Dasher Challenge : Part 2 - Like Fine Wine

[killcarrion]

Coincidentally enough the powerbomb was a technique Dasher once tried to impart upon his own son. Unfortunately though the young lad’s scrawny physique thwarted his earnest attempts to make his father proud, but Dasher nevertheless incorporated it into his teaching regimen once he started helming his own class of young lions. Much to his students chagrin however as they were frequently the unwilling volunteers and crash test dummies receiving the meteoric plummet from the bowl-cutted grappler as he detailed the proper techniques involved with performing it. Inoba neglecting to mention however one of its fatal flaws and commonplace counters considering he himself had scarcely wrestled against competitors who could send the veteran spiraling out of his wrestling boots like this. A bewildered Dasher shaking some senses back into his cranium as he climbed with the appreciated assistance of the adjacent ropes, except no sooner was the hulking heavyweight back on his feet than a massive lariat plowed him over the top rope and onto the outskirts of the ring. "RAGH!!" Dasher taking a discombobulated tumble onto his back with rallied adulation swelling behind the Powerhouse Italiana. Pain and discomfort etched upon her former colleagues grimacing mug as he started soldiering up to his feet at a lethargic pace yet determined pace right beside the timekeeper’s booth...

[BlackAkuma]

Executing this move didn’t come without some cost. In her youth, Angela could’ve pulled this move off without too much of a hitch, but those halcyon days were ancient history. Now, she felt the cost of every movement, it all took a heavy toll, and launching Dasher like that had been no exception. The moment he went flying, she nearly dropped along with him, and it was only her grip on the ropes that kept her from falling for her to her knees.

Worth it? Yes. Placing Dasher in this position opened up rare opportunities, and she fully intended to make the most of it.

A deep breath. A gritting of the teeth. She was moving.

Angela dashed away from Dasher, bolting towards the opposite side of the ring as he pushed his way up. She came rushing back just as he began his ascent, that bowl cut of his emerging like the morning sun on the horizon. Once she was close enough, she leaped up, dropped to her hips, slid under the ropes, and attempted drive her boots into his chest with a swift baseball slide dropkick.

[killcarrion]

Dasher's abject unfamiliarity with being overpowered throughout this chauvinistic campaign of his only added to the disorientation incumbent with taking a clothesline over the ropes and outside the ring. Faint recollections swirling within his head of Angela being one of the scant few lady wrestlers who could topple the strongman with one deft lariat back in their prime wrestling days, and this was apparently another manner in which his old colleague had not changed in the slightest. Weathered breathes taken as the blustering veteran arose with one hand settled on his knee as he bristled from the prickled aches on his pectorals from Angela's clothesline but soldiered up to his feet regardless with his keen eyes directed towards the ring. Veteran instinct triggering within Dasher as he seamlessly sidestepped the slide dropkick and backpedaled a few steps. "ORIYAAAAH!!!" Breathing room which was necessary for Dasher to build up speed for his own attempted Dasher Lariato, a meathook clothesline with a roaring and primal bellow that rightfully frightened any within earshot.

[BlackAkuma]

Time changes so much, yet changes so little.

Strange to think, but Dasher was so much of the man she remembered. He moved much the same. Slower, yes, but more deliberate. His mannerisms were much the same. A touch gruffer, perhaps, and wizened, but she would recognize them anywhere.

What she remembered most about him, though, was his intelligence. While some would paint Dasher as a bruiser - and they would not be totally wrong - beneath that brutish exterior, the heart of a wrestling statesman beated. The man eat, slept, and breathed wrestling. It wasn’t his career, but his lifestyle—a true master of the game.

So it shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise when those instincts, honed through hard-fought battles, allowed Dasher to dodge the baseball slide and mount an effective counterattack, one that Angela had no chance at avoiding.

The man struck like a thunderbolt, hammering the Perfect Woman’s chest with a hellish blow. Despite her size and stature, the impact sent her flailing to the floor, hitting with a sickening thud that left the audience reeling. As they well should, since few things in the world left you as winded as a lariat from Dasher Inoba.

[killcarrion]

Dasher would begrudgingly concede that in his youthful prime, there was indeed a limbered fluidity and agile spryness in his motions that withered as the years passed. Time making fools of us all, apparently. Except similar to how Dasher plucks whatever gray hairs dare to blemish his bowl-cutted chrome dome, the veteran grappler's fighting spirit enables him to fight back against unstoppable forces through any means necessary. One such unstoppable force was the undaunted Amazon barreling towards him but narrowly side-stepped and clobbered with a roaring lariat with such strength behind it that Dasher struggled to stay upright afterward. Dasher catching himself against the ring apron for a quick breather before approaching the fallen Angela, an admiration and respect veiled behind his eyes cast downward at whom he considered a ravishing gladiatrix if there ever was one. Someone who respected this wrestling craft just as much as himself, and whom he showed respect as well by guiding Angela up to her feet by her hand instead of her hair. "...*Ahem*...You always did resent having your hair being strained without justification..." Dasher commented as he brought to bear his strongman arms around her in a torqued bearhug with one of his arms over her shoulder, a sweat swathed compression against his brickhouse physique only meant to be a prelude to an attempted belly to belly suplex beneath the wrestling legend...

