, jaw clenched. Ariana? She just smirked. She’d bent the rules—but she was back in the fight.
SCORECARD – ROUND 5
Judge 1: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Judge 2: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Judge 3: 10-8 Dove Cameron
Running Totals After Round 5:
Dove Cameron: 46 - 48 - 48
Ariana Grande: 46 - 44 – 45
Round 6:
The bell rings for Round 6, and Ariana is still shaky—but there’s something in her eyes.
Desperation. Fire. Malice.
Dove marches forward like a machine—intent on finishing what she started in Round 4. Ariana backpedals fast, ducking under a hook and trying to circle out. Dove cuts her off and swings for the ribs—
BAM! Ariana leaps up and drives her knee square into Dove’s groin.
Dove lets out a strangled shriek, her gloves dropping, knees buckling as she stumbles forward and collapses to the canvas, curled around herself in agony.
The ref—on the wrong side—didn’t see it. He waves it off as a clean knockdown.
“KNOCKDOWN!”
The crowd explodes in confusion. Ariana skips to the neutral corner with an innocent shrug, wiping blood from her lip and adjusting her shorts.
Dove’s corner is furious, screaming and pounding the apron, but the ref’s count goes on.
“One! Two! Three!”
Dove groans, grabbing the middle rope.
“Four! Five!”
She hauls herself up, legs shaking, one glove still covering her aching core.
“Six… Seven… Eight!”
She’s up—but just barely. The ref gives her a long look, then waves Ariana back in.
And now Ariana strikes like lightning.
Jab—jab—jab—jab!
She peppers Dove’s face with piston-like lefts, each snapping the blonde’s head back. Dove’s guard is slow, her balance worse. Ariana darts in and out, gloves flying, crowd roaring louder with every combo.
Then comes the venom.
BOOM! A jab right into Dove’s breast. Then a right uppercut to the left breast. THWACK! Another uppercut, this time straight under the right one. Dove yelps, staggering into the ropes. Ariana unloads a flurry of hooks, crosses, and uppercuts all aimed at Dove's now tender breasts.
The ref jumps in—standing eight count!
Dove sways in place, mouth hanging open, sweat dripping down her chest and arms. Ariana bounces in place, ready to pounce.
The fight resumes—and now Ariana owns the ring and she now owns Dove.
She dances forward, mocking Dove. “How’s that chest feel, princess?” she smirks, sending another jab right into the left mound. Dove winces, biting back a scream.
But the pain unlocks something.
Rage.
Dove ROARS and explodes forward, teeth gritted, arms swinging wide. She barrels into Ariana, driving her backward into the corner with a thudding left-right combo to the body.
BAM! BAM!
Ariana’s eyes go wide—surprised at the sudden surge. Dove pins her and goes wild, burying punches in Ariana’s belly and breasts like she’s trying to cave them in.
“HOW DO YOU LIKE IT?” Dove bellows, slamming another fist into Ariana’s heaving chest.
The ref rushes in—standing eight for Ariana!
Ariana gasps for air, clutching her side as the ref checks her out. She nods, insists she’s okay, but Dove’s fury has rattled her.
The round isn’t done.
They meet in the middle—and now it’s pure chaos.
Fists fly. Hair snaps back. Blood flicks from lips. They exchange brutal hooks, uppercuts, slaps to the chest, and cruel body shots. Neither of them backs down. They’re snarling, grunting, and punching past all pain and pride.
Ten seconds left.
SMACK—CRACK—POP!
The crowd is on its feet, screaming.
And still—they don’t stop.
Even as the bell rings, they keep swinging. A jab from Ariana, a hook from Dove, another uppercut—and finally, the ref has to physically shove them apart.
Both stumble back to their corners—battered, panting, and soaked in sweat.
But Ariana is smiling again.
UNOFFICIAL SCORECARD – ROUND 6
Judge 1: 9-8 Ariana Grande
Judge 2: 9-8 Ariana Grande
Judge 3: 9-7 Ariana Grande
Official Decision:
The bell had rung, the round was over, and both women looked like they'd just crawled out of a warzone.
Ariana leaned against her corner post, chest heaving, sweat pouring from her brow, gloves dangling low. Her lips were split, her breasts bruised, and her arms barely lifted between breaths—but her eyes still sparkled. She knew what she’d done that round.
Dove, across the ring, was kneeling as her team poured water over her head and massaged her throbbing thighs and ribs. Her left eye was swollen halfway shut. Her breasts bore angry red welts, and her face was a pale mask of pain and exhaustion. Still, she was sitting upright, jaw clenched, staring daggers across the ring.
The ref stood in the center with his hand out, waiting for the final scores.
But the judges weren’t ready.
Not even close.
