Bedroom Assembly (Feat. Alix Jacques, Black Severin, Lacramioara Albescu, and Madeline Christiansen)

[DSX93]

She was still locking in. Taking notes. Searching for ways to break his rhythm.

Severin didn't like all of the analysis he was seeing in her eyes. It told him that he wasn't going to be able to dance his way to extensive success. He was going to have to find some decisive spots.

“Eventually, the music stops.”

"Nah." Cartwheel. Quick. Easy. Fluid. Seamless. "That's what the Repeat function's for. Besides, it doesn't necessarily stop when the instruments do." Severin tapped the side of his head with his finger, pointing to the one that was always in play, even if his ears would be the only ones that would hear it.

Madeline went low, but he was able to dance her offensive off. Too easily; looking into her eyes afterwards, he knew that she was still studying. Comfortable. Enough to start giving him tips, like he was some hapless oaf. Such was his kneejerk reception to it; the nature of this contest and its implications made them more likes pokes. Prodding.

But she would be able to disrupt his flow. Quickly enough to give him something to think about. Just not right now.

It was too perfect. Just the right move at just the right time, bringing his posture down to the floor, literally. One knee touched down, and if he didn't move fast, his back would be next. Not the place he wanted to be.

Not alone...

It was a spur of the moment move. No plan, just something that made the most sense in the span of the single thought he was allowed. He'd allow the closeness that she was looking for and bring his free arm up. To wrap around the back of her knees or set a hand on her hip. Preferably the former, but he'd take what he can get, if he can get it at all.

What would follow either success wouldn't quite be what one could call a Northern Lights suplex. But the weaponization of momentum and a powerful core, kicked off from the one foot he had set, would create a very similar arc. Only more explosive as he put more into it than needed, sending them both flying up and over. A showing of stress that hadn't been tested, set to bring Madeline down on her back, with Severin landing on top, hopefully.

[Lightman]

Ah yes. The faint tightening through Severin’s abdomen, the sudden stilling of his hips, the instincts of a man who had no intention of being folded to the canvas without resistance. Madeline’s hands had only just begun dragging him downward when he made his choice. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Only raw, reactive power unleashed in a single burst that lifted her clean from the mat.

The arc was unmistakable. Not clean enough to be shaped by formal training, not guided by the mechanics of a polished Northern Lights suplex, but the skeletal shape was there. Severin’s hips fired. His spine extended. The world tilted as he heaved her upwards, curving them both through the air. It was a crude thing, but there was beauty in the commitment. And there was danger in it too.

Madeline’s back hit the mattress with a soft thud, cushioned but decisive. His weight landed atop her a heartbeat later, momentum still carrying faint tremors through the point of contact between their bodies. For a brief moment she allowed herself the stillness, like a chess player examining the new configuration of a board after an opponent’s surprise gambit.

Then her eyes opened on him. Calm. Focused. A hint of approval, even. “My my~.” she murmured, voice low beneath him. “How bold. I can respect that.”

The Englishwoman’s praise was genuine, though far from surrender. Severin had gained the top position, but the top position meant little if held without understanding. Her legs shifted beneath him, not locking but searching, testing the space at his sides to see if she could begin to frame a guard. She attempted to draw one knee higher, trying to curl it around his ribcage to see if he would react, to see where his balance might tilt next.

She reached one hand towards the back of his head, not to pull him down affectionately, but to break his posture. “Top position is only ever a question.” She said softly, as though she were giving a lesson and not trying to tighten a trap. “The answer depends on what you do with it.” Her legs shifted higher on his back, thighs closing the space beneath his ribs, her hips tilting in a slow, inexorable climb toward a dominant angle.

From there, the danger multiplied. A quick hip escape could turn into an armbar. A sharp swivel could shift her into a triangle. Even without committing to a submission, she had options: off-balancing him, sweeping him, forcing him to post a hand where she wanted it. Every breath he took gave her information. Every shift of his weight revealed a seam.

The English Rose planted one foot flat on the mattress, pivoting on the other, testing his base. “Pray tell, Mr Severin…” she said with the quiet confidence of a woman who had studied his every move and found more potential than polish. “…are you ready for the floor to start tilting beneath you?” Her tone remained cordial, her words cloaked in silk, but the competitive edge gleamed unmistakably through the softness.

Her free arm threaded under his, beginning to trap it against her chest. Not yet fully committed, not yet snapping shut, only positioning. Finding the line of attack. A grappler like her does not rush artistry. She shapes it. Breath by breath, angle by angle.

[DSX93]

"Gambit". Yeah, that would be the word he'd go with too. A desperate move, really. But it paid off.

"Fortune doesn't favor the meek." A hard lesson that he spent years learning. There was no harshness to his tone. No bitterness. Just a simple truth.

Gotta keep it pushing. That victory was a most temporary one, and she was already looking to flip the table over. He moved with on her instinct, with the quickness that he knew he was gonna need here: The moment he felt thigh on his side, he immediately brought a hand down, pushing just above the knee to keep her leg from climbing too high. The hand he had planted on the floor slid as she pulled at his head. He'd lifted one of his legs, up and over to pin her other one between them. His body tensed at that sudden shift in his posture. He was well aware of the general idea that she was putting out here: How one move at just the right the moment could take him off-balance. His mind, from front to back, conscious and subconscious both, knew that he could not let himself topple over.

As for how to best maintain his position, however? He's Indiana Jones-ing it. And right now, his instinct was telling him: Freeze; move as little as possible so this doesn't get any worse. Like

on the way to delivering a People's Elbow to the British Bulldog.

The next step? Up. Move up.

Nope, she saw that coming too. That arm wrapping around his? Cut that route right off before he could get started.

“Pray tell, Mr Severin…are you ready for the floor to start tilting beneath you?”

