She had to figure something out. Fast.
His gentlemanly streak continued with him lifting her onto her feet again. Her legs didn't want to cooperate, but it was no matter. Up she came, still, then around in a one-eight, to be pulled into...Oh, thank God! Yoga has made the abdominal stretch one of her favorites to take.
Oh yeah, it still hurts. She's not that chick who can bend into a pretzel like it's nothing. But the pain wakes her back up. Clears the fog after a beating like the one she's been taking. She can work with that.
Her body arched, but it didn't thrash. She screamed. Made her breathing shallow and rapid. Gritted her teeth. Swore.
"Hijo de puta!"
More at the agony she was pretending to be in than him.
Her free hand reached up to claw at his wrist. Squeezing tighter and digging her nails in deeper than she normally would have to keep herself from going even further into the danger zone. Her body bowed into the stretch, curving the spine. Her knee trembled, her base foot pivoted. A cunning display of theatrics setting up a smoke screen while she adjusted to the hold. In any other circumstance, she'd stick around in it for a bit too. Take a moment to take measure of when the opponent wrenches. Time those intervals where their balance goes off when they wrench it.
But time wasn't a luxury that she had here. Drake was just a couple buttons away from pulling off a Fatality on this thing.
So when she felt that opening being made, her breathing suddenly deepened. The tremble stopped. And she sank. Hips dropping, base knee bending in a seeming concession while her opposite foot pivoted, toes turning towards him. She turned with the pressure, turning the tension that was meant to trap her into momentum.
She hooked a leg as she rolled, into an inverted inside cradle of sorts. Leg remaining hooked, her weight pushing his shoulders down into the mat. The referee slid into position and started slapping the mat.
"One!"
Spanish to English Translation
"Hijo de puta!" -- "Son of a bitch!"
