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

[BlackAkuma]

Army had thought he’d seen it all when it came to sex. That wasn’t a flex so much as it was a statement of verifiable fact, something that anyone tied with the wrestling world today could boast. You didn’t even have to watch all that much LAW, and you'd be exposed to some of the wildest sex acts ever concocted by the human mind, stuff you’d never even think about or consider another human being into.

And yet, getting thigh-fucked while he was being choked into unconsciousness? That was a new one, even for Army’s standards. It might’ve seemed a little mundane compared to some of the more insane sex acts he’d witnessed, but he could say from personal experience, now - it was something else. Out of this world.

Army’d never been too big on the typical domination stuff - he wouldn’t say no if a partner wanted to bring in some whips and chains, sure, but he was never the one to ask in the first place. Not big on toys. But someone using their body to keep him down, working him over with the sort of skill that took time and dedication to master, was right up his alley.

Madeline was fitting that bill perfectly. Even through his current haze, he could realize that she’d been working him over perfectly for the past few minutes, positioning him right where she wanted him, executing her plan with precision and patience. It wasn’t too different from a boxer sizing up his opponent, getting him used to feints from one side, leaving openings, all so he could set up for the perfect, matchending counter. He respected the craft, even as he was the one serving as a guinea pig.

She’d spent her time wisely. Invested. Now, she was about to cash out.

Army couldn't have stopped her from working him over if he wanted to, and he really did not want to. Her ministrations sent waves off peerless pleasure through his body, and he couldn't help but respond, moaning even as she made that simple act so much more difficult. She was all over him, controlling every inch. He couldn't even properly breathe without her permission. As close as you could get to true domination.

There was no fighting this, no resisting, no saving throw. When she asked - no, commanded him to finish, it happened. He might as well have had a button for her to push.

Army shuddered, bucked up hard, and shudder ran through his body as the inevitable occurred. His body tensed up, rigid as steel, then fell flaccid again and deflated beneath her, leaving him utterly spent. It was clear what had just happened, but the referee’s watchful eye confirmed it, and the signal was given.

Another bell, another fall. This one was Madeline’s.

[Lightman]

Madeline could still recall with crystalline clarity the first time she had watched LAW as a young woman, long before she had ever stepped foot in a ring herself. The spectacle of it all had been intoxicating: strength and beauty intertwined, power turned to performance. The way the women used their bodies as weapons and instruments of pleasure had mesmerised her, how victory could be both carnal and disciplined. One memory in particular had never left her. Watching a match where a fighter brought her opponent undone without ever tearing a thread of fabric from her body. To win through pleasure alone was, she decided then, one of the purest demonstrations of skill imaginable.

It had been her meeting with Lacramioara Albescu that truly opened her eyes to what that sort of mastery demanded. The Romanian had spoken about control as though it were a religion, about finding the exact point where desire tipped into defeat. Lacramioara’s precision had been legendary, and Madeline had studied it closely, learning how much artistry existed in restraint.

Both understood the lesson that's imprinted, with the aim not to destroy, but to usher someone willingly towards their own unravelling. And Madeline could say she's achieved that perfect balance.

Even now, as Armando hung between pleasure and suffocation, she recognised that rare line at last, the quiet point where his resistance had ceased to be about escaping and had become about endurance, where he was not trying to fight but to feel. It was, in its own strange way, a trust. Her thigh worked against him in deep, deliberate sweeps, guiding his body toward a culmination that was no longer in question but simply awaiting permission to happen.

Madeline had always relished that moment where she could command an orgasm with nothing more than a word or a look. It wasn’t meant to be cruel, even if some might see it that way. It was about connection, about proving her understanding of another in the most profound language two bodies could share. To bring someone to that edge and let them fall exactly when she willed it was to affirm her dominance and her grace in equal measure.

