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

[BlackAkuma]

Army could tell that Madeline was used to this sort of thing, too. Not just using these techniques or this style, but with employing them against people who had a distinct size advantage over her. He was quite sure he wasn’t the first person to find themselves looking up at those devious emerald eyes, and he damn sure wouldn’t be the last.

What pretty eyes, though…

Fuck, stop that. ”I’ve, uh, got no idea what you’re talking about, lady.” Army pointedly tried to look at anything but her eyes as she brought them up, still toying with him even now. ”You’ve got something on your lip, that’s all.”

She probably wouldn’t buy that, but oh well, he had bigger concerns at the moment - like, say, staying conscious, which was getting hard to do. Not only was the circulation getting caught off, but his arm was growing. His jabbing arm, of course. Not only was she choking the life out of him but she was weakening one of his best weapons, too. So much bang for her buck, she had to respect it.

He also needed to deal with it, and he saw two options on that front. There was the crazy one, and the more reasonable one. As much as he loved some crazy, he decided to go with the latter for the moment, and hope it might be enough.

Army languished in the hold for a few seconds longer, before her abruptly rolled again, this time rising up to his knees. That wouldn’t get her off, either, but it would put her back on the mat, precisely where he wanted. Army planted his feet, posted up, and tried to drive his weight on Madeline from above, looking to pin her shoulders to the canvas. The referee took a second to realize what was happening, then slid in to start the count.

”1…!”

[Lightman]

There had been a night years ago when Madeline had wrapped her legs around the neck of a man who looked like a brick wall with arms and legs. He must have been taller than Armando, broader too, with shoulders like iron doors and the same stubborn certainty that strength alone would carry him through anything placed in front of him. He had laughed when she touched him, laughed again when she climbed him, and stopped laughing altogether when the pressure set in and the angles betrayed him. Technique had folded him where muscle could not, and she had learned then that size was only ever a problem if you treated it with respect instead of precision.

That memory lingered now as she watched Armando strain beneath her, saw the way his eyes darted anywhere but where she wanted them. The excuse about her lip earned a quiet, knowing smile, one that curved without cruelty. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.” Her voice low and even, emerald eyes still fixed on him. The choke stayed snug, her calves tight, hips angled just so, every breath he fought for carefully rationed.

But good things never seem to last. Army’s body rolled again, stronger this time, determination replacing the earlier flailing. When he surged up to his knees and drove forward, forcing her shoulders toward the mat, she recognised the intent instantly. The referee’s movement caught in her peripheral vision, with the count following shortly after. “Heh…points for creativity~.” She remarked, breath steady despite the shift, with a hint of warmth in her tone.

”1…!”

Madeline remained calm. Panic was how people lost positions. Instead, she let the triangle go at the exact moment the weight came down, releasing pressure only to create something sharper. Her legs unhooked and re-threaded in one smooth motion, hips swivelling as she turned onto her side, hands guiding his trapped arm across her body.

Before the count could even think of continuing, she’d already pivoted out, legs climbing his shoulder line, thighs clamping around his upper arm. With a swift motion, her back arched slightly as she extended her hips, pulling his wrist tight to her chest. Her heels drew down, knees squeezing as she refined that angle, ensuring his elbow was isolated and his posture broken once more.

An armbar. Bloomed out of the scramble, clean and sudden, seeking to turn his attempt into another problem entirely.

[BlackAkuma]

It might have been hard to tell at the moment, but Army was having the time of his life. This was exactly the sort of thing he’d gotten back into wrestling for, something boxing could never given him. Wrestling people like Madeline who challenged him in ways he would never have thought of, push him to try new things, expanding his view on the world of combat sports. It was an experience he couldn't get anywhere else.

Plus, it didn’t hurt that Madeline was hot as all hell, too. He was never going to complain about a luscious pair of thighs wrapped around his head.

That being said, he would’ve enjoyed said thighs a bit better if they were doing something more pleasant to him. Anything besides choking the life of him which was happening in rapid fashion. The spots were beginning to show up, he was getting light, and he wagered he only had a few seconds before he took a nap. He needed to use his time wisely.

