Eliza Harenwood vs Mateo Salinas - Viva La Passion

[Deus001]

Eliza was scrambling in the opening of the match, a rare situation for her given her usual history in the ring. However the dancing passion wasn't going to be taking things lying down if she could help it, Mateo however had other ideas and was already bolting straight at Eliza and she was suspecting as to what he might attempt. He was hopping rather that running and Eliza wasn't going to fall for it as well as he might think, the British aristocrat's bread and butter was striking after all.

She gave a low grunt and bolted to the right as Mateo came in close, rolling to the side and out of harm's way. Eliza would eventually manage to scramble upwards and get back into her stance, it seemed that she had an inkling to how Mateo might fight in the ring just as he had. Rather than be dismayed it in fact intrigued the dancing passion, she'd circle Mateo as he recovered and this time rather than shoot out with her legs she'd dart out her right hand and start trying to light up Mateo's back with several knife chops!

[Parker]

Mateo hit the mat flat on his back, the missed dropkick leaving him sprawled for a heartbeat. Eliza was far and squirrely. If he was going to fight her he needed to somehow manage to get her on his terms rather than hers. With a grit of his teeth he pushed himself up, popping up onto a knee. He barely had started to rise before the first CRACK landed across his shoulders.

“Tch-!” His whole body flinched, his back arching from the sharp sting. The sound of palm against flesh echoed like a gunshot, and by the time he tried to steady himself, another chop landed. CRACK! This one bent him forward, his breath rushing out in a low hiss as heat bloomed across his skin.

Each chop rattled him, driving the breath from his chest and leaving him half-bent, muscles twitching under the relentless strikes. Rising felt like climbing through fire, his spine stiff from the punishment. He pressed a palm against the mat, sucking air through clenched teeth, eyes flicking up to track her as she prowled around him.

The third chop landed and Mateo snapped. His body jolted, not just from pain but from the crack of irritation lighting behind his eyes. He twisted sharply, pivoting on one knee, his boots squealing against the canvas as he spun on a sudden rise to his feet. His fist whipped out wide in a blind backhand swing, all muscle and instinct. The motion was raw and ragged, not precise, but the kind of desperate haymaker meant to make Eliza think twice about treating his back like a drum.

“¡Vamos, then!” he barked, voice hoarse, the sting of her handprints still burning across his shoulders.

[Deus001]

This approach wasn't exactly something that Eliza did often, the use of her hands to strike at someone. She'd use her hands to aid in submission holds or use them to help enhance her legendary leg strikes, however the dancing passion decided that she had to employ a more unorthodox approach in order to try and chip away at Mateo's body. With the sounds of skin hitting skin ringing in her ears Eliza knew it was working though still she wished it was her feet that were delivering these blows and Mateo eventually had enough of the Harenwood's assault.

He spun in place, almost as fast as Eliza herself could pirouette actually. Eliza would have mused he missed his calling but had more important things to worry about like the incoming strike! She just barely got her hands up to block it but the force of it combined with Mateo's muscular body, Eliza would give a yelp and roll away and it gave Mateo room to move as Eliza hissed as she'd scramble to get into her stance again as she felt her arms were on fire now!

[Parker]

Mateo’s back burned from the sharp, echoing cracks of Eliza’s chops, a pair of strikes that still sizzled across his skin like open flame. Every heartbeat was a pulse of heat, a dull throb that rolled down his spine and through his shoulders. Her blows weren’t just strikes; they had rhythm, cadence, punctuation delivered by a performer who knew how to make movement art. There was structure in everything she did, grace wrapped around precision. And it made him wonder: what would happen when that structure broke? When the dancer lost her tempo?

That was what he meant to find out.

He rolled his shoulders once, twisting on instinct as she came in again. His arm cut through the air like a blade, a wide counter meant to change the momentum outright, but Eliza was quick, faster than he gave her credit for. Her arms snapped up in time, catching the blow, and the resulting impact cracked through the ring like a gunshot. His forearm met her block hard enough to rattle bone. It wasn’t clean, but it was enough. The contact sent her stumbling back, and for a heartbeat, both wrestlers paused, breathing heavy, their exertion filling the air between them. The crowd’s hum faded beneath the sound of two fighters recalibrating in real time.

Mateo flexed his fingers, shaking out the sting that lingered from the exchange. His forearm itched, red from impact. "Alright… alright," he muttered under his breath, half a chuckle, half a growl, that trademark cocky smirk flickering at the edge of his expression. There was respect behind the grit; she was sharp, deliberate, and far more dangerous than she looked. If he had to play her game, he would.