Her gaze locked on his and, as his muscles stiffened beneath her, she released the choke at precisely the right heartbeat. Air would rush back into his lungs, and before he could even register it, her lips crashed onto his in a deep, consuming kiss. It was fiery and languid at once, her tongue tasting the remnants of his restraint, claiming him completely while his body convulsed beneath her. She kissed through the tremors, through every pulse that marked his surrender, until his strength began to ebb and the sound of the bell broke the spell around them.

When the final quiver ran out of him, she drew back by degrees, her breathing unhurried, her eyes steady. Emerald irises caught the overhead light, flecks of gold glinting as she studied him. Her face was calm, almost tender, but her cheek still glowed with the satisfaction of victory. “Still with me?” A soft, low murmur left her lips, close enough that he could feel her breath against his mouth.

[BlackAkuma]

Army could still remember the first hentai match he’d ever seen, back before he even had the whiff of getting into wrestling. At the time, it had all looked so stupid to his untrained eyes. It had been some woman - a girl, really - beating around a guy twice her size. Hell, not just beating him, dominating him in grand fashion. Picking him apart, pinning him, stripping him, then…well, the fun part. All on international TV.

It was silly, it was absurd, it wasn’t real wrestling. He was pretty sure he’d said those exact words, too, and he held onto that belief for the longest time…until it was his turn in the ring, and he wound up losing. Not as badly as the guy he’d seen, no, that was hard to top. But close enough. Too close for his liking.

There was poetry to hentai wrestling. He didn’t see it at the time, but as the loser of those matches who’d see more than a few defeats, he could see it. And he could tell well enough that Madeline was a damned artiste at it.

There were orgasms, and then there were orgasm, and then here was whatever you called the sweet bliss that Madeline gave. Army, despite being a boisterous sort, tended to get fairly quiet during sex, not the sort to make much noise; the groaning cry that came out of him couldn't be helped. It could be blocked, though, and that was precisely what Madeline did when she brought their lips together for another smoldering kiss.

It wasn’t the first time they swapped spit in this match, but with the asphyxiation and the dominance and the orgasm heightening his senses, it was exponentially more satisfying. Army pushed up to meet her as their tongue slipped and slid along each other like old friends. It was more than a peck, too - she held it, relished it, rode him out through the orgasm, even as the heady scent of sex filled the air.

The tension fell for his muscles, he sagged back down, and only then did she pull away, leaving him to suck in giant gulps of air. Even though that, he managed a laugh at her question. ”Some parts of me are. Others, notsomuch.” He ran a hand through his hair and flopped back as the audience gave her a quick - but deserved - round of applause.

”Now I’ve really got to make you blow in the third round.” He lifted his head up, just enough so he could lock eyes with that vivid, viridian gaze. ”I owe you for that. Wow.”

[Lightman]

“So long as the parts you need to fight with are still there, then that will suffice.” Madeline said with a lilt of amusement curling through her tone. Her accent came out thicker than usual, as it often did when satisfaction coloured her words. “I wasn't trying to break your mind with that one, so I'd hate for you to miss that experience. You still seem rather talkative, so I would say it worked beautifully.” Her lips tilted into the kind of smile that looked friendly at a glance, but behind it lingered a feline knowingness, the smile of someone who had not simply won but enjoyed every second of the conquest.

She shifted her weight over him in one seamless movement, drawing him upright with ease until he sat squarely against her. Her thighs bracketed his hips as she settled down to rest on his lap, the slick warmth of skin against skin renewing the spark between them. The proximity was intimate, unhurried, and absolute. The audience was still there, still a pulse in the background, but she barely heard them. She wanted this moment, the space that existed only between his eyes and her own.

Her fingers brushed through his hair, coaxing his chin higher. “Make me blow, hmm?” she repeated, her voice dipping low enough for him alone. “I must confess, I am most curious what that entails. You have had two rounds to study me. Do tell, what cunning strategy does my dear Armando have in mind?” Each word was punctuated by the lazy sway of her hips over his, subtle yet deliberate, drawing small frictions through the haze of his exhaustion.