In his opinion, he did. He doubted the pin attempt would work, she was way to sharp for that, but it did force her to drop the hold, so it was a small win. The only problem, though, was that she didn’t give up his arm. Instead, she locked in with those powerful legs of her, and he went wide-eyed with recognition as he was forced back down again. ”Ah, come on, fuckfuckfuck-”

Yup, an armbar, the bane of every striker’s existence. Army had been put in no small amount of them in his lifetime, and had to wear a cast for a month after a particularly nasty one. He actually knew some ways to deal with it, but he wasn’t about to even try any of them. Not only would she probably shut that shit down fast, but he’d just wear his arm out in the process, and he couldn't afford that in a match like this. Discretion and valor.

Army put his big body to good use and made mad moves towards the ropes, dragging Madeline along if need be, until he could get his foot on the bottom one and break the hold. The whole while he did his best to endure the pain, as it felt like his arm was getting yanked out of the socket.

[Lightman]

The armbar had always been one of those holds that made boxers swear under their breath. Madeline learned early that fighters who lived and died by their strengths despised anything that threatened to take those away from them, and she had built an entire layer of her game around that truth. In the case of boxers, their hands. As she leaned back and kept his arm threaded tight against her chest, she allowed herself a small smile. “Oh come now, you really ought to have seen that coming.” She teased. “All those years throwing punches and you haven't learned how to live down here properly?”

Her legs stayed cinched, thighs tight against his shoulder line, heels drawing in just enough to keep his posture broken. The English Rose did not wrench or snap; there was no need for that. Instead, she applied steady, patient pressure, the kind that forced decisions without theatrics. Each inch Armando dragged himself closer to the ropes was earned through discomfort, and she made sure he paid for every one of them.

When his weight shifted and he began to crawl, she followed, hips scooting with him, never allowing the angle to slacken. One leg crept higher across his face, toes curling to deny him space, while the other pressed down across his ribs to stop him from turning the wrong way. The hold tightened; not with violent intent, but through geometry, her body rearranging itself to keep his arm isolated as the canvas slid beneath them.

“You know...” she continued calmly. “…this is where flailing gets you nowhere.” There was no mockery in her tone, only the faintest hint of amusement. “It’s all levers and patience. Not very glamorous, I know.” Her grip on his wrist adjusted subtly, ensuring his thumb stayed pointed skyward, keeping the joint vulnerable without tearing it free. One leg slightly raising, so that she'd gently tap his cheek with her foot with each syllable. “But it works.”

As the ropes crept closer, she shifted again, angling her hips and briefly rolling onto her side to convert the armbar into a more diagonal stretch, forcing him to drag both their bodies rather than just his own. Which would make the journey harder, but not impossible, and she allowed that on purpose. The struggle was part of the conversation between them, a test of resolve as much as skill.

She watched him grit his teeth and persist, respect flickering behind her eyes. “That’s it…” she murmured, almost encouraging. “…Work for it.”

[BlackAkuma]

How big was a wrestling ring? 20 x 20, something like that, right? Didn’t seem all that big when you were moving around throwing moves and trying to outflank your opponent. When you were on your back with your arm getting yanked by a hot Brit dressed up like a rose, however, it seemed absolutely massive. Funny how perspective can change your outlook on things.

She was making him work for every inch of the journey, too, and not just with the move itself. That was bad, yeah - she had it locked in tight, and adjusted with ease every time he seemed to get even the slightest hint of respite - but the talking was what really got to him. She had this sweet, honeyed voice that drew you, sensual and soothing, even as she threatened to snap tendons and break bones.

”Levers. Patience. Got it. I’ll remember that when I get you in one of these.” Probably wasn’t going to happen, but it made for a fun image. He winced along with every tap of the foot against his face, flashed her a quick grimace that properly displayed his thoughts of ‘Seriously?’ then went back to his agonizing journey. ”Where’d you…” He hissed as his arm was subjected to a particularly painful twist. ”Where’d you learn this stuff, anyway? You give off big Downton Abbey vibes, got the whole Tudor rose thing going on. They had classes for this stuff at the prep school?”

Assuming she even went to prep school, of course. He was making assumptions. Somehow, he doubted he was far off the mark, though. She had that regal air thing going on.

”Thanks.” A little more. ”...I appreciate…” Almost there. ”...the encouragement.”

Army made a final, definitive scooch, then swung his leg out to snag the bottom rope, breaking the hold and - hopefully - getting him his arm back.

[Lightman]

“You won’t.”

Madeline replied, voice smooth as she leaned back into the armbar once more. “And even if you did, it would only be because I let you try. Probably a couple of times. Just so you learned how to do it properly, not like some wild guess.” A faint smirk curved her lips as she spoke, eyes bright with mischief. The pressure on his arm never quite relenting, hips angled to keep the joint extended while his slow crawl continued.