[BlackAkuma]

There was nothing quite like taking a lariat from Dasher Inoba. Most wrestlers just ran at you and smacked you with their arms, which could be plenty painful, but rarely debilitating. The proper way to do was a lost art these days, no doubt driven by the rise of MMA within the sport.

Dasher did it the traditional way, the right way. When he hit you, it didn’t feel like he was hitting you - it felt like he was hitting through you. Like he was striking with the expectation that his arm could cut you in half. Not restraint, no reservations, just pure power. Rare was the move that could knock Angela Belti on her backside, but this was one of them.

She was slow to recover, giving Dasher enough time to slip in and take advantage. He reached down to grab her by the arm, instead of going for the hair. While she had long since gotten past the point where she held a grudge against those who strained her strands - it wasn’t like she shied away from doing the same - she appreciated it, all the same. ”Still the gentleman, I see.”

Of course, being a gentleman didn’t mean she was getting gentle treatment. Far from it, actually. Dasher’s next move was to wrap his arms around her, which she liked. Then he began to power down on her midsection with a crushing, grueling force, which she liked significantly less. She gritted her teeth and groaned as his thick arms encroached on her midsection, threatening to break her in half.

But she wasn’t out of options, not yet. Instead of pulling away, she moved in and brought her hands to Dasher’s cheeks, locked eyes with him, and for a moment they became twenty years younger. Their breath mingling in the air, enveloped in their shared heat. Her eyes began to close as she moved in with an open mouth, tempting him with so much more…

…only for her to reel back at the last second, thrust forward, and drive her elbow in his skull with a devastating strike a point blank range.

[killcarrion]

Call him old-fashioned, but Dasher always believed there was a sanctified purity to the Lariat that today's generation outright neglect. Unbridled strength enriched through raw adrenaline being liberated upon an adversary in harmonious unity for a split second, but whose own mettle and fortitude would be tested within the exchange. The ruthless warhorses who trained Dasher hammered that particular credo into him as a fledgling rookie, and he honored the tradition throughout his own storied career. Sickened though he felt whenever his own pupils opted to retire from the sport altogether rather than take another of Dasher's meathook lariats, the veteran felt his faith renewed whenever he encountered a like-minded spirit who valiantly accepted his muscled resolve. Angela Belti, just so happened to be one of those particular individuals back in their clashing youth. And it earned his gladiatrix compatriot a level of mutual respect he rarely bestowed upon anyone within the wrestling industry.

Dasher demonstrating as such via hefting his splayed-out comrade up to her inebriated feet by her arms rather than her flowing locks, a gruff harrumph chortled out as Angela complimented his gentlemanly courteousness. An odd juxtaposition showcased between the chivalrous ascension and the accompanying compression of svelte softness and muscled torque, but it was one Dasher committed himself to with earnest vigor. Heated breathes panted against the nape of her neck in what was meant to be the energy draining prelude for Angela's soaring upheaval, except a feminine touch whisked him to a time long since forgotten. Dasher's awakened eyes remembering when he cradled Angela in a commanding and sweltering embrace with yearning lips one breath away, but he definitely didn't remember being cracked aside the head with an elbow strike that had him releasing her and into a backpedaled stumble. "...GAH...Still the same mischievous vixen..." Dasher grimaced with one hand soothing his headaches.

[BlackAkuma]

Angela was twenty years younger, stuck in a time warp. The soreness of age was gone, her muscles didn’t ache, and she was with Dasher again. In a hotel room or backstage, she couldn't recall that detail. She couldn't remember the weather, or what day it was, or even what she was wearing, but she could remember him. The feel of his body against hers, as if they were made for each other. Muscles grinding. His heat. Her need. There was a small part of her that yearned to reignite that flame again, here and now, match be damned.

But she was a more disciplined woman now, wiser and wizened, and she knew better than to fall in that trap. She had a job to do, and that job, currently, included her getting out of this bearhug in the roughest way she could think of. It worked, too, earning her freedom and forcing Dasher to release her. The perfect opening.

Angela moved in quick, ducking low as Dasher stumbled back. Her head came under his shoulder and tucked tight, while her arm wrapped around his side. She took a moment to brace, then lift him up, over, and down, planting him hard with a Northern Lights Suplex - albeit, one that she had to release before she could go for a pinfall, with her back hurting far too much to maintain the bridge.