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

[BlackAkuma]

How was Army feeling right about now?

”Ow. Fuck.”

Yeah, he would say that about summed it up.

It wasn’t merely smacking his face into the barricade that was sending Army for a loop, but all the deceleratrion. He’d been moving at a fairly good clip, as fast as he ever could, with his entire bodyweight backing up the forward momentum. Having all that come to such a painful, sudden stop was wreaking havoc with his equilibrium. Not the easiest thing to shake off.

Definitely not when he had Madeline’s voice taunting and distracting him, too, sifting through the crowd’s clatter and finding its way to his ears. Despite the pain, he couldn't help but smirk. Yeah, she got him.

Despite the haze, Army realized the slight predicament that he’d just caused for them, with the looming count. He’d reset the count after slipping into the ring and coming back out, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a problem - at least for him. If Madeline wanted, she could make her way into the ring and just let the countout take its toll. The best case scenario for Army was that he made it into the ring, at which point his opponent could jump him. Worst case was, of course, having the most unsatisfying ending to this kind of match, and risking a small riot.

So it was a good thing that Madeline took option C. At first he thought she was going to double up on the pain as she seized his arm and pulled him away from the barricade, but that wasn’t the impression h e was getting from her movements. No suddenness, no rush. ”Hey, what are you-”

Army’s question was answered a moment later as she hoisted him up and put those impressive legs of her to good use, hauling him along with a fireman’s carry. While Army didn’t amount to the heaviest person on the roster by a longshot, he was still a far cry from a lightweight, and Madeline hefting him up like this - especially after the beating she’d just taken - was no small feat.

And he couldn't help but chuckle at her little joke. ”I like the view.” He shrugged, as best as he could in the position. ”I hear some guys pay for this. Little side hustle for you.”

It wasn’t long before he was back in the ring, with Madeline following close behind. He laid there, groaning, until he felt her bare foot against his cheek. Sure enough, he looked up to see the woman smiling down at him and challenging him for more. ”Don’t worry.” He planted a quick kiss on the bottom of her foot. ”I’ve got plenty.”

Army would prove that in the next moment. He was still a bit dazed after the hit and she had him in a superior position, but that wouldn’t stop him from lifting up and swinging his arm wide at her calves, hoping to trip Madeline up and bring her quickly to the ground.

[Lightman]

Aside from doing the very thing that got her disowned, the one act that had torn her away from polite society and its brittle expectations, strength had always been Madeline’s truest companion. It was her rebellion, her liberation.

Some liked to insist she was born with it, that somewhere in her blood hid the echoes of warriors from another age, women who carved their legends with their hands. Perhaps there was truth in that, though she preferred to credit discipline and want. Every contour of her body had been shaped by will. No bloated muscle, nor airy leanness, but perfect balance, a body honed for grace and violence in equal measure.

That body was serving her well now. Her shoulder burned from the strain of carrying Armando’s weight, yet the ache was the kind that affirmed her power. She looked down at him as he sprawled across the mat, the faintest kick of breath easing past her lips when his kiss met the underside of her foot. It might seem ridiculous in normal circles, yet oddly charming, the sort of flirtation that had no business inside a fight yet made perfect sense between them.

A slow chuckle escaped her as she pressed the sole a touch firmer against his cheek. “Cheeky as ever.” She murmured. “Do keep flattering me, though. It might soften the landing when I put you back down~.”

She turned her gaze upward to the crowd as their laughter bubbled around them. A pleasant noise, distant now. For a few brief moments, she let herself drift into that curious blend of detachment and awareness, poised enough to think several strikes ahead while still alive in the pulse of the present. He was playing along beautifully. Madeline’s expression softened for just an instant, then sharpened again, eyes falling back to him with that calculating gleam that always preceded something lethal.

The sudden twist of movement from below shattered her reflection. His arm shifted, shoulders rolling, and she saw the telltale motion of his torso just beneath her centre-line. Experience took over before thought even caught up. She braced her legs just in time for his sweeping strike, turning her knee inward and dropping her weight down to meet the tug of his arm. The shot caught her, yes, but her positioning softened the trap, pivoting her body into the pressure instead of fighting it head-on.

