Madeline Christiansen vs. Armando 'Army' Rodriguez - Our Dance

[BlackAkuma]

Army could almost hear Felina giving him crap from dozens of miles away - assuming she had tuned back in to watch his match after the hentai round, anyway. She was giving him all sorts of crap for the technique on that kick. ‘Too shallow’. ‘Not enough followthrough’. ‘Could’ve worked on his posture’. The usual stuff she would come at him with when they sparred and he tried to use some of her own moves against her to be coy.

And maybe it was all spot-on. He wasn’t a kickboxer, she was, so she would know the best ways. But Army knew what worked, and you know what? That worked. Even better than he’d hoped.

Madeline had really not seen that one coming, the look on her face told the story. She tried her best to adjust as his sweep was coming out, but there was only so much he could do at this range, and reaching was another advantage he could use to make up for the lack of speed. While she built better than most women he’d encountered, there was simply nothing the tree could do when the axe came calling.

He hit, solidly, and the blow sent her flopping away, in a moment that might’ve had him laughing if he'd had a little less respect for the person he did it to. As it was, his mind was too busy calculating to get much humor from it. It was far from a devastating blow, but it dropped her, making her much more vulnerable than he had thought possible. This was as good as it was going to get.

As she rose back up, he made his decision. With this last round, he was leaving nothing off the table.

Army took a couple steps back as she stood, then rushed in again, covering ground with an explosive rushing burst. He stayed low as he neared, almost in a crouch, but that changed the second he was in the perfect range. At the last second, he leaped up, drew his legs in tight, and shot both of them towards Madeline’s chest with all the power and momentum he could muster, looking to send her into the ropes - and possibly out of the ring - with a shotgun dropkick.

[Lightman]

Madeline was still half crouched when she saw the look in his eyes change. There was calculation there, but also exhilaration, that reckless kind of energy that spurred men like him to break through walls rather than walk around them. She pressed the back of her hand against her jaw, still hot from his earlier strike, and smiled despite the ache. It was never just about pain or pleasure with Armando; it was about the exchange. The sweep had been clumsy in form but flawless in purpose, and she admired that. He had learned quickly. Perhaps too quickly for her liking.

Her feet scraped softly as she rose, the canvas giving a faint creak beneath her weight. Every eye was on them now. The crowd had that taut silence again, the kind that stretched thin before it snapped. She twirled one shoulder, let her neck roll once to the side, loosening herself for whatever he had planned next. The grin across the mat told her he had already decided. Her stance shifted lower, arms raised, instincts flickering between defence and anticipation.

Armando exploded forward before Madeline had even fully regained her footing. His form blurred white and bronze against the glare of the lights, every ounce of his strength condensed into forward motion. She recognised the tell immediately: the bend of his knees, the tightening of his core...he was committing to a dropkick. A bold move, difficult to control, easy to punish if mistimed, but effective if it landed. And he had the space, the momentum, the precision of intent.

Madeline brought her arms up across her chest and face in a tight cross block just as his boots crashed into her. The impact ripped through her bones, a deep, concussive shock that stole the air from her lungs. She managed to meet part of the blow, enough to stop it from crushing her directly, but it was like trying to hold back a wave with a curtain. The power behind it hurled her backward as if she had no weight at all.

Her back struck the top rope; it quivered violently beneath her before throwing her over. For one breathless moment she saw the world upside down, the bright arena lights blooming overhead, the crowd a blur of faces, and then gravity reclaimed her.

She twisted halfway through the fall to spare herself the worst of it, landing hard but clean on the padded floor outside the ring. The collision was fierce, her shoulder absorbing most of it, but she stayed down only for the time it took to draw one deep, steadying breath.

[BlackAkuma]

Mass times acceleration equals force, right? Army’d never taken a physics class in his life, but he got the general gist.

The mass was about 220 pounds. You pair that with the strength in his legs, add them together, that’s about 400 pounds.

Acceleration? He’d never clocked himself, but if he had to guess, he could hit about seven miles an hour at this range—a good sprint.

You put those together, multiply, and the force that came out was nothing to fuck with. He couldn't do the math in his head, but judging by the way Madeline went flying, it probably wasn’t too far off to call it his own little car crash. It didn’t just knock her away, it bowled her over the ropes, off the apron, and onto the floor. Exactly where he wanted her to be.