She gave an exaggerated little sigh at his question, playing along without missing a beat. “Oh yes. Prep school.” she said sweetly. “Elite instruction. Private tutors. Butler on one side, maid on the other, both correcting my posture while I learnt how to break limbs between tea breaks and Latin revision.” Her tone was rich with sarcasm, eyes bright as she watched him grit his teeth and drag them another inch closer to salvation.

The truth sat quietly beneath the humour. Her parents had loathed the idea of her fighting, had tried to steer her toward gentler pursuits, more fitting for the image they preferred. Wrestling mats and bruises had not been part of that vision. So she had paid her own way, sought out reputable gyms and unglamorous halls, refining raw talent through stubborn work rather than pedigree. Money can buy access, but it cannot buy understanding, and she had learned that lesson early.

Madeline adjusted once more, rotating her hips a fraction. The pressure sharpened for a heartbeat, just enough to encourage him more to find release. “Though as you probably know…” she continued conversationally, “… money and tutors do not make a fighter.” One heel pressed more deliberately against his shoulder as she applied a little extra pressure for emphasis. “You can throw endless resources at someone and still end up with nothing. Talent helps. Hunger matters more.” There was no bitterness in her voice, only certainty, born of long hours paid for with her own time and effort.

Armando’s leg stretched, foot scraping at the bottom rope, and she allowed herself a small, indulgent increase in pressure. Just a fraction. Enough to make it linger. The joint complained as she drew her hips closer, posture tall, spine straight, control absolute. The referee’s count began, and she listened to it with almost polite patience.

Now, she could have held until the five-count. Albeit cruel, it is still within the rules, and on the battlefield, you take any advantage you can get. However -and thankfully for Army- she released at three. Cleanly. Gracefully. Her legs unthreaded, and she rolled away from him rather than off him, palms pressing to the mat as she rose to a knee. The arm was given back without protest, though not without consequence, and she regarded him with a look that mixed amusement and respect in equal measure.

Standing again, she offered him a small, amused smile, hands resting loosely at her sides. “You did well.” She said, tone sincere beneath the teasing. “Most don’t make it that far. I’d say give yourself a pat on the back, but…”

[BlackAkuma]

Yeah, she was probably right, wasn’t going to happen, anytime soon. Didn’t change the fact that it was a fun image, though. ”Well, if you get the urge to let me try, by all means - indulge.” He snicked through his grunts. ”I’m a good student.”

Blatant lies.

Army was about 90% sure Madeline was just joking about the butler and the maid helping her train, and that 10% was just because it wasn’t easy to process sarcasm when you were in immense pain. It made for a funny image, but it wouldn’t be the craziest thing he’d ever heard of.

It put a thought in his head, but it would have to wait for a moment, as he finally - finally - managed to get the ropes and break the hold. He tensed up, preparing for the long five seconds, but lucky for him, Madeline wasn’t the type to milk that shit - she only made him suffer for the three, and barely at that. They parted ways and Army immediately rolled away and began nursing his aching arm.

Damage report? Not bad, but not good. It didn’t feel like any permanent damage was done, but he would need more time to recover than this match was going to give him. He would be throwing blows at 75%. Enough to get the job done, but definitely a problem.

Army gripped the middle rope with his good arm and used it to push his way back up. ”Heh. You sound like my Dad.” Not the comparison you typically make with a beautiful woman, but it was true. That whole thing about hunger was right out of his book. ”’Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard’.”

Speaking of, he needed to get back to his own hard work. Army moved back into his stance again, this time work with the grappling pose, though he kept his hurt arm back to make it the harder target. No rushing in this time, no explosive bursts. He needed time, and he wanted Madeline to come his way. She’d want to press her advantage, and the more time he had to catch his breath and recover after going through submission hell, the better.

He began to circle the ring again, keeping her at a distance for the time being, mindful of every move she made. It was his turn to be cautious.

[Lightman]

Madeline answered his attempt at charm with a small, knowing smile as she stepped away from him, giving him room to recover while never quite letting the tension fade. “A good student wouldn’t need so much encouragement.” she replied lightly, eyes flicking to the arm he guarded before returning to his face. The playfulness in her tone did nothing to soften the competitive spark beneath it. She had taken note of his restraint, of the way his posture had shifted, caution replacing bravado.