She kissed him before he could answer. A lingering, tasting kiss, more taunt than tenderness. When she drew back, there was a faint sheen at the corner of her mouth, and her eyes sparkled with playful defiance. “Unless…” she went on softly, her lips ghosting across his jaw, “…you intend to surprise me.” A teasing hum escaped her throat, not quite a laugh, more like approval wrapped in challenge. “I’ll let you keep your secrets~.”

Her hips began to roll again, a smooth undulation that sent tiny shocks of pleasure between them. It was not hard, not insistent. It was steady, an expression of control disguised as affection. The movement invited his body to respond, coaxing what energy he had left. Her hands wandered from his shoulders to his chest, tracing languid circles while her mouth found his neck, grazing it with a series of feather-light kisses.

The crowd watched in absolute silence, hypnotised by the intimacy that unfolded before them. Madeline, however, appeared utterly at ease beneath the scrutiny. There was no shame, only ownership of her craft, her opponent, her breath. She leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “Do not disappoint me in the third. I'd hate for the ending to be spoiled after coming so far.” The final word came out like a caress, low and silken, leaving him to imagine whether it was a promise, threat, or something far more dangerous.

Then, with one last sway of her hips, she disengaged, rising with the same powerful ease she carried in every movement. Her hand trailed briefly down his bare chest before she stood, giving him space to gather himself. She tilted her head, looking down at him with that impossible balance of mischief and elegance. “Catch your breath.” she said, voice lilting, almost kind. “You will need it~.” And with that, she turned round toward the corner, her bare thigh brushing against his face, still with some of the mess he made from before. Wherever it was done on purpose or accidentally is up debate. But only Madeline knows the truth.

[BlackAkuma]

If Army had to compare Madeline to an animal, it would be a cat. Or, well, what people who didn’t own cats always thought cats acted like. His sister owned one, briefly, when he was growing up, and he’d always found the damned thing to be fussy as hell. Hissing at him the moment he came anywhere near his personal space, running all over the house at the late hours of the night, even scratching him once for daring to lie on his own bed while she was sleeping there. He was honestly kind of glad when she ran away one day.

But Madeline was more like the cat ideal. Laidback, relaxed, cool. Despite just jacking him off with her thigh, there was a calming air between them that he found himself quite digging. And that smile, the quiet confidence, worked well for her. ”Yeah, my legs and fists are working fine, don’t worry.” He breathed deep and savored her scent - smelled like sweat and roses. Not surprising, but pleasant. You could bottle that and make some money. ”The rest’ll catch up soon, don’t worry.”

She pulled him up, closed what little distance there was between them, and Army eagerly accepted the embrace. It was close, intimate, but in a personal way, she did so well. He couldn't speak for her, but his body was growing accustomed to her touch. Those fingers through his hair felt natural, their bodies fit like a lock and a key. He sway along with her as she spoke, meeting for a subtle grind.

”You know-”

The kiss shouldn’t have surprised him, but it still managed to, just a little. He hummed into it, then reciprocated. His tongue danced along her teeth, then flitted over the fence, as if daring its playmate to come over to the other side. It only last a few moments, but it was more than enough to throw a few extra coals on his fire.

”I’m full of surprises, lady. You’ll see.” He was tempted to poke her into using his nickname instead of the full version, but he decided against it. Army kind of liked the way it sounded on her tongue.

Their bodies rolled against each other, and for a moment, he thought there was a chance they could just pick up where they left off from this position - he wouldn’t have complained. Instead, they parted ways, but only after she left some cryptic words for him to chew on, ones that could be interpreted in all sorts of ways. Playfulness, a threat, a taunt…

Army chose to take it as a challenge. Some way, somehow, he was going to take Madeline down this time and give her the same kind of end she’d given him. He hadn't figured out how just yet, no, but what was life without some real thrill? It’d come to him.