At ringside, three men huddled, holding the scorecards like sacred relics. Judge 1 jabbed his finger at the paper, shaking his head. Judge 2 crossed his arms and leaned back, visibly disagreeing. Judge 3 tapped his pen again and again against the table, muttering.
The crowd began to murmur, the arena thick with tension.
The ring announcer approached, mic in hand, ready to read the result—but Judge 1 yanked the scorecard back, shaking his head again. The ref looked annoyed. Officials came over to hurry the process, but the judges were locked in an intense, animated debate.
The crowd started to chant.
“DOVE! DOVE! DOVE!” “GRANDE! GRANDE!”
Back and forth, tribal and primal.
Another minute passed.
Finally, Judge 3 slapped his card down, nodding once. Judge 2 followed, begrudgingly scribbling something final and handing it to the ref.
But just as the ref reached for it—Judge 1 pulled it back again, shouting over the noise. The ring announcer threw his arms up, and even Dove’s trainer was pacing outside the ropes, gesturing furiously at the delay.
Dove and Ariana were both on their feet now, breathing hard. Neither could stand straight, but neither looked ready to concede anything.
Finally—after what felt like an hour—Judge 1 scribbled one last correction, initialed it, and slapped the card into the ref’s palm.
The ref turned. Walked to the center of the ring.
The announcer stepped forward. The crowd fell to dead silence.
You could hear the heavy breathing of both fighters from the third row.
“And after six rounds of brutal action… we go to the judges’ scorecards.”
The whole arena leaned in. After 6 rounds of insane action.
“Judge 1 scores the round 55-54… Ariana Grande.”
Ariana's fans scream as she raises her hand,
“Judge 2 scores it 56-53… Dove Cameron.”
The other half of the crowd explodes
“And Judge 3 scores the round 56-54… for your winner by decision…”
Now you can hear a in drop as everyone is holding their breaths and Ariana raises her hand and is about to celebrate. . . . .
Declaring the winner by split decision—Dove Cameron!
Post Fight:
Dove threw her arms into the air triumphantly, sweat-slicked, jaw clenched with satisfaction. Half the crowd roared in support, but the other half rose in fury, raining down boos as if they could erase the verdict with volume. Dove drank it in, letting it roll over her like a champion bathed in fire.
Then—perhaps in an act of sportsmanship, or defiance—she extended her glove toward Ariana.
Ariana glared, then slapped the offered hand aside with a snarl and stormed past her. She stalked to the ropes, leaned over, and pointed directly at the judges’ table.
“Are you f$cking BLIND!?” she shrieked, her voice raw with disbelief. “Look at her! She knows she lost! Everyone knows she lost!”
She whipped her arms out wide, gesturing toward the booing sections of the crowd. “You all saw it! I landed more! I dropped her!”
"f$ck!f$ck!” Ariana screamed again, smashing her gloves into the ropes in frustration.
Dove just stood in the center of the ring, arms folded now, unmoved, letting Ariana unravel.
A chant began to build in the arena, rising from Ariana’s furious fan section:
“Recount! Recount! Recount!”
Ariana turned and raised her arms to them like a rebellion’s queen. “You KNOW I won that damn fight!” she shouted, her voice breaking.
Meanwhile, Dove stepped onto the middle rope, raising a single fist high as if daring them all to deny her. She hadn’t just fought Ariana tonight—she’d fought perception, memory, and a smirking ghost from the cage. And she’d won.
Even if half the arena refused to accept it.
Post-Fight Interview – The Disney Princesses Locker Room
The camera cut to Dove Cameron’s locker room just minutes after her split decision victory over Ariana Grande. The scene was raw—sweat still glistening on her skin, her gloves half-peeled, a towel draped over her shoulders like a battle-worn cape. Despite the chaos in the arena, Dove wore a look of cool satisfaction, the kind only earned in a brutal, hard-won war.
A reporter leaned in, microphone raised. “Dove, congratulations on the win. Split decision—how close did it feel in there to you?”
Dove didn’t hesitate. She shook her head and offered a dry chuckle. “You know what? It really wasn’t that close. I mean, credit where it’s due—Ariana’s faster than hell. I knew that going in. Took me a couple rounds to adjust to her rhythm, yeah. But once I found it? I had her. Without those low blows, I beat her clean. Easy.”
The reporter raised an eyebrow. “Let’s talk about that. You looked visibly upset when Ariana started targeting your breasts. One of those punches led to a standing eight count from the ref. Was that the turning point?”
Dove’s face hardened slightly. “She caught me clean once, I’ll give her that. Hit me square in the left breast with a quick cross. Stung, yeah. But that standing eight? That was weak. I wasn’t rocked,no doubt about it but hurt enough for a standing eight? Absolutely not. ”
She leaned forward slightly, voice sharper now. “Let’s be real—she was throwing everything. And I mean everything. Knees, low blows, borderline rabbit punches. She wanted that win so bad, she didn’t care if it was clean. You saw it. She aimed low twice. First one hit the panty line—okay, whatever, close call. Second one? Blatant. Her knee crushed me hard.”
