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

[BlackAkuma]

Oh, Army caught that little ‘Hmmhmm’—that approving sound. He couldn't say for sure, but he got the impression that he was passing some unspoken test. It was hard to tell if it was genuine or if she was just trying to mess with him a little bit - problem column A and column B. Still, the idea that he was impressing her mattered to him, more than he would’ve expected with a woman he’d only just met.

Madeline had a way about her. Not like the usual seductive types. More sincere. He was kind of feeling it.

She was impressing him, too. He’d thrown enough punches at enough wrestlers to expect a few things from how they reacted. They tended to focus on the fists when threw them, and less on the person actually throwing them. Wrestling training included striking, but most wrestlers were decent strikers at best, few of them had the chops and instincts to hold up in a real boxing ring.

Right away, he could tell Madeline was a cut above that. While she did bite on the feint, just a little, she never brought her focus from where it belonged. She was even turning to meet him as he made his way to her backside.

It worked, but only barely, and he was certain it would fail on the second try. He wouldn’t be using that trick again.

But for now, he was going to make it work as best as he could. His next move was to lift her up and go for a takedown, but she shut that down when she widened her stance and anchored herself, forcing him to readjust. He could still work with him, but he needed time to accommodate, and she used that time wisely.

She was already moving, twisting, making the hold more awkward with each passing second. By the time he’d caught up, she was already halfway out, and she solidified her position a moment later when she ducked out of his arms and made her way to the side. Army clicked his tongue, a touch annoyed, but he wasn’t letting it bother him too much. There were still plenty of cards left to play.

Army bounced back, resetting, then moved in again with arms up. Instead of going for another tie-up, however, he ducked down, slid her way on his knee, and tried to wrap his arm around her leg as he closed the distance, hoping to bring her to the canvas with a single-leg takedown.

[Lightman]

Whatever test he suspected he was taking, Madeline allowed him to wonder about it, content to let uncertainty do its work. Armando was sincere in the way he approached her now, not the hollow swagger she had learned to dismiss. There was something quietly affirming about recognising the same instinct in another competitor, that mutual awareness that something meaningful was unfolding beneath the surface exchanges. Madeline did not need to play games with him. Her interest was sincere, rooted in the pleasure of being tested properly.

The level change came quickly, clean and efficient. The Puerto Rican's shoulder drove in, his arm cinched tight around her leg, and this time she did not deny it. She accepted the entry on her own terms, hopping once to square her hips before allowing herself to be brought down. The canvas met her in a controlled roll rather than a jolt, her weight dispersing through her side as she turned with the momentum instead of fighting it head on.

Even as she landed, her posture never collapsed. One hand immediately framed against his shoulder; the other posted lightly behind her to keep her spine upright. Her captured leg stayed active, knee flared outward to prevent him from stepping too deep between her hips. She felt his grip still secure, his head positioned well, and she respected it. This was good wrestling.

She shifted her hips back and slightly out, creating an angle rather than trying to square up beneath him. Her free leg slid in close, shin threading across his thigh, not yet committing to a full guard but denying him the ability to climb or turn the corner cleanly. Her heel bit lightly into the mat, using friction and leverage instead of strength. The pressure eased just enough.

“Nicely taken.” she said calmly, breath steady, eyes on him rather than the hold. She wasn't mocking when she said it, there's interest. She adjusted again, subtly scooting her hips away as her trapped leg straightened a fraction, forcing his arms to extend and weakening the lock around her knee.

With a small turn of her torso, she brought her knee line closer to freedom. Her shin slid higher across his midsection, not enough to establish guard but enough to create a wedge. One forearm pressed gently against his collarbone, keeping his posture broken and his weight honest. The exchange slowed, transforming from impact into problem solving.

She continued to angle out, patient, methodical, forcing him to choose between holding the leg or addressing her structure. Every second favoured her. Her core remained engaged, hips light, ready either to reclaim her foot or convert the position if he over-committed. The crowd noise faded, replaced by the quiet clarity of technique meeting technique. There was a faint smile on her lips as she held the moment. The takedown had been earned, and she treated it with respect. But respect did not mean surrender.

[BlackAkuma]

There was a time in Army’s life when he would’ve been utterly screwed, here. When he first came into wrestling, he was pure shit at this chain wrestling, MMA-grappling, amateur wrestling sort of thing, to the point where anybody with an even halfway decent understanding of technique could get him on the floor and keep him there for as long as they liked. His only real option was punching his way out of things, which, fair play, did work sometimes. Not every time. But sometimes.

While he was still no expert at this stuff, he did have the basics down well enough, to the point where he wasn’t embarrassing himself while he flopped around the ring like a fish on deck. He could get by with some basic, bread-and-butter holds.

Would that be enough to deal with Madeline, who clearly knew her shit? Well, they were about to suss that out.