Back at it. After a brief brush with her bare thigh and his own lingering scent, Army stood up and dusted himself off. His pants were baggy and dark in all the right spots, so he didn’t have to worry about the stain showing for the rest of the match, but he could still feel the wetness, a reminder of just what she could do to him if he were put into the wrong - or right - position, again. He needed to switch things up in the final round, find a way of attack that would catch her off guard, and go from there. He was already coming up with a couple of ideas…

Before any of that, though, there was one thing he needed to do. ”Hey, lady!” He whistled her way to get her attention, then held up his fist as he stood in the middle of the ring, as he put on his best, most earnest face - he was looking for a bump. A quick show of respect between two capable fighters, before they kicked off the final chapter of their story.

[Lightman]

Madeline’s lips curved as she straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her cheek. Armando’s whistle caught her attention, and she turned toward him, expression composed yet alive with playful awareness. The offer of a fist bump was honest, the smallest gesture of respect that said more than words could in the lull between warfare.

She stepped forward, light on her feet despite the match’s heat, and pressed her knuckles against his in acceptance. “Ever the gentleman.” she said, her voice carrying a teasing warmth. “Let us hope manners do not slow your hands~.”

The crowd responded to the simple gesture with a murmur of approval, that low collective thrill that gathered before the storm. Madeline’s stance shifted the moment she pulled her hand back. Her body sank slightly, knees bending, shoulders squared but loose. A faint smile remained, but her eyes, vividly green, focused on him.

The brief pause - those scant breaths before first contact - were as much a part of her performance as any hold or counter. The stillness before the pounce always told her what kind of fighter stood across from her.

She moved first, circling him with the measured precision of lived experience. Barefoot steps traced a silent pattern on the mat, her weight shifting from heel to ball, the faint twist of her hips always suggesting motion that never came. Each feint, each tiny recalibration of distance kept him guessing. It was the art of breaking an opponent’s focus before breaking the body. The play of control set the tempo of their unspoken conversation: she provoked; he responded.

“Alright, Armando…” she said lightly, her words carrying just enough to reach him, no more. “…let's see how much you've learned thus far~.” Her tone was gentle, but the subtext gleamed like a blade just beneath the surface. Every syllable was calculated to split his attention between her voice and the subtle, fluid geometry of her movement. She edged forward, hips coiling slightly, torso angled, and it was impossible to tell which would come first.

Then, without warning, she’d reveal all. Her lead foot snapped outward in a low arc, the whip of a kick directed towards his lead thigh. Sharp and precise, just above the knee she previously struck in the first round, designed to disrupt balance more than to do damage, to chip away at his base and make him reconsider where his weight truly belonged.

[BlackAkuma]

Given what the two of them had just been doing not even a minute ago, a fist bump seemed downright quaint. They could’ve hugged. They could’ve kissed. They could’ve shown respect in all kinds of ways, some more intimate than others. But this one suited Army best. The respect between them was evident, even if they couldn't have been more different in every other way. He was loud, headstrong, blunt. She was quiet, seductive, slick. A hammer versus a scalpel. Both tools, both deadly.

But they were both competitors. The same competitive fire that burned in Army was shining bright in Madeline, too, and this was his little way of acknowledging that, no matter what came next.

”They never have before, lady.” He pummeled his fist and made the arena echo with a hard slap, as the crowd cheered behind him. ”Let’s go.”

So, round three. Final round. Madeline posed an important question - what had Army learned?

Taking her on the canvas was death, one way or another. Either she’d grind him with those submissions or squeak out another orgasm. He could mitigate that by staying close to the ropes, but that would only get him so far. He had an idea of how to make her stick to a standup fight, but they were contingent on him getting his hands on her in the first place.

She coming again, putting those dainty feet of hers to good use as she closed the distance. Left, then right, then left again, never staying on the center line, difficult to anticipate, so Army decided to lean on the safest options. He spread his feet wide enough to create a tight base, while he shelled up tight with his guard. This worked out well for him - she came in with that kick and targeted his leg again. While it still sucked and made him step back, it wasn’t enough to bring him down, and she was in good range.