Her right leg shot back and around, moving fluidly into motion she had practised countless times. It was a simple defensive sprawl adapted from wrestling, meant to stall anyone trying to pull her down. Her hips sank, free leg sliding out wide, flattening her base and making her a harder target to drag. The sweep scraped her shin but did not topple her. She leaned forward, palms grazing the mat as she rode out his attempt, using his movement to regain control over distance.

Madeline pressed down on his wrist briefly, the gesture both control and warning, before easing off just enough to avoid the appearance of a hold. “How clever.” she said, her voice low, threaded with approval. The words were not taunting this time but weighted with real respect. “I’ll let you keep that arm intact. For now~.” Her grin returned softly as she rolled her shoulders, the sweat across her collarbone catching the lights.

Pushing back up to her full height, she took a step away, adjusting her stance with measured ease. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary, perhaps to enjoy the sight of him gathering himself, perhaps to give the crowd their drama. A deep breath lifted her chest as she reset her composure.

[BlackAkuma]

Army wasn’t joking about the people paying for this kind of treatment, either. While it wasn’t his thing, he’d stumbled across these ‘Lift and Carry’ videos, often when he was doing ‘research’ for hentai related things, strictly business. It had never made much sense to him, guys just getting off on a woman carrying them on their shoulders. He wasn’t one to kinkshame, but it seemed so…boring.

Now, he kind of got it. As Madeline hefted him and carried him about, he could look down at her form while she worked for every step, seeing the struggle in her body, the way she pushed herself further and further. It was a genuine display of power, and that it came from some like Madeline - so refined, so poised, so debonair - just made it work even better.

If the effort took a toll on her, she wasn’t about to show it. Maybe that was what he was banking on when he swung out like that - after all, she’d avoided that sort of thing before, he had no good reason to think it would catch, but he went for it, regardless. The position was awkward, but if he made contact, he could bring her down.

Or so he assumed. That assumption didn’t have quite the basis that he expected, however, as she reacted in a way he couldn't have seen coming. While she did take the hit, it was almost like he was striking against a woman made of water. She adapted, moved with him and turned his momentum against him, even capturing his wrist in the process. Army braced, expecting some painful submission hold to come his way…

…but that wasn’t the case. Not this time. Just a warning, just a taunt. She let him keep his arm for now, as she moved away, daring him to come after. He took a moment to roll his arm before he pushed his way up, knowing full well he was going to oblige.

But how? He was starting to run low on options for engaging her, and she wasn’t the sort of person he could reuse tricks on. What Army needed was a fresh angle to come at her with. Strength wouldn’t do it. But what about speed?

He pushed up and rushed her way again, coming straight towards her - or at least, appearing to. At the last second, he shifted to her side and ran past her instead, hitting the ropes behind her. He came bouncing off and swung a lariat towards Madeline on the return trip, but even if it missed, he had every intention of keeping up his sprint and bouncing off the ropes once more to come at her again - he wanted to make himself a moving target, trying to see how well she could keep up while he was on the move.

[Lightman]

There were whole online niches devoted to the lift-and-carry spectacle, and while Madeline was well aware of their existence, she had never been tempted to offer her services. It was not prudishness that restrained her, but practicality. Generational wealth had its privileges; there was no hunger driving her toward paid novelty.

Besides, if men wanted to pay to be thrown about by a woman’s strength, she was already earning for that very performance - only here, in the ring, she also got to keep the competition alive. The contrast of beauty and brutality was far more rewarding when victory lay at the end of it.

Those watching could mistake her calm for ease, though every precision in movement was hard-earned. Armando’s size was no small obstacle, over two hundred pounds of living defiance. Yet carrying him, wearing his weight, had given her a curious satisfaction, the visible proof she could merge grace with power. His smirk during the act had not escaped her; she would not begrudge him the sight of her in control. There was a kind of poetry to that balance, the way her poise met his strength and refused to yield beneath it.

