117/Hey you, with the hair!

Hey you, with the hair!
Date of Scene:	25 February 2020
Location:	Levinsky's Gym
Synopsis:	Songbird and Alexander Get into a tough fight.
Cast of Characters:	Alexander Aaron, Melissa Gold

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Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Levinsky's Gym in Little Odessa has a storied background. It's not the most famous place where people go to train. In fact it doesn't advertise. At all. No sign outside the soaped over door with the windows blacked out. No hint of it being a business than the occasional beefy guy stepping in and out of the doors. But if you're a fighter, and you're serious about what you do, you come here to Levinsky's. That, or you have ties to the Russian mafia. Strange how those sometimes overlap.
    Tonight, in the depths of that old training hall, there are only a handful of patrons. Across the way is Old Hogan, a wrestler from the glory days of the open league in New York, sitting there reading the newspaper and keeping an eye on the place. Down by the free weights three men are each pushing each other as one of them strains and grunts and gasps trying to lift an overly heavy barbell. But a good part of the gym is left open. The boxing ring, the open mats on the floor, the handful of treadmills for faux roadwork. It's all set. And it's in that hall, with its many posters from old fights plastered to the walls, ripe with the scent of fifty years of big burly people working out, that the young man known as Alexander Aaron enters.
    The door jangles as it closes behind him, bell rattling a bit. He's just short of six foot, wearing loose gym clothes. Sweat pants, tight t-shirt with a hoodie hugging his chest. Over his shoulder is an ESU backpack and he pushes the hood of his jacket back, revealing a mop of blond hair and pale features that... were actually fairly handsome at a glance.

Melissa Gold has posed:
The next person jangling through the door isn't anywhere near as tall, though she matches, where her skin shows at all, the pallor of the previous ingress. What she lacks in stature, however, she makes up for in attitude. Dressed in black, mostly leather, and carrying a canvas bag over her shoulder, she radiates that "come at me!" quality of someone either trying to scare off a fight, or look for one.
    The reaction to her entry is instructive. Some of the obvious newer-to-the-gym crowd see her, eyes raking over her form, and then lighting up with interest. Some of the old-timers see her, eyes rake over her form, but then quickly look anywhere else.
    "We got room on a rack?" she asks the late-night attendant, barely awake in his chair as he pretends he's reading a book, and not looking at girly pics, behind his counter. "I've been a bit slack."

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Old Hogan looks up and scowls, growling a low reply. "What ya see is what ya got, Mimi." He snorts, snuffling a bit as he rearranges his feet on the edge of his desk, and goes back to pointedly /not/ looking at girly pics. They are tasteful works of art.
    Yet the others there do give her the once over, though most have the wherewithal to look the hell away. She has that vibe, that severity, that hawkish look that might well make one think of growling fangs and the wild creatures beyond the halo of a campfire at night. Something almost feral in some ways.
    Fortunately, most of the people there know not to rise to the challenge. And the ones that let their gaze linger are further off, probably out of view. But then there's that guy. That blond kid with th pale features and... alright the handsome curve of smile and jawline. He has the freakin' gall to meet her eyes directly and says simply, "Hey."
    The nerve. But then he's stepping away, unslinging his backpack and starting across the gymnasium.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    The kid has guts. Which if he keeps trying to engage her the rest of the place might see spilled out onto the floor. Mimi looks up at the kid, straight back in the eye, without anything resembling a smile or welcome of any kind. She even stops to do it. Then, without a word, she carries on, brushing past the kid to the change room.
    In short order she comes back out, dressed in black yoga pants and a tight crop top that shows she definitely wears an industrial strength sport bra underneath. Muscles ripple under her skin, visible whether clothing covers or not, as she walks over to the rack, pressing her lips together as if in decision.
    "Light for now," she mutters to herself. "Toning day."
    350 pounds then get hung on a bar and she positions herself underneath.
    Isn't it dangerous to work the bench without a spotter? Hogan doesn't appear to give a shit...