Army moved her way in retaliation, bringing his right hand down in a position she would find all too familiar - provided she could remember what happened before she got knocked out, anyway. The blow came, chambered, locked, one again going for that high-angle, and…

Stop.

Army stopped his Smash in mid-movement, then jerked it back and used that pull to add speed and momentum to the punch he really wanted to throw. His left lashed out, coming her way with a curving punch, twisting in a high arc that would come down on her from above and, potentially, bypass her guard, with his bodywieght driving it home for even more power - in other words, an overhand left.

[Lightman]

For all their differences, there was a kind of unspoken harmony between them in those few seconds before the third fall. Two fighters, two artists, each sharpening the other into something keener than they had been when the bell first rang. Madeline accepted that truth freely. Respect did not need grand gestures to be felt; it lived in movement, in intent, in the way they both committed fully to the contest. The faint curl at her lips held both appreciation and appetite as she slipped back into her stance, ready to see what he had left to give.

The third fall began in earnest, and the air seemed to tighten with it. The crowd might have thought she carried the advantage after the spectacle of the second round, but Madeline knew better. On the ground, she had mastery. But standing, Armando was still a beast. Every inch of him radiated power, and one clean shot from those dense arms could send her world sideways. She was not foolish enough to think charm or reflexes alone would save her if he landed that kind of blow. A single mistake could tip the match from artistry to disaster.

He came forward strong, heavy-footed yet precise, every shift in his stance measured, every step a threat. Madeline’s eyes traced him in miniature movements, shoulders narrowing and widening, hands twitching near her face to disguise her intentions. She stayed mobile, using constant lateral movement to make herself a harder target. Arms tucked tight, elbows grazing her ribs, she watched the space between them as carefully as a dancer reading a partner’s signal.

When he opened up with that sharp, downward carve, she knew it instantly. The Smash. It had the familiar torque, the distinct shoulder drop, the angle that once put her down before. Her left leg angled out, weight dropping slightly as she prepared to sidestep or parry, her intention already formed.

But then came the hesitation. The sudden stop of motion that kicked up warning bells in the back of her mind.

Armando was never that quick to commit. Too testing, too deliberate a fighter to use a killing blow this early in a round unless he wanted to sell something else behind it. His body recoiled, coiling into something new, and her eyes narrowed as understanding snapped into place. The Smash was bait.

And sure enough, the blow never came. He pulled it short, too short, and the recoil told her immediately that this was the set-up. The real danger was winding behind the feint, invisible until it was far too late.

She caught the shift of movement half a second before impact. His left came from above, a hammer of a swing, heavy and fast, the line of his shoulder driving the weight down like a falling star. She turned her head to take it on the cheek instead of the chin, twisting her upper body in a desperate half-roll that turned what should have been a knockout into a glancing hit. Pain exploded along her jaw, bright and sharp, stealing her breath for a second. The shock drove her two steps back, feet squealing faintly against the mat as she tried to steady herself.

Madeline exhaled through her nose, steadying the pulse that roared briefly in her ears. Her cheek throbbed, a dull fire blooming beneath the skin, but she was upright. That was all that mattered. She brought one hand up near her guard again, fingertips grazing the faint flush where he had clipped her. Her tongue darted briefly over her lips, a quick, feral smile lighting her face.

She gave him three paces of distance, feet shifting in a slow half-circle as she reset her feet, shoulders once more loose, stance careful. The cat had been swiped across the whiskers, and now her eyes were bright with intellect rather than tease.

[BlackAkuma]

‘Iron sharpens iron’.

If the Rodriguez family had a motto - which they didn’t, but they should now that Army thought about it, because that would be kind of cool - that would be it. Army’s father had been a big fan of sparring during his training, believing the best way to hone his skills was through trial and error. When you found someone you could match up against and truly test yourself with, that was when the best came out of you.