Army fell on his back, threw his legs, and rose to his feet with the kip-up he couldn't do earlier, as the crowd gave him a raucous cheer. ”Yes.” He moved over to the side of the ring and looked took a quick gander over the ropes - yep, she’d come down hard, it looked like. It might not have seemed like a big deal, but getting her on the floor worked totally in his favor. Even if she got a submission hold on him out here, she wouldn’t be able to hold it for too long with the referee’s count to limit her time. It made perfect strategic sense. This was an environment he could thrive in.

”Phew, looked like you had a nasty fall.” Army slipped through the ropes and dropped to the floor as she was making her way up. ”Here, let me just…”

Army dipped down, wrapped one arm around her shoulder, then used the other clasp her thigh, pulling them tight together. For a moment - a glorious, wonderful moment - their bodies met again and shared heat. His lips came to her neck, her chest pressed against his peck, he stiffened against her lap…

…but that moment passed, and when it did, Army arched his back, lifted her up, and sent her flying down the aisle with an Exploder Suplex.

[Lightman]

Madeline steadied herself on one knee as he landed back inside the ring, the spark of his renewed energy igniting another wave of applause from the stands. The impact of Armando's last attack still hummed through her bones, but there was something quietly satisfying about watching him rise that way: refreshed, alive, dangerous. It was precisely the kind of push she had wanted out of him. Pain was welcome in her craft; it was the language through which true competitors communicated.

She met his gaze as he slipped between the ropes, the corners of her lips curving faintly in spite of the ache building through her shoulder and back. Every fibre of him exuded anticipation. He was calculating, dissecting, strategising; not just relying on muscle but marrying it with cunning. The air between them seemed to stretch thinner with each passing breath, heavy and taut with shared purpose.

When he closed the distance, Madeline did not so much resist as react. His arm came around her shoulder, the other slipping low to grasp her thigh. The sudden closeness stunned her for half a moment. His heat pressed firm against hers, his skin slick with exertion. The proximity carried an echo of their earlier intimacies, the faint trace of that second fall lingering like an aftertaste. His breath brushed her ear, the hard plane of his chest pushing against her ribs. For a heartbeat longer, it might have been tenderness.

Then instinct screamed, the warning sharpening through every nerve. The world tilted backward as his weight shifted and his hips turned, a textbook load for an Exploder Suplex. She recognised the mechanics even before he finished locking her in. There was no time to break free. The only thing left was damage control.

She adjusted as best as she could mid-throw, arching her spine to roll through the motion rather than take it flat. Her hands came up at the last instant, palms open, ready to break the worst of the fall. The force of his throw still tore her off the ground with violent grace, gravity reclaiming her in a single heart-stopping rush. She hit the floor hard, skidding slightly, the surface biting through her skin and the slap of contact rattling up her arms. The shock spread out through her body in a harsh, aching tremor.

The crowd cried out at the impact, the sound rising and falling like a wave crashing on stone. Madeline lay still for a moment, elbows twitching as her mind caught up to her landing. She had managed to angle her body just enough to save her neck and spine, though her shoulder screamed in protest and heat flared along her back. Each breath burned, but she took it in controlled draws, her training guiding her through the chaos.

[BlackAkuma]

It was brief, but the moment where their bodies touched lit a flame under Army. While it wasn’t the first time they’d touched like this, it was different now. Before, it had been when the match was in a lull, when they were both fishing for orgasms and using intimacy as a weapon. It had been light, intimate, and subtle. He certainly had no complaints with it, mind you, but it wasn’t quite his usual rhythm.

This, however, fit much better—the heat of the match, the thrill of a long battle inching towards its climax. When Army pressed up against her now, his pounding heart slammed in her chest, and he had to fight the active urge just to take her down now and go for the orgasm straightaway.

But he resisted. It wasn’t the right time, not yet - she needed just a bit more seasoning.

The Exploder Suplex was a good start. While he couldn't tell how she came down from the move, he knew he’d delivered it without so much as a hitch, getting good hang time on the move. The smack she made on the floor was satisfying and crisp, too. From her position, it looked like she’d skidded a bit, too. Nice.