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    It only took a word from his father to get him to come to this place. A request sent telling him to go and find out what he could. And so he did. As Alexander never questions his father. Yet he stood there near the heavy bags, one hand resting upon the old leather and running fingertips over it, as if gauging the surface. This equipment wasn't... bad. It just didn't have the attention it might have needed in other places. It was left to itself, much like that one woman who was... about to lift that huge weight.
    She is intimidating to most, severe, serious. She has that aura of 'do not fuck with me' that just permeates everything about her. But or such a thing to register one must have a hint of trepidation, of fear... and for Alexander. He never felt such a touch on his soul.
    For a time she might start working out. And likely when one focuses so their world shrinks. Perhaps she gets through three reps. Four? And then a shadow falls across her, blocking her from that bright light high above n the rafters.
    Then there's that voice again, "You need a spot?" He's just a black silhouette above her. Slender, though he's lost the hoodie somewhere en route to standing there. He has his hands hovering just underneath the bar. Ready. Just in case. No judgement is in his tone, but there is a hint of curiousity.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    For a moment the weight wavers as Mimi's focus is forcibly expanded, the bar dropping a half-inch before she catches it. For a moment she concentrates on catching it ... and on pondering letting it drop as an instructive thing for the kid. Instead she heaves it back into its rack and stares up at the kid.
    "Don't surprise someone at the bench, kid," she says. "Even when you think you're bein' nice." It's not quite a snarl, but, if someone actually knew what fear was, they'd be feeling it the way she's staring at him. Unblinking.
    "You can spot if you like depending on why. Why you want to spot?" Blunt and to the point. "You wanna help, that's fine. You wanna stare when you think I won't notice, we got a problem here."

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    "Well," Alexander straightens up a little as those eyes of hers bore holes through his head. And as he straightens up the light will fall across him, given the angle she'll see those curious eyes of his. Hazel in colour, starting as so very pale blue and then drifting to a jade green deep in his irises. It's almost eerie the way he looks at her. And from that angle she can easily see the subtle lines and contours of the young man's muscular form. Those taut abs that drift upwards perfectly defined, and the hint of hard pecs that shift that black 'RAMONES' t-shirt he's wearing a little outwards.
    He doesn't seem worried, however, as he answers, "It's rude to stare." He tells her levelly. Likely answering her statement about it. "But, always been taught better to be safe while training than spend a few weeks in traction."
    And as he says that he grimaces and tests the weight on the bar, both hands underneath it as he takes hold carefully. His biceps clench, then /bulge/ sharply as he lifts up an inch off the supports, then sets it back down with a faint grunt and a clank.
    "Alright, yeah. I should be able to cover you." That said he'll take up place again and then asks. "Though, hypothetical." He waits til she perhaps resumes. "If we had a problem, what sorta problem would we have?"
    And as he says that, the two other bodybuilders nearby, who _know_ Mimi quickly move off and away.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    Mimi stares an uncomfortably long period before just dismissing it. She positions herself beneath the weight again and restarts her routine.
    There's a certain style that has developed from the little period Alexander has seen her at work. Everything is attacked. The door attacked on entry. Alexander's greeting attacked in response. Hell, the floor attacked by booted feet as she walked. And her approach to the weights is attack as well: she almost angrily lifts it, and then starts pumping, slinging the 350 pounds around at a speed and rep count that's suited for light toning work. Her face works itself into a snarl as muscles expand and puff up from shifting the iron plates and bar in space over time. Her eyes focus on the bar like she wants to bite it in half. The world around her is erased as she focuses on the weight and what she wants to do to it.
    Finally she drops it back in its rack, panting a bit from the exertion, sweat pouring out of her and staining her clothes.
    "You were talking traction earlier. That kind of trouble."