If Army’s father saw this match, he’d…hate it, for obvious reasons. But he would approve of the overall theme. Madeline was a worthy opponent, and taking her on was improving him in small, subtle ways. He wasn’t the same wrestler he was at the start. A little wiser, a little better.

This was the stuff he’d come back to wrestling for. Solid gold.

He didn’t know if Madeline felt the same way, but he got the impression she did, and her actions bore that out. Army came in with a solid feint - bold, powerful, tricky. It would’ve caught many boxers off guard, and he bet he could’ve landed it if he’d tried it earlier. Now, though, she was on to him, had a good idea of how his body worked, and she evaded his shot. Mostly—a grazing hit.

There was a gap between them now, and he rushed to fill, balling up into a tight shell as he stormed forward. He weaved as he closed in, swaying this way and that, looking for all the world like he was about to lay into her with another strike…and he was. Just not from the direction she might’ve been expecting.

Instead of his fists, Army shot out with his legs, lashing out with a low sweep, one aimed at her calves. It was his best impression on the one she’d used on his a couple of times now, and while he doubted he could nail the speed and precision of her attack, he did have power and the element of surprise on his side. With a little luck, that could make up for a lot.

The whole while, his grin grew and mirrored her own. His blood raced. His heart was beating like a Sousa march.

[Lightman]

There was something intoxicating about it all. The ache settling along her jaw, the hot sting at the edge of her lip, the way her heart pounded beneath the surface…it all spoke to her in a language older than thought. Madeline thrived here, in the space where pain met pleasure and grace met chaos. A fighter who could press her this close without tipping into brutality was a rare delight, and Armando had earned his place among them. For all his rawness, he was sharpening her in ways she had not anticipated. Every exchange between them brought the edges of her control into finer relief, chiselled her craft down to something dreadful and divine.

He came at her like an unbroken wave, broad shoulders coiling and uncoiling, power packed behind precision. Nothing about him was random now. The lessons of their earlier rounds had etched themselves into his movements, and she recognised her own influence in his poise. It pleased her. How could it not? The thought lit something deep in her chest, a quieter pride that extended beyond victory.

Still, she knew exactly how thin the margin of error had become. That heavy overhand that grazed her cheek had carried weight enough to fell lesser women. His strength was dangerous, yes, but beautiful, too. The danger was part of what kept her alive, kept her eager. She would not trade it for safety, not even for an easy win. He came forward again, weaving through the air, daring her to meet him.

Madeline’s posture lowered, her left leg sliding slightly back as her hands rose. The ground game was her fortress, but standing like this was an entirely different kind of thrill. She had to move like water, never letting his strikes find flesh, always forcing him to chase angles that did not exist. Her steps traced arcs of motion, faint shifts that made distance an ever-changing thing. She turned her shoulders deliberately, drawing him into the chase, aware that each twitch of her body invited commitment. And commitment was where she thrived.

Armando’s response came quicker than she expected. She caught the start of a shoulder feint and began to adjust her guard for another strike to the upper body, ready to counter whatever power he threw her way—but the threat came from below instead. His leg scythed out low, almost casually, the motion disguised until it was too late to clear distance.

The sweep took her by surprise, a shocking flash of motion that robbed her footing. She twisted, trying to step through the sweep, but the power behind it made that impossible. Her leg buckled, momentum pitching her off balance. She hit the mat with a thud that left her knees stinging and her palm braced against the canvas. For a moment her breath left her in a short burst, and the crowd’s gasp flooded the air around them.

A smile spread across her face as she pushed herself onto one knee, emerald eyes locking on him once again. There was no frustration there, only an exhilaration that gleamed like firelight. “Well played…” she said through a laugh, voice steady but touched with pride. Rising gracefully, she rolled her shoulders back and reset her stance, the faintest sheen of sweat catching the lights.

Her lips curved higher, not in mockery but in invitation. The game was still alive, and it belonged to no one yet.