As he hauled himself upright and quoted his father, she tilted her head, amused. “Wise man.” she said. “He’s not wrong. Comfort doesn’t win fights.” There was no mockery there, only a quiet acknowledgement, delivered with the calm confidence of someone who had lived by similar words. Her stance adjusted as she spoke, weight balanced and ready, shoulders loose.

She did not rush him. Instead, she began to circle in the opposite direction, mirroring his movement just enough to stay aligned. Her gaze stayed fixed on his, unblinking and intent, forcing him to account for her presence with every step. The distance between them shortened by degrees, never enough to invite an easy grab, always enough to suggest she might close it at any moment.

A subtle shift of Madeline's shoulders suggested an interest in the arm he kept back. She dipped her level slightly, as though preparing to reach for it, then straightened again, letting the feint hang in the air. Another step followed, then another, each one measured, her footwork light but purposeful. The suggestion was clear, the threat implied rather than stated.

When she eventually made her move, it was sudden but looked unassuming. As he circled, she stepped inside his path, her foot sliding out low and quick, aiming to catch his ankle as he transferred his weight. It was not a reckless sweep but a precise nudge, designed to disrupt his balance rather than fully commit. Her hands stayed high, ready to capitalise if he stumbled.

[BlackAkuma]

Army liked a lot of things about Madeline. He liked her whole competitive spirt. He liked the way she engaged with him, treating him like an equal and not just another guy to dominate. He liked the outfit, her whole rose theme, and the way she carried herself.

He did not like the way she was looking at his arm as he got back up, like she was already thinking about the next way she could take it off. Army knew he’d gotten off lucky that last time, and that he was doing good to have his arm be workable at all. If she got him down again, got another hold on that arm, then…

No, couldn't happen. He needed to be smart about this.

The two of them were moving now. Him, trying to keep his distance and keep that bad arm away from her deadly grasp. Her, keeping pace with him and making her flinch with the occasional flinch. She was going to go for the arm and it was only a matter of time.

That time turned out to only be a few seconds. In she came, going for a sweep at his legs and nearly catching him. Army threw himself back, but that put him against the ropes, which promptly bounce him forward. Towards her. Into her range.

With options fading, Army reeled back with his good arm, preparing what might’ve been the most telegraphed punch in history. Wide, loose, and he wasn’t even in the proper range to land it as he got ready to fire.

He was, however, in the right range to land his real attack, as he lurched back, brought his leg up, and shot it straight out, hoping to connect with a Big Boot to Madeline’s chest.

[Lightman]

Her sweeps had become a quiet point of pride over the years. Not flashy, not announced, but slipped in beneath the noise of movement and misdirection. Masking one intention behind another had been drilled into her back when she was training, endless hours of timing and foot placement until it became instinct. A half step too far, a shoulder turned just so, and suddenly someone taller and stronger was scrambling to keep their feet.

That instinct served her well now. As Armando tried to circle away and guard that injured arm, Madeline stayed with him, matching his pace without chasing. Each feint of her shoulders carried a promise she did not yet intend to keep, and each small adjustment of her hips invited him to react. She could see the hard calculation in his eyes, the way his attention kept snapping back to that vulnerable limb.

And when she dipped in for the sweep, it was smooth and sharp, her leg threading low with impeccable timing. She almost had him-

Ah, right. No such thing as ‘almost.’

Anyways, his balance broke just enough for her to taste it, his weight pitching back as he fought to stay upright. A small smile tugged at her lips as she followed through, already stepping forward to capitalise.

The ropes intervened before she could. They caught him and returned him to her space with a snap, closing the distance faster than she had planned. Madeline adjusted on the fly, hands lifting as she prepared to secure him, already considering how to turn the stumble into a takedown that would keep him away from safety.

Then she saw the punch coming. Wide, obvious, almost desperate. It was the sort of strike she had learned to dismiss, the kind that usually preceded a grab or a clinch. Her weight shifted to slip inside it, confidence carrying her forward as she readied herself to wrap him up again.

The kick came instead. His leg rose and shot out with sudden force, straight and uncompromising. There was no time to fully withdraw, only to brace as the impact caught her square in the chest. The breath left her in a sharp rush as the blow drove her back, rolling across the canvas.

Ever the trooper, she rocked with it, rolling onto one knee, slightly straightening up after the strike, eyes still locked on him despite the jolt. A quick laugh escaped her, breathless but undeterred. “Heh…all right…” she said, voice bright with challenge. “…That was a good one.”