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    And through it all, those eyes just keep level on the weight, on her arms, making sure she's steadily moving and pumping iron. His hands remain there, perfectly an inch beneath and ready. And on that last repetition once she has it up and fully extended he moves in to help get it racked right then, proper technique, perfectly executed. But it's only afterwards as she gains her breath that he looks down and meets her eyes again.
    And is that a smile? Just a ghost of one as his eyes narrow a little. She is contentious, growly, and outright mean. And yet...
    "Well. If that's the case." He tilts his head as he rest a hand on the bar and holds her gaze. "Would you like to make a wager on that?"
    That little bastard, despite the way she attacks the world, the way she tears through that set, the way she puts her all into things. He isn't cowed at all.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    Swiveling easily on the bench and to her feet, Mimi stares up at Alexander, fists on hips, to look him over, with pugnacious attitude that almost, but not quite, makes up for their difference in altitude. Without a word she grabs the weight bar with one hand and carries it to the wall racks, storing it on one of the chest-high peg sets before turning around and facing Alexander again.
    "You got guts kid. Plenty of 'em. But look around the room. See how everybody's movin' away? S'Because they don't want to get splattered with those guts when I get through with you."
    Her eyes flick over to the beat-up ring.
    "Three downs on the mat. What's the stakes?" Her mouth shapes into an approximation of a smile. It's not a nice one. "And who's next of kin? 'Cause there won't be any rules outside of 'don't break the gym'."

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Even Old Hogan is scowling and he looks sidelong over at them. He's seen this before, especially that one time the Jersey guy tried to hit on Mimi. It wasn't pleasant. So he pushes himself up and out of his seat, starting to shuffle across the way to the front door even as the others move toward the locker room. "I didn't see nuthin'." He scowls and starts to flip the locks, turning the key, turning the open sign to closed and then turning back to Melissa.
    "You hear me, Mimi? I didn't see nothin!"
    And with that he surrenders the gym to her since apparently this is far from the first time something like this happened. He shuffles toward the locker room and the back door.
    But still, despite this display, despite the positive /murder/ in her eyes, that blond guy sort of follows, gazing after Hogan, then turns back to her. "First to three points. Tapouts or passouts. No holds barred." Since the way he was trained if someone's able to break your arm, you deserve to fight with it that way for the rest of the match.
    For now he ignores the next of kin question, figuring that's tactics. Then again might not be. Still no trepidation from him. He walks over now toward the ring and says over his shoulder, "If I win?" He stops there and pulls himself up into the ring, his lithe athletic body slithering through the ropes as he gains his feet. "You agree to be my sparring partner twice a week. Until I can't learn anything more from you. Now what do you want?"

Melissa Gold has posed:
    The question of what SHE wants seems to take Mimi aback. I mean it's obvious. She wants ... I mean, the obvious choice is ... A skilled observer will see the gears grinding as her mental engine downshifts from fifth to first by accident.
    No, what does she want? It's clear she has no idea.
    "I pick a new outfit at Seedy Cedrics," she finally says, though the furrowed brow still shows this was an off-the-cuff answer. Cedrics ("Seedy" being something people who can't afford the place call it) is an upscale place featuring avant garde--some would say "fetish"--clothing. "No price limit." Ouch. Some of Cedrics' bespoke leathers are horrifically costed.
    "You still up for it?"

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Crinkling his nose she'll see the smile shift wry as he looks away from her, then back. "A material good? Lame. But fine." He answers, with a sureness to him that might seem to feel he's got this one in the bag. Or it could just be that casually confident way he carries himself. He pushes a hand through that wild mop of blond hair as he steps back when she moves toward the ring and he'll be so much the sportsman and hold the ring ropes apart for her to get into place.
    "How about this," He nods to her, "Each point, loser gets to up the ante if they still think they're gonna win." Which, likely with these two, means every damn time.
    Though as he says that he reaches over his shoulders and grabs the back of his black rock music t-shirt and pulls it over his head, then tosses it to the side. It leaves the pale youth bare chested in the ring, his well-developed chest free of fur and now free of burden, perhaps thinking that if she got a chance he figures she'd try to choke him with his own shirt. Which, to be fair, is entirely within the rules they've established.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    Mimi snorts and ignores the gentlemanly move, choosing instead to just jump up and over the ropes, into the ring, landing with two feet solidly planted before her elbow plants itself into his kidney. Hard.
    Though to her credit, she's not out to kill. So she's not landing full strength. More a probing shot. The kind of probing shot that would have a normal person on the ground screaming in pain and pissing blood for a couple of weeks, sure, but not the kind that destroys kidneys. Because she's a hero, dammit!
    And, you know, just in case the snot-nosed punk has a reason for being cocky, she slithers back quickly in a showy backflip and into a defensive crouch.
    No rules.