His wrist had been hers for the taking, the map of his tendons and exposed balance screaming opportunity. Yet instead of twisting or locking, she had let it go, a faint smile curving her lips as she drew back. A reminder that mercy could sting more deeply than pain.

When he pushed to his feet again, she welcomed the chase. The sheen of sweat on his shoulders caught the light, and for all his bruises, he carried himself as though nothing could stop him. Madeline’s stance shifted lower, her eyes tracking him as one might follow the arc of an arrow mid-flight. Speed would be his weapon now. Clever, she mused. Strength alone could not tame her, but there's always another way. She tilted her chin slightly, acknowledging the unspoken challenge.

He broke forward - a blur of motion, all momentum and conviction - and she waited. The lariat came from his right; she read the telegraph in his shoulders, the tightening spine, and dipped smoothly at the last moment, folding under the breadth of his arm. His movement continued past her, the force too great to halt cleanly. She could almost feel the air part behind him, hot against her neck. For half a second, he was gone, caught by the ropes, the sound of their recoil feeding the noise of the crowd.

Madeline’s body turned sharply, pivoting over her lead foot in a practiced sequence of motion. Her hips twisted first, an elegant coil of stored energy snapping into release as she spun. The heel of her foot whipped through the air, cutting a perfect arc toward the space where she knew he would be on the rebound. Timing was everything. She wasn’t merely meeting him; she was intercepting him, the precision of her strike catching speed with speed.

The impact, if it comes, would be poetic symmetry: power colliding with precision. Her leg snapped through its full extension, driving the spinning heel kick toward his jawline.

[BlackAkuma]

As Army moved, he faltered a bit in his steps. Not enough to slow him down or make him ineffective, but there was some noticeable drag, some delay in his movements. Fatigue was setting in.

As a boxer, you’d think he would have the stamina for a long match like this, and he would’ve thought much the same when he started out in the sport. Since then, however, he’d learned that wrestling and boxing made very different demands on the human body. As intense as boxing could be, there were rests, there were rounds, there was time for you to recoup and catch your breath. He’d seen more than a few matches that were won and lost simply because the bell rang at the right time.

Wrestling was just go-go-go all the time, bell to bell. To be honest, he kind of preferred it this way, but it could run you ragged, especially in a match like this. It had been a while since he’d put such demand on his body.

Felt good, really. What’s the point of having a sports car if you don’t take it out on the track every now and then, right?


He moved with no small amount of momentum, racing around the ring as he tried to catch Madeline with the lariat. It missed - because of course it did - but he didn’t stop, and hit the ropes on the other side again. He bounced of them, was propelled forward, and then…

Nothing. He stopped.

Instead of vaulting forward, Army wrapped his arms over the top rope and brought his momentum to a screeching halt. He’d be wrestling Madeline long enough to know that her style relied on a few things - precision, speed, style, and timing. That last one was the most important to him at the moment. What would happen if he screwed that timing up? If he wasn’t where she thought he would be.

The answer was what happened before him, as Madeline spun about in a beautiful arc of a spinning heel kick, one that would’ve knocked his head off if he only been there to take it. But he wasn’t. The blow sliced through the air, but no target was found. She was wide open, with lots of space to play with.

Army knew exactly what to do with that space, too. He pushed off the ropes, spun about, swung his arm out, and attempted to nail her once again with his signature discus clothesline, Hurricane Armando - this time he had a little more faith that it would land.

[Lightman]

The spin was perfect - too perfect, in hindsight. Madeline had thrown her entire form into the heel kick, body twisting through space with a kind of elegance that bordered on art. The audience had gasped at the clean sweep of her motion, at the exquisite precision of her timing. Precision was everything. Timing, everything. Yet even the most precise blade is useless when it cuts through nothing at all.

Her foot sliced only air. The absence of impact told the story before her eyes did. Armando was not there. The ropes behind him trembled faintly, betraying the abrupt halt of his momentum. Clever. She landed lightly on one foot, the other still extended slightly behind her, and turned sharply to track him. Her chest rose fast beneath the glisten of sweat on her skin, the first flicker of irritation and admiration crossing her expression in the same instant.