When he saw her begin to gather herself again, light on her feet and resetting that graceful stance, Mateo didn’t hesitate. He pushed off the mat in a low sprint, his boots pounding out a steady, thunderous rhythm that matched the pulse in his ears. His shoulders rolled, his right arm cocking back, and then he launched, driving forward with the kind of conviction that turned momentum into a weapon. The lariat tore through the air, his frame cutting across the ring like a charging bull determined to knock her clean out of her footing.

If it landed, great. He’d put enough torque into the swing to take her head off her shoulders. But he wasn’t naive, not after how she’d moved before. He expected her to weave away, and that expectation shaped his plan even as he moved.

If she slipped the strike, he’d flow with it, letting his momentum carry him into a sharp pivot on his heel. His weight would turn smoothly through the motion, hips twisting, shoulders following and from that spin, his arm would snap out again, this time in a tight, seeking to slug her with a back elbow aimed at wherever her evasive footwork took her.

It wasn’t wild, and it wasn’t desperate. It was precise, measured aggression to match her own, the kind of striking rhythm that only came from a fighter who’d learned to turn instinct into intention. Whether the blow flattened her or forced her backward, Mateo’s goal was simple and clear: no room to breathe, no beat for her to find her footing again.

[Deus001]

Eliza was finding this to be quite the nuisance as Mateo was actually looking like he could keep pace with her in the striking game, the dancing passion would need to bide her time it seemed until she could employ her legendary leg attacks and bring Mateo down a peg. The aristocrat was being forced onto the back foot and found herself scrambling for a response, however she was adept in the striking game and moved to respond to the intial strike.

However it was in slow motion as Eliza realised that it was a trap, that elbow was sharp and narrow like a blade tip and managed to nail Eliza right in her solar plexus. Sending the dancing passion flying backwards and crashing into the middle of the ring, the breath leaving her lungs like vapours as she was stricken down and the crowd were shocked at how Eliza was seemingly being beaten at her own game this early on into the match!

[Parker]

Mateo didn’t waste the half-second Eliza gave him. The elbow had opened a clean window, her chest heaved, balance a touch askew, and he moved into it like a shark smelling warm blood. He didn’t rush with flash; he closed the distance with compact, economical steps, knees bent, eyes locked on the legs that made her dangerous.

He lunged low first, hands hunting for ankles. If Eliza tried to snatch her footing back, but Mateo’s fingers found the inside of her shins, curling around lacey fabric and calf, pulling with a wrestler’s grip. He twisted on his heel to torque her base, tugging one leg free and then the other in a quick, practiced sweep that forced her weight backwards. The crowd breathed in, they could see the plan forming.

He was looking to have both legs controlled, not bothering with immediately going for the pin. Instead he worked methodically: a hard stomp into the outside of her knee, not savage but precise, designed to make those long limbs a little less reliable. He followed with a short, grinding pull that bent her forward at the waist, testing the hamstrings and calf for reaction. Mateo was stripping her tools, step by careful step.

When he judged the damage enough, he shifted into the submission set-up. He hooked her legs across his own, palms locking over her ankles as he pulled them tightly into his chest. In one smooth motion he pivoted, flipping her over so her back settled across his thighs, classic sharpshooter mechanics, the kind that turns a wrestler’s lower body into a lever against her spine. He planted his feet, sat back, and began to arch his body to apply pressure, dragging the angle into his favor.

It was an attempt, deliberate and clinical: Mateo wanted her hips and quads screaming before the hold fully locked, wanting her to feel the threat in her limbs so any future kicks would come weaker. He braced his core, squeezed his legs, and threaded his fingers through the gap, ready to cinch harder if Eliza didn’t find a way out.

[Deus001]

Eliza was left scrambling for a response from Mateo's offence, it was so different from what most men she had fought against that she had less of a frame of reference to draw from and he was running roughshod on her. Eliza would move forward in an attempt to attack only to find her leg being swept out from underneath her and Mateo was already on her. This was getting quite irksome and Eliza knew she wasn't out of the woods yet as Mateo managed to damage her legs prior before cinching the sharpshooter attempt in, it was like to grapple with a pro wrestler who also dabbled in MMA. A thing that Eliza was desperate to respond against.

Still as frustrated as Eliza was getting she wasn't letting it cloud her judgement, just like Mateo was being methodical in his approach so was Eliza going to be in her escape attempt. Once that sharpshooter was getting applied Eliza sprung into action, she'd been put into that hold more than once in the British inside and she had the perfect counter strategy. Eliza would pull at Mateo's nearest leg and seek to yank it backwards and then sit backwards and turn his own sharpshooter attempt against him by securing the hold once gravity did the rest.