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    As she approaches she is probably not surprised that he's watching her, gauging her. Sure she's a good seven, eight inches shorter than him. And sure she's got that wildness in her eyes. But he's not going to underestimate her. She's as built as he is, as powerful in some ways. She makes that leap, and that spin, the point of her elbow slicing through the air. He turns as well, bare foot whispering across that taut fabric of the mat even as she darts in for that quick strike.
    She might be satisfied with it, the crunch of impact, that slight /give/ as she feels that tight flesh surrender to the stab of her strike, even as he roughly /slams/ the flat of his hand against her shoulder to push her off and out of the way while she back flips back.
    But no he's not screaming in pain, as he turns his hips to the side to face her, hands held low and open, ready for whatever she dares. There's a squint in his eyes as he murmurs, "Alright. Let's go."
    And with that they begin.
    There's a rush of movement, a quick sideways stride that lets him close the distance, long leg chambered as he throws a kick at her hip to try and turn her as he moves in, twisting cleanly as a backfist snaps out aimed at the side of her jaw.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    She's got clear training and, more importantly, experience. An amateur would try to step around the kick. Someone trained would redirect it. In either case the punch lands. Mimi's choice is to catch the kick, looking like she's let it land, but instead rolling back with it, watching with feral glee in her eyes as the punch swings over her head, almost grazing her nose, but 'almost' being key, and as she goes to ground, usually a mistake, she counters by wrapping her legs around his overextended leg, right at the joint, and trying to twist him with a powerful, sudden, jerk face-first into the mat.
    She's upped the ante, now that she knows he can take it, and while not yet exerting her full strength, she's exerting enough that a normal person would likely have a thigh ripped right out of its hip socket and a lifetime of surgery, hip replacement, and therapy ahead of him. Her tensing and flexing muscles can be felt against his as she exerts herself with a loud grunt as air explodes out of her lungs at the tightening of her belly.
    Damn, she slithers like a snake for someone so short!

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    She had seen his eyes as he watched her, a little annoyance, a touch of anger. But then as she's able to keep up with him, as she makes that evasion, slipping out of the way of his fist. Only for he to drop down and /twist/ hard with those long legs wrapped around his, she has him and she has him good. There's a twist and she can feel that joint catch, can feel the way her feet dig into the flesh as she locks in, and there's that thrum of pulse pounding through that leg. His calves bunch firmly, thigh clenching as she squeezes and exerts that pressure.
    But then he moves, twisting up, one hand pushing on one of her legs before she can get it fully locked in, breaking that leverage enough that he continues the turn. And suddenly they are close, him trying to use his other leg to interfere with her movement as he presses it hard into one of her thighs, almost climbing up her, seeking to get an arm entwined with hers...
    And then tries to pull her in /hard/ for a sharp headbutt that for most would steal their consciousness from them.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    That counter causes its own little bit of pain in Mimi if her grunt has anything to say about it. Then the ... the only word for it really is roar ... as she's drawn inexorably upward toward a fate unknown, Alexander using his size advantage well to control her movement. With her left leg trapped between them, knee eventually forced to her shoulder, she appears unable to get out despite her best efforts.
    Until experience proves itself again. The headbutt. Fails. To. Land. Everything was set up perfectly. It was a textbook pin and plummet. Only when his head moved down to end it, her head wasn't there. Her shoulder was, and that elicits a sharp cry of pain, ejected involuntarily from her (to her shame), but that snakelike slithering thing she does from years of the wrestling circuit gets the vital stuff out of the way and, worse for him, gets her arms around the back of his head, forcing him inexorably forward until his throat closes from the pressure of his own exertion.
    That is by far not a normal choke, using the target's own throat against him. Largely because in any ring you'd be thrown out for doing it, seeing as it has strong potential of shattering cervical bones long before the choking can start. But here, Alexander's advantage is now being used against him. He's hard to break, so she can use the unexpected chokehold.
    That laughter that bubbles out of her as he slackens his grip, air-starved, is both cruel and, yet, somehow ... happy. Like she's found a playmate.
    As his consciousness starts to gray out, his limbs no longer obeying order she casually arranges him on his back, and lies across his chest, forearm at throat, body weight behind it, to hold both shoulders to the mat.
    "Three. Two. One..."