The delay was half a heartbeat, half a mistake. It was all Armando needed. The world snapped back into motion, and she saw him uncoil from the ropes, that massive turn of his torso cutting through space. It was his signature, his weapon, a blow that could level walls if aimed right. The sound of the crowd rose in warning, but there was no time left to heed them.

Her body moved instinctively to guard, arms crossing high, but his momentum was monstrous. The weight behind his movement was not raw chaos but engineered destruction, years of practice invested into a single rotational force. His barrelling form collided with her before the thought even finished forming. The impact was thunderous.

The discus clothesline struck across Madeline's chest and shoulder, the brunt of his arm driving her backwards as though she had been yanked from the air by an invisible wire. Pain flared sharp and hot, tearing the breath from her lungs as her body snapped back and hit the mat. Her hands clawed at the mat in brief defiance before they went slack, her back arching as a rush of aching heat spread across her chest. The crowd’s shout surged like a crashing tide, alive with disbelief and awe.

For a moment, she stayed still, her mind ringing with that dull, sweet silence that follows catastrophe. The ceiling lights blurred above her, their white glare haloed by dizziness. Then the faintest smirk returned to the corner of her mouth. He had caught her cleanly. She could not begrudge him the triumph.

Her eyes stayed half-open as she turned her head toward him, searching through the haze. Pain was part of it, yes, but beneath that was renewed excitement. Her body hurt, but so alive was she within that agony.

[BlackAkuma]

Immaculate destruction.

Those were the two words that came to Army’s mind when he landed the lariat. It wasn’t just the impact, it was the follow-through. The sheer power he transferred into the woman’s body, the way it cut through her, how she went spiraling. There was a poetry to landing a blow that was hard to quantify, but he loved it. There was simply no better feeling in all the world.

The timing was right. It wasn’t his best skill when it came to wrestling - even now, there was still a part of him that was hung up on the way boxing worked and wanted to go off the beat he’d learned from there. But in this case he was on point, and it was enough to even catch a martial artisan like Madeline off her guard. She did her best to deal with it, getting her arms up in defense. It might have saved her from some pain, but not nearly enough.

Down she went. Hard. The audience winced from the impact, and Army shared in it, surprised by his own strength. Or maybe it was just so weird to see Madeline taking an L, even a temporary one. She’d done such a good job of staying one step ahead of him after he got that first fall, and for most of the time before. It was like finally managing to swat a fly you’d been swinging at all day.

The crowd gave him a triumphant cry, and he answered with a pump of the fist, before he turned back to his down foe and asked himself a simple question: What now?

Army moved over, gave her a quick check, and saw that hint of a smirk. The sight of it was enough to bring his own out, as the answer to his question came in. He’d made her a promise about to get that final fall. He intended to stick with it. ”Let’s get you up.”

Army reached down and gripped his foe’s head, holding her skull like a basketball as he pulled her up and forced her to stand. Once she was all the way on her feet, he ducked down, pulled her body over his shoulders, and lifted her into a classic TortureRack, pulling her neck and head across the curve of his back, forcing her to bend at a bad angle.

Of course, it didn’t stop there, though. With his hands between her legs, he made good use of the position, as he worked his hand between her legs and ran his fingers along her softness, stroking and pressing and caressing, giving her some pleasure to go along with the pain.

All with a smile, of course. ”You still with me, lady?”

[Lightman]

There was a certain beauty that came from being broken. Madeline had believed that for a long time. Combat’s true art wasn’t just about winning; it was about withstanding the fight, letting your opponent’s power test you, and staying calm amidst the chaos. Pain was proof of connection, of effort, of the purity of contest.

Armando’s clothesline had been an exquisite example of that exchange, a perfect strike delivered with conviction and control. For all the ache spreading through her back and shoulders, she could not help but acknowledge the perfection of his craft as she drew a shallow breath against the mat.