Army rolled to his feet, whipped about, and came her way with a slight skip in his step, not wanting to give too much time but not wanting to rush in, either. He moved over her body once more and reached down to pull her up by the head, standing her up, holding her tight…

A kiss. A long, tender kiss, as he walked her back, step after step, until she was pressed against the barricade. His mouth met hers, greedily, hungrily, lovingly, coaxing her to enjoy his touch as well, and it was only when she settled against the metal that he brought away. Army reached over and laid her arms across the metal, letting her use them to keep herself standing.

Their foreheads pressed, and he stared deep into those glowing green eyes of hers, meeting them with his own dark blues. ”Hold that pose for me, lady.”

That was the only warning Army would give, before he stepped back brought both arms up high, stepped forward, and dropped them both hard onto her chest, slicing into her body with a brutal Mongolian Chop.

[Lightman]

Madeline’s breath came shallow but steady, the suplex still echoing through the length of her spine. A lesser fighter would have stayed down, would have let that jarring crash linger, but for her, pain was part of the canvas. And she had always thrived in the painting of it.

When Armando’s shadow fell over her again, she looked up through her strands of hair and met the fire in his eyes. He was a man aflame now, the careful restraint of earlier rounds giving way to something raw and unfiltered.

He pulled her up by the head with a firm grasp that left no room for misunderstanding. Their bodies collided again, pressing together in the space between hostility and hunger. Even now, with every nerve alive, he still leaned into intimacy as if it were another weapon in his arsenal. And perhaps, in his hands, it was. She let him guide her backward, her feet skimming the padded floor until the cold press of the barricade greeted her spine. The air around them thickened, quiet and heavy, the crowd’s clamour muffled beneath the slowed pulse of the moment.

When his lips found hers, the kiss spilled with warmth and control. There was nothing gentle in it, no pretense of tenderness. It was hunger under discipline, the kind that burned hot and precise. Madeline let him lead it, her mouth answering in kind, her fingers brushing fleetingly against his chest as if testing his intent, reminding him she was still present, still dangerous even in submission’s guise. For a heartbeat longer she let him have it - the illusion that he was dictating their pace.

Then it was gone. The kiss broke cleanly, breath mixed with a faint gasp as he pulled away. She stayed where she was, palms now braced on the barricade, her chest rising and falling with faint tremors. Their foreheads touched, a rare pause, and she watched his gaze like a hawk tracks flight. There was no mistaking the darkness in those eyes. Focus, heat, challenge. He gave his warning, a single sentence drawn with the precision of a finishing line.

The impact was brutal. His arms came down like dual blades, the flat of his hands slamming across her chest with the harsh crack of thunder. The crowd gasped, a wave of noise cascading through the arena, and the shock bolted through her body in one clean, searing line. Her back arched against the barricade as her breath caught, pain blooming beautifully through her sternum. For a moment she bent forward, one hand coming instinctively to her chest as the ache spread outward, pulsing and fierce.

But then the sound came - low and rich, rolling from her throat into a soft laugh that drew eyes back to her.

Madeline looked up at him, strands of hair framing the sharpness of her smile. The sting reddened her skin, a mark of where his hands had struck, but her eyes brightened all the more for it. “...Is that all?” The words drenched in amusement rather than defiance. “Or are you saving your strength for later?” The tone was a taunt but an invitation too, her voice threading through the tension like silk over steel.

[BlackAkuma]

Army’s lips found Madeline’s and he savored every second of their contact, so much so that it took real discipline to break away from the kiss and actually attack her. She wasn’t the first woman he’d ever kissed by any stretch of the imagination, not even close to the first he’d kiss in the ring, but he damned if he could compare any of those time to the raw energy he felt when they touched. It was like fire - as if she poured this hot, invading energy into him when they touched.

Addictive. The more he had of her, the more he wanted. He could just go and go and go, and he doubted she would even stop him. They could end the match here, right on the floor. Maybe clean off the announcer’s desk. Just climb up there, hold each other tight, and just go until one of them reaches a climax first.

He could certainly think of worse ways to end matches. But that wouldn’t be the right way to end a match. Not this match. Not the sort of climax he was looking for, and he knew Madeline would feel the same way.