Early results seemed, well, not not-promising. He actually managed to capture the leg with his takedown and bring her to the mat, which was a slight shock. He thought for sure she’d move away or counter or do something to fight him off, and that it would never even get this far.

That wasn’t to say she was making it easy, though - far from it. As he moved in and tried to transition into something useful, she brought her forearm up and put a stop to those notions straight away, keeping him at bay and giving him precious few options. Stay or go, stay or go…

He decided to get a little wild. Army let go of the leg, but instead of sticking with on the floor, he leaped straight up, kicked his leg out, extended his arm, and tried to nail her in the gut with an Elbow Drop, hoping he could come crashing down on her before she even knew what was happening.

[Lightman]

Years ago, there had been a boxer once who had sworn he could out-wrestle Madeline. He had come in loud and confident, convinced that athleticism and stubbornness would carry him through the subtleties of grappling. Madeline remembered how quickly that illusion had collapsed, how his certainty had drained away the moment she began to move him rather than meet him. People like that appeared often enough, carrying grand ideas about their own adaptability. They were rarely prepared for how unforgiving the mat could be. But this memory surfaced now not with arrogance, but with familiarity.

Thankfully, the present was more interesting. Madeline could tell the difference in Army even as she lay angled beneath his reach. He was not flailing or spazzing out; he was thinking. He had earned the takedown, and she gave him credit for it, but her placement of the forearm against his chest had not been accidental. It acted as a boundary, a line drawn to force a decision. When Armando chose to abandon the leg, Madeline noticed the shift immediately. Weight lifted, pressure changed, the incoming danger moved from control to impact.

As he sprang upward, she did not freeze. The moment his hips rose, the English Rose turned sharply onto her side, dragging her heels against the canvas to shrimp away from the line of descent. Her near arm stayed tight to her ribs while the other came up across her face and chest, forearm angled to absorb and redirect rather than block outright. Her knee slid in as well, shin rising as a shield, ensuring that even though he clipped her, it would not be clean.

The Puerto Rican’s elbow came down into the space that had been hers a heartbeat earlier. Madeline felt the rush of air and the vibration through the mat rather than the blow itself. She rolled through the movement, letting the momentum carry her onto her hip and then up onto one knee. Her hand posted briefly, fingers splayed, already searching for balance and advantage. With the danger over, a new opportunity presented itself.

An opportunity that Madeline didn’t want to rush through. Madeline slid in close as he recovered from the landing, shoulder driving lightly into his midsection as her arm threaded inside his. An arm drag followed, precise and economical, pulling Armando forward just enough to compromise his base. Her hips circled as she rose, chest close to his back, denying him space to turn and strike. “That was ambitious.” She said, speaking as if it’s a normal conversation rather than an actual match. “But you will want to be certain next time.”

Placing her feet, settling her weight, Madeline gripped firmly to gain control, not pushing for a conclusion but making her impact obvious. Army’s might was palpable to her once more, a dangerous, contained force, unlike the previous uncontrolled chaos. This was the difference she thrived on. Power answered by positioning. Impulse met with patience.

[BlackAkuma]

Army’s whole thought process here was a simple one, focusing on a single word: Surprise. While he was doing better on the mats than he had any right to, he was still a novice when it came to mat wrestling. He could already tell that Madeline was an ace when it came to the horizontal plane, and if he tried to get fancy, she might just tie him up in knots. He wasn’t too proud to submit in a match, especially with multiple falls, but having that happen not even two minutes in was too much.

So he decided to switch things up, see how well she reacted. He figured she wouldn’t expect an Elbow Drop this close up, that he’d be able to tag her before she got away. Nice, in theory. In practice, though, it fell flat.

Oh, well. You miss all the shots you don’t take.

Army saw her move away as he reached the apex, which thankfully gave him enough time to adjust in mid-air. It wasn’t a soft landing, but he managed to twist about so he landed on his side instead of ramming his elbow into the floor. He tried to push his way up and come after her, but she was quicker on the draw again - a hand on his wrist, a little leverage in her favor, and he was sent flying over with an arm drag.

He came up slower this time, left disoriented by the sudden shift, only for his focus to be directed behind as she sent those sultry words into his ear. Cocky, this one, but she’d earned it.

”Don’t worry.” He waved it off with a quick chuckle and rose again to face her. ”I will.” Fine words, but he had to make something of them. What exactly had he learned about her through all that?

She was fast. Skilled. Smart. Confident. A bit of a tease. She liked her mind games, too, trying to play with his head a bit. Overall, she was good at her game, so that wasn’t the best way to take her on. He needed to start bringing out his teeth to deal with this one.

Up came the fists, tight and focused. A strong Southpaw stance. Bouncing heels, fluid, moving from side to side. Army didn’t come rushing in with the punches just yet, though - he wanted to see how she would react. He moved in close enough to put her at the edge of his range, pressuring her to either retreat or step into the danger zone.