The reporter nodded slowly. “And yet the ref let it continue.”
“Exactly,” Dove snapped. “So what are the rules then? If it’s legal to knee me in the crotch, then fine—say that. But don’t tell me afterward that it’s a fair fight when I’m dealing with that kind of garbage. That’s the ref's job,” she added, looking dead into the camera, “ref’s job—to stop that crap before it flips the fight. Ariana just plays the innocent little girl but she's a dirty little ****. Always has been, always will be.”
She sat back, flexing her fingers, wincing slightly as the trainer pressed ice to her side. “But that’s the difference, isn’t it? I didn’t have to cheat to win. I didn’t panic and start throwing illegal shots when I couldn’t land. I stayed sharp. I stayed clean. I didn't stoop to her level and get dragged into the gutter. And you know what? I still walked out with the win.”
The reporter ventured carefully, “Ariana’s accusing the judges of being blind. That you knew you lost.”
Dove smirked. “Yeah, I heard. She’s still crying like a little baby, isn’t she? You’d think with all that speed, she’d have sprinted out of the building by now. I knew I won the second the final bell rang. You don’t need to scream for a recount when you actually got dominated. Let her cry about it—me? I’m on to the finals.”
“Any idea who you'll be fighting?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. We're gong to see when the blindfolds are removed.”
Post-Fight Interview – The Lost Wildcat Locker Room
The camera caught chaos the moment it entered Ariana Grande’s locker room. The tiny pop queen—her gloves ripped off and tossed across the floor—was pacing furiously in a storm of anger, her hair frizzed with sweat, her face red, her bare chest heaving. Her team gave her space, no one daring to calm her as the reporter stepped in, mic raised cautiously like a shield.
Ariana turned on them instantly, voice already at a fever pitch.
“Oh, boo-f$cking-hoo!” she snarled, flinging a towel to the ground. “I maybe hit her low? Grow a pair and nut up, Dammit! This is boxing, not frickin patty cakes.”
The reporter blinked but kept going. “Ariana, it was a split decision—”
“SPLIT!?” she roared, stomping toward the mic, her finger jabbing into the air like a dagger. “I KICKED HER ASS! I beat her **** ass in the cage and I beat her in the ring, and what do I get? Another rigged-ass decision handed to the princess from Disneyland!”
She practically spat the next words. “I guess all that Disney money finds its way to the judges’ pockets. Who the h#ll knew the mouse had this much pull in Vegas!?”
She threw her arms up and shouted toward the ceiling. “This is a goddamn outrage! I beat her! I BEAT HER! You saw it.”
The reporter tried to inject some balance, hesitating. “Maybe not every judge saw it that way…”
Ariana froze, then turned slowly with fire in her eyes. “WHAT?” she asked, low and dangerous. “Are you seriously trying to tell me I didn’t win that fight?”
The reporter tried again, “I mean, look at the scorecards—”
Ariana snapped.
“Look at the God Damm scorecards!?” she screamed, snatching a crumpled copy from her team’s bench and thrusting it into the camera. “Right here! I out-hit her in every round! EVERY. f$cking. ROUND. I was faster, cleaner, sharper. I dropped her in the second then again in the sixth. I ran circles around her pathetic ass the entire fight! She was swinging wild and gasping by Round 6 like a drunk brawler!”
“She needed that low blow break just to survive, and I STILL kept the pressure on her.”
She turned to the wall and slammed her fist into the locker door. BANG. “What do I gotta do—kill her to get a damn win!?”
One of her coaches approached carefully. “Ari—”
“Don’t ‘Ari’ me! Not now!” she snapped, turning away. “Dove’s out there celebrating like she earned it. Please. She was covering up and backing up. The ref practically gave her a pillow and blankie every time she got touched in those oh so perfect **** of hers. Next time I'll flatten them like pancakes and **** rip them right off!”
She pointed to the reporter again. “They want to paint me as the villain? Fine. I’ll BE the **** villain. But don’t you dare say I didn’t win that damm fight. I OWNED Dove. I outclassed her. I’m sick of this Disney pageant-show BS where the plastic face wins.”
Ariana dropped into the bench, elbows on knees, still seething.
“This ain’t over. Not even close,” she hissed, barely above a whisper. “If she wants to lace em' up again
I'll be all over her. No judges. No refs. Just the two of us? I’ll finish what I started. I’ll make sure there’s no one left to raise her hand. Sh!t! I'll do it right this second if the fragile little Disney Princess wants but I think we all know the answer.”
She looked up, eyes blazing. “Tell Dove: next time, it's in the UCC cage and I'm so kicking her ass AGAIN!”
Written by the Badass Barbies.