So, instead, he broke the kiss in the best way he could think to - with aggression. His arms shot out and sliced into her bountiful breasts with all the heat he could muster. He’d taken a few chops like that in his time, and while he obviously didn't have Madeline’s gifts in that area, he couldn't imagine they would make the sensation any better. She took it hard, too, bending over and grasping her chest. For a second, he worried he might gone too far.

Then came the laugh.

Army moved in as she rose up, pressing his forehead against his while she spoke, staring deep. A challenge, delivered in that lovely tone of hers. She wanted it harder, then? Okay. He could do that.

Army moved back and lashed out again, following up his chop with another to the same area - just as hot, just as hard, something to keep her in place for a few seconds. He pressed his body against her and pinned her to the metal a moment later, while he brought his mouth to hear and let the hot words fly. ”You are the sexiest woman I have ever fucking met.” He sighed and stepped away, letting her sag. ”I’ll be right back.”

Army broke away and slid back into the ring - partially to break the referee’s count, but mostly so he could cross to the other side and make his way to the floor over there. Once his boots were on the ground, he took a second to gaze back her way and bounce on his heels, as his brain did all the minor calculations. How fast he’d need to go, how best to hit the corners, the timing.

A deep breath, an exhale, and he was off, charging around the ring, faster and faster. He picked up speed with every step, rounding one corner, then the other, until he was moving at his highest possible pace. Army barreled towards Madeline, a living freight train, with the full intention of slamming his shoulder into her chest and running her over.

[Lightman]

Madeline’s chest still thrummed from the echo of his last strike, a pulsing ache that curled tightly around the centre of her body and flared with every breath. Yet within that pain, there was something exquisite. Armando’s touch - violent, yes, but precise - always seemed to skate that line between brutality and reverence, an intimacy born through adversity. She could taste the lingering heat of his kiss on her lips, the stolen breath that came before the blow. It had been a strange sort of tenderness, almost worshipful in the way it built toward destruction.

The second chop came just as fierce as the first, his palms striking her chest with a force that lit stars in her chest. The sound cracked through the air, audible even above the roar of the crowd. Her back struck the barricade again, and the last gasp caught in her throat, but what followed made the audience catch theirs as well. Laughter. Clear, sharp, defiant. Her head tipped slightly back as a wry smile tugged across her mouth. “Better~.” she breathed, her voice smoky, thick with challenge.

He pressed his body in against hers, the coiled intensity between them returning in full force. The heat of his breath on her neck came paired with words that might have made another woman melt entirely. Madeline’s brow twitched upward when she heard them. Sexiest woman? A compliment, certainly, but she heard something deeper beneath it, the admittance that she had got under his skin at last.

Exactly where she wanted to be.

Then he was gone again, leaving her against the barricade as the referee’s count carried on. She stayed there long enough to gather herself, one hand running over the reddened imprint across her chest, the other gripping the barricade to steady her. Her eyes followed him as he slipped back into the ring, tracking the draw of every muscular stride.

He was planning something. His deliberate pacing telegraphed intent. She knew better than to underestimate what came next.

When he began his run, it was like watching power take shape in human form. Each stride drew a rise from the audience, the crowd feeding his motion until his charge became unstoppable. He thundered around the edge of the ring, rounding corners like a storm rolling off the sea.

By the time he was coming for her, his speed had built to a brutal crescendo, his body lowered, target locked. If he connected, it would be devastating.

Madeline dropped low just as he surged toward her. The timing had to be immaculate, the precision absolute. As his shoulder cut through the space where her midsection had been a beat before, she pivoted sharply and hooked her arm across his leg, guiding his own forward pressure against him. The motion was fluid, practised, born from hours upon hours of mat work. The drop toe hold snapped into place perfectly, his momentum carrying him forward with nowhere to go but crashing down.

[BlackAkuma]

To say that Madeline was getting under his skin would be an understatement, but not in the way such a thing would typically mean. Women had gotten under his skin before, especially in the ring. Just in his time at LAW so far, Ami Takeuchi had managed to get under his skin by pissing him off with her lunkhead of a boyfriend. Veronika had gotten under his skin with the way she’d sneak-attacked him and knocked him out. He was better at this sort of thing than he used to be, but finding your way under the skin of Armando Rodriguez was still no major accomplishment.

No, she was under his skin in the good way. He didn’t like to think past his matches, but he was already hoping that this wouldn’t be the last time they crossed paths. Madeline struck him as a person he’d like to know, as if there was something there worth exploring.