The whole time, he smiled. A soft, playful look, but with focused eyes that stayed locked and wouldn’t lose her for a second.

[Lightman]

The shift in his energy wasn’t lost on her the moment Armando steadied himself, letting the surprise give way to intent rather than frustration. That pleased Madeline. Many men reached for force when their plans unravelled, but this one went for adaptation. The Englishwoman straightened fully, rolling her shoulders once as if loosening silk rather than muscle, eyes never leaving him as he recovered and found his footing again.

When he rose and spoke, she met the words with a smile that lingered just long enough to be provocative. “Good answer. Learning is the only way this stays interesting.” There was no rush in her stance, no visible tension. Confidence settled around her like a tailored garment, earned rather than assumed.

And then came the change. The substitution. The hands came up tighter. The lead foot shifted.

Southpaw.

Madeline’s eyebrows lifted a fraction in open amusement, not mockery but delight. “Ah. So we are playing that game now.” She tilted her head, studying the angle of his shoulders, the bounce in his step. “Striker and grappler. A classic.”

She adjusted her own position subtly, weight light, knees soft, torso angled rather than square. Instead of retreating from his encroaching range, Madeline drifted laterally, circling just enough to deny him a straight line while remaining close enough to keep the tension alive. Her hands stayed low and relaxed, not raised in a boxer’s guard but ready to frame or intercept, fingers loose, elbows close to her ribs.

As he pressed forward, smiling, she allowed the distance to narrow by inches rather than feet. One step in. A pause. Another half step. She moved her feet deliberately, keeping her hips aligned, her spine straight, and offered him a moving target instead of remaining still. She gave him her lead side briefly, then shifted it away again, forcing his eyes to track more than his instincts might prefer.

“This seems more comfortable for you already.” Madeline observed, even as her feet traced a shallow arc across the canvas. “Just don't get too comfortable...” Her gaze dipped once to his lead hand, then returned to his eyes, inviting without conceding. The mat beneath her felt solid, familiar, ready to answer if gravity were called upon again.

She reduced the distance a bit more, making it so that a decisive attack would have serious repercussions. Her shoulders moved subtly, hinting at movement without revealing where she was going. A hand rose slightly, grazing the space, neither a barrier nor a strike, but simply an indication of being there. Focusing on mastering the current situation, not overpowering it.

[BlackAkuma]

Left, right, left, right, left, right.

Army fell into his rhythm, bouncing on his heels with perfect timing as he let the practiced movements take over. While he wasn’t bad with his grappling stance, the difference between that and this were stark - with the former, he was more rigid, less comfortable. Not to the point where it impacted his ability, but noticeable. Here, he slipped into his stance like a well-worn glove. It was all fluid motion, continuous and clean.

Of course, he wasn’t the only one making alterations to their stance. Army tipped his head to the side as Madeline resorted to more of a sidelong position, giving him less to target. She didn’t retreat, but kept moving to the side, strafing and turning herself into a moving target. Harder to hit. Not impossible.

Yeah, she knew what she was doing. Enough to hang with a real boxer, though? Hm, he had doubts. But he didn’t need to leave it to chance, now did he?

Madeline was staying close, but not too close, trying to bait him in as she skirted about his range. It was tempting just to rush in and start throwing hands, and he figured there was a good chance that would do it - just like there was a good chance she would have some plan waiting for him. She’d done a good job of staying ahead of him now, no reason for him that wouldn’t be the game plan. If he overcommitted, if her overreached…

Testing, then. He waited for her to get close, closer, closer still, before he lashed out with a right jab, followed by another right jab, followed by another right jab. Strong, swift strikes that would knock her for a loop, if they struck that pretty face of hers…but he suspected that wouldn’t happen. Right now, he was just getting her used to them, teaching her to fear them on an emotional level. She was smart enough to know the power he could bring, but he wanted her body to know it, too. He needed to imprint some fear.

[Lightman]

Yep, no mistaking it. This was where he was most himself, movement flowing without hesitation, each bounce and shift carried by muscle memory rather than thought. She respected it rather than resented it. Too many grapplers dismissed striking as something crude or secondary. She had learned long ago that she needed to acknowledge fluency, even when it was directed at your face.

The Englishwoman adjusted accordingly, body turning just enough to narrow his targets while keeping her centre balanced beneath her. Her feet traced shallow arcs across the canvas, never crossing, never planting too long. She stayed close enough to remain relevant, far enough to deny him certainty. The sidelong stance was deliberate, shoulders relaxed, chin tucked, eyes sharp. A conversation rather than retreat.