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    That... had happened so rarely to him. She has no idea how long it has been since /anyone/ has been able to hang with him, to keep him guessing, to match against him and make him actually struggle. And then to steal control from him. It was insane. It was like the world was there and then somehow she wasn't, and then his breath was absorbed, taken, stolen from him with her arms around his neck and his head bowed forward.
    For a time it was all heat and struggle and effort, and all he could see was shifting light and dark, could smell the rough scent of her sweat and exertion as the heat of their athletic bodies overwhelmed each other...
    And then darkness. It was short-lived, to be fair, as she then settled on him, he awoke slowly to that arm on his throat and her counting that last number. Those hazel eyes find hers, though his are bleary. And what is his response to this ignominy? To this serious affront?
    She'll see such light flicker in his eyes, such happiness to have found someone who can manage against him. And he laughs then murmurs. "One to nothing."
    His youthful body shifts underneath her as he tries to rise, if she'll let him, then he murmurs quietly. "But that was a fluke, I'll raise the ante. Whatchoo want?" And though his words are sharp or growly, there's a lilt of amusement to them as well.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    Mimi gets to her feet and cycles the shoulder that took his head. She's tried to hide it, but the wince as she rolls it is unmistakable. "You got a hard head, kid," she says, grumbling, though her eyes are alight with something ... almost peaceful. She shakes her head to clear cobwebs. "OK, no material good this time. When I win, you gotta clean up all my messes for a month."
    There's something crafty in her expression, like she's said something funny but where the punchline has yet to be delivered.
    "Over and above the new outfit, I mean. 'Cause I look good in kidskin."
    Sharp eyes will note that the leg that was trapped between them is being ever so slightly favoured, likely a plausible line of attack.
    Unless she's faking it.

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    "All your messes?" Alexander pushes himself fully to his feet and he grimaces as that leg she twisted seems to not take his weight as easily as he'd like. But he rolls his shoulders and twists to the side, causing a faint cartilaginous crackle from the curve of his spine. He turns back to face her directly and then murmurs, "Fine. I'll assume yer house-broken at least." Oh that might get her goat a little. Then again might not.
    "On my end, if I end up winning this..." He turns his hips a little, leading with his left leg now, not the one she had under her control. His hands are open and held forward as he hunkers down a little then gives a nod as he makes ready. "You're gonna have to cook me. One meal. And it better be good." His eyebrows lift and he peers at her, "Alright?"
    He'll wait for her to answer before he then steps in, the mats jouncing with the thump thump as he reaches out, slapping at her arms to try and clear her guard before going for the shoulder tackle, seeking to take her down quick and hard.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    "All of 'em. Anywhere." The housebroken crack just earns him a squint. And murder in her eyes. "And you won't be worryin' about my cookin'. Trust me."
    And like that she's in stance, crouched, arrogant, cocksure of herself.
    And that cocksureness is almost her instant undoing. Because when he moved in, she committed a grevious error, thinking that the incoming attack was going to be a hip toss, her ineffectual countering almost playing into the shoulder tackle. She hits the mat hard, breath knocked out of her lungs, ready for the pin but for the fact that her damnable flexibility and speed barely, just barely edges her out of the pin zone, turning what would have been an easy victory into what will now be a grunting match, with the one underneath furious and more slippery than an eel.
    An eel with teeth. That she uses, clamping them down on the forearm that has her right shoulder pushed down to the mat.