But those were thoughts for later. Here, in this moment, he needed control. He needed to seize the moment, and he could think of the perfect way to do it: Overwhelming force. His specialty.

Army came around the corner with a full head of steam, locked on target, and things solid for a moment…right up until the second they didn’t. It wasn’t anything obvious, no clear tell that gave her away, but his brain analyzed the stance, the look in her eyes, the poise in her feet, and warned of danger.

Too late. Too much momentum, too much speed, Army couldn't stop himself any more than a bullet from the barrel.

It all changed in an instant. One second, his target was there, ready to be crashed into. The next second, she was gone; he tripped forward and crashed to the floor with a worrying amount of momentum. He tried to get his hands up, and succeeded, but there was only so much force he could absorb that way - in this case, not nearly enough. His face still hit, like running into a brick wall. The impact traveled through his skull and left him thoroughly rattled, laid out and motionless.

[Lightman]

Mass times acceleration equals force, indeed.

The phrase slid through Madeline’s mind again, something she had learned through experience rather than theory. She had felt his mass in motion, the raw kinetic intensity of him every time he closed in, every time he struck. When Armando moved, the world tended to get out of the way. This time, however, the equation had turned upon itself. All acceleration and nowhere for the energy to go but straight into the barricade. The sound was spectacular, a dull, meaty crack followed by the metallic groan of impact. The audience flinched as he slumped forward, his momentum folding against him.

Madeline lingered there for a heartbeat, letting the echo fade before stepping closer. Her lips curled in that familiar feline smirk, part admiration, part mischief. “Oh, dear.” she called out through the din, tone light but touched with mock sympathy. “That fall looked rather nasty. I do hope the poor, poor barricade is in one piece.” The teasing earned her a ripple of laughter from the nearby crowd, but her eyes, sharp as glass, stayed fixed on him, studying motion and breath with a fighter’s scrutiny.

She could not allow herself to luxuriate in the moment for long, not with the referee’s count already rising. The numbers came steady and indifferent, a cold reminder that their war existed within rules, however loosely obeyed. Both would be counted out if they tarried too long on the floor. And that wouldn't be a good ending, wouldn't it?

Madeline took hold of his wrist first, then his shoulder, and began to tug him back from the barricade’s edge. The muscles in her back tightened, pain singing down from the shoulder that had borne the weight of his suplex earlier. A hiss escaped through her teeth, but she powered through it, dragging his considerable frame just far enough into open space.

He was heavy, solid in a way that demanded respect, but she had never been one to yield to simple weight. Adjusting her position, she shifted down alongside him, her cheek brushing against the heat of his shoulder as she rolled them both in one clean, practised motion. A Ranger Roll, executed with grace and precision. His body came over hers fluidly, letting her redirect the bulk of his weight without brute strength. Once on her knees again, she hooked an arm beneath his and hauled upward, her other hand adjusting around his thigh to hoist him properly.

The Fireman’s Carry was inelegant for the former aristocrat, but effective. Madeline braced her stance, legs spread for balance, and engaged her hips. Steadily, she lifted him until his torso draped across her shoulders. The heat of his body pressed against her neck, sweat catching along her collarbone as her teeth ground together from the exertion. A strained laugh, half breath and half disbelief, left her lips. “Goodness, Armando. A lady has to do everything herself?” Her voice was clipped but playful, masking the growing burn searing through her shoulder as she staggered toward the ring’s edge.

The referee’s count was still climbing as she reached the apron. With one last pull of effort, Madeline tilted forward and let gravity do part of the work. His body rolled off her shoulders onto the mat, landing somewhat ungently but safely within the ring. For a moment she rested against the apron, palms flat on the cool edge of it, breathing deeply as strain and adrenaline mingled in equal measure.

Then she slipped in after him, sliding under the bottom rope with fluid grace. Rising to one knee, she cast a glance at the referee, giving a single nod as if to say we are both here. Her gaze returned quickly to Armando’s prone form, eyes tracing along the rise and fall of his chest as she pushed up to her own two feet. “Come now, my dear…” she murmured, smoothing a hand over her damp fringe as her foot tapped his cheek awake. “…shall we see what is left in that beautiful chaos of yours?”