Madeline dodged the initial strike, her head moving out of the way as the punch went past the spot where she’d been. The follow-up arrived instantly, and this time she met it with a raised forearm, deflecting rather than absorbing, so the blow’s energy washed over her bones instead of sinking into her flesh. The third brushed her glove, close enough to feel the wind of it, close enough to remind her that distance was still his ally.

She did not flinch. That, more than anything, was her answer. Instead, she stepped in on the tail end of the exchange, closing space only after the punches had passed their point of danger. Her lead hand rose briefly to touch his wrist, not to grab but to mark timing, while her shoulder angled inward to protect her centre. It was a grappler’s entry, subtle and opportunistic, born from patience rather than panic.

“Strong.” The word was offered without mockery as she shifted back out of range again, refusing to linger. Her expression remained composed, eyes bright with interest rather than fear. If he wanted to teach her body a lesson, she would let it learn selectively. There was no need to absorb more than was necessary.

The English Rose continued her lateral movement, giving him new angles, new questions, forcing him to reset with every step. The jabs had found their rhythm, but she was already mapping the spaces between them, the moments where structure overcame speed. Fear was not something she carried easily. Respect, yes. Caution, certainly. But fear required surrender, and she had not given him that. Not yet.

[BlackAkuma]

”Hm.” Army’ s jaw shifted, with the slightest of slight nods. ”Good footwork.”

He wasn’t looking directly at her feet, mind you, but he could tell her movements well enough from where he stood to say that she was doing a better-than-good job at moving about the ring. He’d seen enough boxers with bad footwork to know good footwork when he saw it - hell, he’d been one of those bad boxers, until his Dad made him take some dancing lessons so he could learn to move his feet. He was still reaping the benefits to this day. Not only with his improved moment around the ring, but also being able to bust out a halfway decent tango.

Madeline’s footwork served her well, as he came at her with the barrage and peppered her with right jabs. Dodged the first, good work. The second came too quickly for that, though, and she smacked her glove. The third came closer still, a direct shot on the hand. He was honing in, closing on the target. A little more, a little more. ”Fast.” He threw back as she danced into his range, then back out to safety again—little minx.

Undeterred, Army stepped in and pressed the assault again, letting more jabs fly. They were fast, sharp, strong, but they weren’t meant to hit. It would be nice if they did, but more than anything he was using them to cut off the ring, subtly working her to the ropes and giving her less room to work with. He let one fly, then another, then another, going with a steady rhythm, trying to make her comfortable, get her into the groove, keep your eye on the birdy…

There.

Once she was close enough to the ropes - to his eyes at least - Army rushed in, dipped down, and swung low with a left hook, going for a powerful body shot to rattle her ribs and take her breath away.

[Lightman]

A faint, knowing smile touched her lips in response to the acknowledgement. Praise delivered so plainly carried more weight than bravado, and she answered it not with words but with continued motion. Her steps remained light and economical, never wasted, heels barely kissing the canvas as she angled and re-angled herself in response to his pressure. There was no panic in her pace, only calculation, the quiet assurance of someone who trusted her balance even under fire.

The jabs came again, sharper now, more insistent. One slipped past her shoulder as she turned just enough to let it graze air. Another clipped her glove with a firm pop, the impact resonating up her forearm. She accepted that one without complaint, absorbing it cleanly and letting the contact inform her timing rather than rattle her focus. The next brushed her hand again, close enough to be honest, close enough to matter. She gave him a brief glance and a soft huff of amusement. “Warmer…” she remarked, voice steady, almost encouraging.

The ring began to narrow around her; the ropes creeping closer at her back as the jabs continued to guide rather than chase. Madeline recognised the intent immediately. Cutting space, setting rhythm, building comfort. It was clever work, and she allowed herself to be shepherded just a little longer, feet still active, shoulders loose, spine tall. Her hands stayed ready, not high like a boxer’s guard but positioned to intercept, frame, or clinch should the distance collapse.

When he surged in and dipped low, the shift was obvious. Madeline reacted instantly, forearm dropping to shield her ribs as she turned her hip inward, taking the hook across muscle rather than bone. The impact thudded solidly, driving breath from her lungs, but she rode it rather than recoiling, stepping into him instead of away. One arm threaded over his shoulder while the other wrapped under his opposite arm, establishing a tight over under clinch before he could reset.

She pressed her forehead lightly into his chest, knees bent, base widened, using proximity to deny him space for follow up strikes. Her hands adjusted quickly, fingers gripping fabric and muscle, anchoring him in place. “Mmm…Hot.” she said quietly, breath controlled despite the hit. Her foot slid behind his, threatening a trip, her hips shifting as she tested his balance without committing to the throw.

Now, the ropes were no longer an issue. The exchange had moved into her preferred language, leverage being favoured over speed. Madeline stayed close, composed, eyes burning with competitive hunger as she worked to turn his momentum to her advantage.