[Parker]

Mateo’s eyes went wide as the momentum flipped on him. One second, he had Eliza’s legs trapped between his own, his stance tight and stable as he started to lean back to torque the hold and then, like a switch, her balance shifted beneath him. He felt his own leg pulled out from under his base, his center of gravity tipping forward as the Brit twisted into motion.

"Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me-" he hissed through his teeth, just before gravity did the rest. The mat rushed up against his chest, and in a blink, his own move had been turned against him. Her slender frame moved like water, smooth and practiced, and in moments he was caught in his own trap, his legs bent awkwardly under her control.

For a split second, all he could do was let out a low, almost incredulous laugh. "You know your way around the ring after all, huh?" he grunted, the strain threading through his voice as his back arched under her counter. He’d pegged her for a pure striker, maybe a technician on her feet, but clearly, she had more tricks up her sleeve than the refined ballerina act let on.

He gritted his teeth, his muscles tensing as he flattened his palms to the canvas. There was no use struggling in place, she was too well-positioned, and he knew better than to waste energy trying to power out. So instead, Mateo did what he did best: stay calm, stay smart, and move.

Digging his forearms into the mat, he began to crawl. Inch by inch, the Mexican dragged himself and Eliza both toward the ropes, his broad shoulders flexing with every pull. The burn in his back screamed for relief, but the sound of the crowd, the faint buzz of disbelief at the reversal, pushed him on. She was light, lighter than most opponents he’d faced, which made it easier to drag her along for the ride as she clung to the hold.

One final push, one desperate lunge of his upper body, and his forearm brushed the bottom rope. He immediately hooked his arm around it, signaling the break to the referee, his body coiled but controlled as he waited for Eliza to let go. Even while grimacing, there was a faint spark in his eyes, half respect, half challenge. This lady was sure full of surprises.

[Deus001]

Eliza's legs were always going to be targeted in a match at least once, she had learned this in her past experiences on the British indies and hence forth the dancing passion had made it a point to at least be aware of any submissions that focused on putting her prized legs to suffer. So that she could have a reliable escape plan when it happened. The crowd and even Mateo himself seemed surprised at this sudden turn of events, for Eliza on her end? She was just thankful not to feel the pain any longer, the aristocrat would admit that her knowledge of this hold wasn't too strong but she grounded herself all she could.

That was until the rope break, Eliza rolled away from Mateo in response to that. Still she knew that it served its purpose, it was to show that she wasn't going to tap out in this bout anytime soon and also that she knew what he likely knew. Eliza ran a hand through her strawberry blonde locks as she mentally processed what she might attempt next. Deciding to wait a few seconds Eliza would then decide to attempt a risky endeavour. She'd burst into a sprint, her legs feeling the strain but Eliza pressing on and trusting in their endurance. Were she to near Mateo she'd try to jump at him and get her legs around his waist and bounce off the mat with her hands for a wheelbarrow bulldog attack!

[Parker]

Mateo planted a hand to the middle rope and pulled himself upright, boots sliding just a little as he shook the ache out of his legs. The sharpshooter reversal had been a smart move, he could still feel the ghost of the pressure in his knees as he straightened to full height. A slow exhale left him, dark brow lowering once as he rolled his shoulders back into fighting posture.

The moment he turned, Eliza was already moving, no, sprinting. Her footwork was still crisp despite the damage he’d put on her legs, that dancer’s precision guiding every step. Mateo’s eyes widened a fraction just as she launched herself at him, body cutting through the space between them like a whipcrack of blonde motion.

Instinct took him before thought did.

“¿¡Oye!?” His arms snapped up on reflex, hands clamping around the outside of her thighs to catch her mid-flight. Her momentum still rocked him backward a step, boots digging deep into the canvas as he braced, half expecting her to cinch up into a guillotine, a triangle if he let her drag him down.

He locked down on her legs firmly, preventing them from closing around his waist. His fingers dug in, elbows tight, chest tightening in preparation to wrench her back up and neutralize whatever she was going for.

But Eliza didn’t fight his grip, she used it.

The instant he steadied her weight, she curled in close and her hands snapped up behind his head. Before he could adjust, before he could angle his hips or widen his stance, she yanked down with practiced force and Mateo felt the mat rush up to meet him. His skull and chest slammed into the canvas with a sharp, echoing THUD, the impact jarring straight down his spine and kicking the air from his lungs in a rough grunt.

“Ghh!” His arms slid off her legs at the moment of impact, body sprawling out flat beneath the momentum of the wheelbarrow bulldog. For a second he lay there, cheek pressed to the canvas, breathing hard, rattled by the sudden drop and stunned by the speed of her execution.

Damn… he hadn’t seen that coming. The way she weaved between traditional wrestling and her own style was throwing him off, making him question what she was going to pull out next. It was so bad she had just dipped into his wheelhouse and he hadn’t even noticed.