She's over here sounding like a grandmaster! Which she may as well have been, all things considered. He heard that, and he knew: It was only a matter of time before he did something that she could capitalize on. And something was telling him that he already had one foot in the grave.

So he pushed off. Back onto his feet, giving her some space.

Take a breath. No shame in a reset. Just means he's going in with more than he started with next time.

"I don't mind a lady sweeping me off my feet. But alas, Ms. Christiansen, I must decline."

Yeah, it was frustrating. He got a good slam in, ended up on top, yet he was the one with the disadvantage, still. Madeline knew it. And so did Alix and Lacramioara, both experts themselves. But he too remained cordial. None of the huffing and puffing that Lacraimioara had encountered in previous rolls with men, and frankly had been expecting from Severin too, up until that admission. After that, it made sense: She'd never had any problems with the guys who like it when a woman's on top. She'd just have to remind them to try harder every now and again.

But that, she suspected, she wouldn't have to worry about here.

[Lightman]

Severin’s retreat earned a quiet commendation within Madeline’s thoughts. The instinct to withdraw had been correct, pride had not sealed his fate, and that alone marked progress. He truly had stood on the brink of conceding something he could not have reclaimed, and he had sensed it in time. Even as he created space between them, Madeline made no effort to pursue. This was not an official contest measured by victories. The whole point was to test, to explore, an exchange of understanding. Let him breathe. Let him learn what the moment had tried to teach him.

Madeline rose smoothly and settled into a poised grappler’s stance, shoulders relaxed, hands open, posture inviting rather than pressing. She offered him the opportunity to approach again, curiosity sharpening her attention. There was always interest in how a man responded after recognising danger. Some returned reckless. Others returned thoughtful. Which would he be now?

“A gamble that pays is still a gamble.” The English Rose remarked lightly, the faintest trace of amusement warming her voice. Fortune may favour the bold, but boldness without discernment rarely ages well.

Her gaze travelled over the small adjustments he had made during their previous exchange. The memory of his defensive reactions remained clear. His hand intercepting her advancing leg had been swift, guided by instinct rather than calculation. The tension through his body when balance threatened to betray him had spoken of awareness hard won through experience. Improvised preservation, imperfect yet sincere. It was not refined grappling, yet it revealed a mind that understood danger even if it had not fully mastered how to answer it.

She shifted her weight fractionally, allowing him a clear line should he choose to engage again. There was no provocation in the motion, only readiness. Her eyes remained attentive, observant of every subtle preparation in his posture.

The corner of her mouth curved with restrained approval as she regarded the composure he maintained despite frustration. There had been no bluster, no irritation masquerading as strength. That absence did not go unnoticed. Many had mistaken the top position for dominance and reacted poorly when the illusion dissolved. He had not. That alone distinguished him from less adaptable opponents.

“Courtesy suits you, Mr Severin.” she said, voice gentle but edged with playful intent. “Though I confess, I find greater interest in what compels you forward after retreat.”

She drew a slow breath, stance unwavering, presence calm yet charged with expectation. The invitation remained open, neither rushed nor indulgent. “We begin again.” Madeline concluded softly. “I’m curious to see what you have kept from the last exchange, and what you have chosen to abandon.”

Her attention held steady upon him, anticipation bright and patient, as though the next movement might reveal far more than the previous struggle ever had.

[DSX93]

She's right. He needed to change tactics.

He needed to slow this down. Way down.

That pure athleticism he has, and all the avenues it opened up for him was something he'd leaned on heavily in his matches. Severin rarely knew exactly what he was doing from the opening bell to the closing, and that right there was made him dangerous. If he knew what he was working against, as he does here, he'd normally have a general idea of what needs doing. Work the legs and back of the highflyer; maybe he wouldn't match their speed, but he was quick enough to keep up. He could outpace a powerhouse. Or in failing that, tough it out until they tire out. Practicing Yoga gave him some extra breathing room against submission specialists. And his tactic against them? Suffocation. Imposing his pace with continued aggression.

And whenever something didn't work, he could switch it up on the fly. He had talents that fell out of convention. Things like the dancing that would normally give him some angle that he could shoot for.

But he couldn't just do all that here. Madeline was versatile too. And unlike him, she'd taken her own high-level athleticism and formed a system with it. When something doesn't work, he wings it when he shifts gears. She adapts.

If you asked him exactly what that meant with her, he wouldn't have been able to tell you. Not in great detail, anyway. But he was knowledgeable enough to be able to discern the difference.

Another thing he noticed was a certain something that was lacking. They both had it: Madeline's superior understanding of grappling was being established now. But she didn't often take her artistry to the skies like he can. Not that that was worth anything right now: There were no ropes, no turnbuckles for him to leap off of. This set up? Was effectively like stepping into the world of dreams to fight Freddy Krueger. Even Jason goddamned Vorhees struggled against that demon, and even after pulling him into the waking world, where he had a chance, he still needed some help to "win".

But Freddy himself laid it out in the beginning of the film as he explained why he woke Jason up from his slumber in the first place: As powerful as he is, he still has his weaknesses. He couldn't kill if people weren't afraid of him.

And the best way to conquer fear was to gain understanding. Just as Severin needed to do here.

He wasn't afraid, but he knew he was out of his depth. When he approached her again, it was with a newfound patience. Playing her game, yes, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. With enough time, he could pick it up. Of that, he was certain. He'd never stay in one place long, moving to one side or another. Taking strategic steps back every so often. At most, he'd make like he was about to shoot for her as he tested her foundation, but he wouldn't commit to anything just yet.

That wasn't the point. This was an experiment. Doing it right and getting to know her before he tries to score. She's got all the necessary pieces on the board, and he wanted to know how she'd move them, and when. What triggers her, and how he could relate all of that data to his own abilities.