Bedroom Assembly (Feat. Alix Jacques, Black Severin, Lacramioara Albescu, and Madeline Christiansen)

[DSX93]

She was still locking in. Taking notes. Searching for ways to break his rhythm.

Severin didn't like all of the analysis he was seeing in her eyes. It told him that he wasn't going to be able to dance his way to extensive success. He was going to have to find some decisive spots.

“Eventually, the music stops.”

"Nah." Cartwheel. Quick. Easy. Fluid. Seamless. "That's what the Repeat function's for. Besides, it doesn't necessarily stop when the instruments do." Severin tapped the side of his head with his finger, pointing to the one that was always in play, even if his ears would be the only ones that would hear it.

Madeline went low, but he was able to dance her offensive off. Too easily; looking into her eyes afterwards, he knew that she was still studying. Comfortable. Enough to start giving him tips, like he was some hapless oaf. Such was his kneejerk reception to it; the nature of this contest and its implications made them more likes pokes. Prodding.

But she would be able to disrupt his flow. Quickly enough to give him something to think about. Just not right now.

It was too perfect. Just the right move at just the right time, bringing his posture down to the floor, literally. One knee touched down, and if he didn't move fast, his back would be next. Not the place he wanted to be.

Not alone...

It was a spur of the moment move. No plan, just something that made the most sense in the span of the single thought he was allowed. He'd allow the closeness that she was looking for and bring his free arm up. To wrap around the back of her knees or set a hand on her hip. Preferably the former, but he'd take what he can get, if he can get it at all.

What would follow either success wouldn't quite be what one could call a Northern Lights suplex. But the weaponization of momentum and a powerful core, kicked off from the one foot he had set, would create a very similar arc. Only more explosive as he put more into it than needed, sending them both flying up and over. A showing of stress that hadn't been tested, set to bring Madeline down on her back, with Severin landing on top, hopefully.

[Lightman]

Ah yes. The faint tightening through Severin’s abdomen, the sudden stilling of his hips, the instincts of a man who had no intention of being folded to the canvas without resistance. Madeline’s hands had only just begun dragging him downward when he made his choice. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Only raw, reactive power unleashed in a single burst that lifted her clean from the mat.

The arc was unmistakable. Not clean enough to be shaped by formal training, not guided by the mechanics of a polished Northern Lights suplex, but the skeletal shape was there. Severin’s hips fired. His spine extended. The world tilted as he heaved her upwards, curving them both through the air. It was a crude thing, but there was beauty in the commitment. And there was danger in it too.

Madeline’s back hit the mattress with a soft thud, cushioned but decisive. His weight landed atop her a heartbeat later, momentum still carrying faint tremors through the point of contact between their bodies. For a brief moment she allowed herself the stillness, like a chess player examining the new configuration of a board after an opponent’s surprise gambit.

Then her eyes opened on him. Calm. Focused. A hint of approval, even. “My my~.” she murmured, voice low beneath him. “How bold. I can respect that.”

The Englishwoman’s praise was genuine, though far from surrender. Severin had gained the top position, but the top position meant little if held without understanding. Her legs shifted beneath him, not locking but searching, testing the space at his sides to see if she could begin to frame a guard. She attempted to draw one knee higher, trying to curl it around his ribcage to see if he would react, to see where his balance might tilt next.

She reached one hand towards the back of his head, not to pull him down affectionately, but to break his posture. “Top position is only ever a question.” She said softly, as though she were giving a lesson and not trying to tighten a trap. “The answer depends on what you do with it.” Her legs shifted higher on his back, thighs closing the space beneath his ribs, her hips tilting in a slow, inexorable climb toward a dominant angle.

From there, the danger multiplied. A quick hip escape could turn into an armbar. A sharp swivel could shift her into a triangle. Even without committing to a submission, she had options: off-balancing him, sweeping him, forcing him to post a hand where she wanted it. Every breath he took gave her information. Every shift of his weight revealed a seam.

The English Rose planted one foot flat on the mattress, pivoting on the other, testing his base. “Pray tell, Mr Severin…” she said with the quiet confidence of a woman who had studied his every move and found more potential than polish. “…are you ready for the floor to start tilting beneath you?” Her tone remained cordial, her words cloaked in silk, but the competitive edge gleamed unmistakably through the softness.

Her free arm threaded under his, beginning to trap it against her chest. Not yet fully committed, not yet snapping shut, only positioning. Finding the line of attack. A grappler like her does not rush artistry. She shapes it. Breath by breath, angle by angle.