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    For a moment he's above her, trying to gain and keep that superior position, their legs entwine as the fabric of her yoga pants rasp against the softness of his sweats. He tries to pin her down hard, arm angling for that hurt shoulder like a right bastard. But then it might be the pain that causes her to growl and clamp down on his forearm, digging in painfully. She can feel him pull that arm back even as he shifts balance with a hop. Perhaps she might even get a taste of his blood as he isn't slow in snapping his arm back...
    And a curious taste that it is, with that coppery tang, and a hint of something like ozone.
    But the flattened palm that snaps across her jaw might stop any sort of reflection or reverie. It's sharp, stinging, painful, and for people less than them would likely have dislocated their jaw. Yet it wasn't meant to damage, more distract as it lets him shift posture behind her, one long leg slithering over her hip from behind as his bitten bloodied forearm slithers over her throat even as he snugs it in under her chin, looking to stop her from biting again.
    She'll feel his bare chest against her back, feel his breath brushing across her ear as he growls and strains, trying to lock in the choke and pull her back, his lithe body so close. She can likely smell that rough scent of masculine exertion even as a sheen of sweat mars his features, all while he tries to steal her breath away. And as he does so she'll hear him whisper against the shell of her ear as he focuses, what martial artists use as a kiyai when clenching down on a choke, "Tsssssaaaaaaahhhhhh."

Melissa Gold has posed:
    Arrogance has its price and Mimi is paying that price now, her initial miscalculation bringing her to the brink of ruin despite her speed, her skill, and her utter viciousness.
    That blood tasted weird. Not like the others. Were there telepaths in the room they'd be wondering about that stray thought....
    But then she's fighting like a wildcat. Deep down she knows. She knows she screwed up and she's in deep trouble. She's lost. The sportsmanlike thing to do would be to tap out. But that's not her style. Her style is to go down fighting, making sure her opponent pays ALL the costs of taking her out.
    Knees, feet, elbows, hands. Hips, even. All become weapons used solely to bludgeon and hurt, and now she's not holding back, hitting with solidity that would shatter tree trunks. Every little step she takes toward that blackness looming is going to cost Alexander like crossing bocage. The fight is destined for defeat, but she's working to make it a gallant defeat, like an Aussie army. Fingernails, toenails, teeth all get their role to play as she snarls, silently, because that air is just not flowing. Unlike Alexander's blood.