The crowd fed on the spectacle, their cries rising into something almost holy, but Madeline’s world had narrowed to the warmth of her lungs and the drumbeat of her pulse. The air licked against her skin, carrying the echo of his motion still vibrating through her frame. She moved because she must, forcing herself to roll, to rise, to meet what came next. The sight that greeted her was him, outlined by the lights above, face set in that combination of determination and charm that made the game between them so infuriatingly addictive. He was strong still, but alive with fatigue - the perfect balance of danger and opportunity.

His hands were rough when he set them to her, but his grip was steady, lifting her upright with care disguised beneath brutality. The world tilted before she could fully catch herself. One moment she was standing, the next she was aloft again, her body draped across his shoulders in a cruel arch that sent fire streaking down her spine. The Torture Rack was a move she knew well enough to respect, one that exploited strength and control in equal measure. Her back bent painfully over his frame, her ribs protesting the stretch even as the crowd erupted anew.

Pressure bit deep. The angle of her neck made each inhale a little victory on its own, a reminder that this was not ballet but war disguised as theatre. Madeline’s legs hung loose at first, then crossed instinctively, her body trying to manage the torque he imposed. Although there's trained flexibility, the lack of give made the pain sharper, cleaner. The veins in her arms stood out as she struggled for leverage, her breath breaking through clenched teeth in small, measured bursts.

And that was all without the fingers getting involved.

The flat press of his hand moved where the audience’s eyes followed, his fingers stroking along the delicate line between degradation and devotion. It was too intimate, too deliberate, the blending of pleasure with punishment designed to unravel her guard from within. Madeline’s response was a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, her head tipping back as her hair spilled over his shoulder in a dark curtain. She could not disguise the tremor that ran through her torso when his touch lingered.

Her voice arrived after the sound of the crowd had receded into something distant and vague. “Still with you…” she managed, her accent sliding through grit and grace alike. It was not a plea nor defeat; it was a statement of survival. Her grin, faint but wicked, returned as she shifted slightly, testing the arch of her spine in his hold. “You know…what to do with them?”

The pain still burned, the edges of her vision tinged with heat, but her focus never strayed from the craft of it all Madeline’s hands pressed lightly against his hip, tracing invisible alignments, as though already plotting the next escape or reversal. However immaculate destruction might be, she had no intention of letting it end here.

[BlackAkuma]

Army couldn't fully appreciate the way Madeline’s body was reacting with the way he was holding her, but thankfully, he didn’t need to imagine how she looked - he could see her clear enough on the titantron, giving him the camera’s view what was happening in the ring. As you’d expect, LAW was interested in getting every angle of this, and he could appreciate their attention to detail.

Being a gym rat, he’d always appreciated the way the female body morphed, the way it could twist and torque when you laid into it. It was faint, but he could recall being big into yoga when he was a kid - or, rather, watching his Mom’s friends do yoga when they came over. Peeking from his bedroom door, getting a good look of them bending into all kinds of weird shapes…

It was probably the start of a fetish, and as he tried to break Madeline in half over his shoulder, the memory returned to him. There was something hypnotic about the way her body molded against his shoulders. The curve in her spine, the tension in her muscles, that hair spilling over her face like a mask.

But it was nothing compared to what he could feel.

With Madeline this close, Army was highly aware of the way her body reacted to every little thing. He felt that shudder. That sharp breath.

He was having an effect. A real effect. He could win this.

The thought spurred him on, and he picked up the pace, even slipping a few curious fingers in under the open leg of her wrestling gear to cut out the middle man and stimulate her directly. At the same time, his other hand moved away from her face and slid down to her chest, stroking along the skin under his palms, and found her breast. He gripped - not too tight, not too soft - and began to stroke away, kneading her breast between her fingers, massaging it, caressing it.

All the while, he enjoyed the heat from her body radiating against him, the scent of her sweat, the way that lilt in her voice tickled his ear. ”Think I do a good enough job at improvising, don’t you?” He looked her way from the side of his eyes, doing his best to make eye contact despite the weird angle. [clor=#800000]”You sure seemed to like it enough. Am I reading that wrong?”[/color]