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    It's not just the lack of air. It's the loss of blood to the brain as he tightens and she can feel his bicep /swell/ against the side of her neck, even as that whisper becomes the last thing she hears before the darkness starts to encroach. So quick, carotid chokes take seconds before the world starts to tumble in and those distant fireworks start to splash and explode behind her eyelids.
    Yet she does not go easily. He pulls her /hard/ across him as he goes onto his back and arches his hips, lifting her into air and trying to steal her leverage from her as she flails. Her feet are in the air, his own pressing hard into those mats. And the strength of that choke... might well snap the neck of someone weaker than her.
    And just as consciousness flees, as another of her elbows cracks hard into his ribs with that last bit of strength before her flailing becomes useless. She'll hear him /growl/ against her as he tenses his arm, shakes her slightly as if making sure she's going out. Then he _nips_ the supple curve of her neck as he releases. Not as hard as she bit him, but more perhaps so when she comes to, or perhaps in the morning she'll realize and see those marks.
    As soon as she's out he releases the pressure, setting her down then on the mat. Yet he massages the sides of her neck, helping to restore the flow of blood until he sees the first stirrings...
    And then he slides back a bit in case she comes out of a KO as hard as she goes into it.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    Good instincts. Wise instincts. Because a lifetime of hard knocks has educated in the most brutal possible way: if you're coming out of a KO, you strike out. Blindly. At anything within reach. Holding nothing back.
    While she's out, she looks almost peaceful. Like a lost child ... well, a lost child that gained about fifty pounds of pure muscle in a gym, plus more than a few tattoos and scars.
    Then her eyes are open, unfocused, and anything that looks to them like it might be within attack range of fist or foot gets something thrown its way while she claws herself back to awareness.
    Remember that sportsmanlike thing? The thing where she should have tapped out but chose instead to do as much damage as she could before she was out? This is a strange reversal of that. Once awareness is back up and she's consciously seeing things, she pulls herself back to her feet and looks over Alexander.
    Not angrily.
    Not even appraisingly.
    She's looking him over with grudging respect. Respect she pours into a nod of recognition: fighter to fighter, warrior to warrior.
    "Well, fuck me," she says with a grin. "I deserved that one, didn't I?"
    She probably doesn't mean the first part literally.
    "So this is the part where I say I'm gonna win the third one and up the stakes, right?
    She takes a step toward the corner of the ring, stumbling a little as her legs refuse to quite do her bidding. "Holy fuck, it's been ages since I've been choked out. I'm outta practice."
    She leans heavily against the post, turning to face Alexander again. "OK, here goes the bravado. I win the next round, you introduce me to your trainer 'cause holy fuck I got a few things to learn. What's your raised stake?"

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    "That'd be movin' faster than I'd like." Alexander says and for some reason he's smiling, just a wry half-smile that lights up those youthful handsome features even as he gains his feet as well. But he gives her that time that's needed, doesn't press further. He lets her stalk around and get set as he leans back against the top rope, bouncing slightly.
    "But sure," He says, finally. Then his jaw tightens as he tries to get back into the headspace he knows he needs to win against her. And he also knows that the upcoming points... aren't going to be easy.
    "My stake?" Alexander says with a hint of a growl as he watches her, his gaze lingering a moment, perhaps caught when she glances at him. But then he'll meet her eyes. "I figure I want it now since I'm gonna win this. And what I want is for you to stop holdin' back and half-assin' it."
    If anything they've said tonight has been fightin' words, them's it. But he pushes off that rope and moves toward the center of the mat, getting ready as he twists his head to the side one way, then the other, then settling into that forward stance, balanced with a low center of gravity as he readies himself for her.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    That lights a fire in Mimi's eyes, and it's not a playful one. These are burning coals of anger, with "coal" being the operative description: slow burning. Her lip twitches involuntarily into half of a smile before she forces it more into a snarl shape. She's pissed, but even she has to admit it was funny.
    "As you wish."
    And with that she explodes into action. Hitherto she's been mostly using wrestling moves informed by a slight hint of street fighting. This makes what comes next somewhat of a surprise as she LEAPS, twice Alexander's height, out of her corner, in an arc that seems destined to intersect with his location, only to, at the peak, to twist in a way that makes her fall short, crumpling into a controlled ball before him before her momentum sends her rolling toward his ankles, seemingly intending to take his feet out from under him ... only to at the last second uncurl with both her feet now headed at dizzying speed toward his jaw.
    From Greco-Roman wrestling to Circe de Soleil to Daoist Taijijuan in one move, all intended to disorient, confuse, and drop an element of uncertainty into Alexander's response, even if the twin kick, backed by an entire body of muscle, isn't enough to take him out in a blow.

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    When that blaze lights in her eyes she can see its mate there in his own, a perfect counterpoint and even though he knows that he will have to work hard to endure, he is on pins and needles with anticipation. She moves and he rocks back on one foot. There's the whisper of his bare feet upon the mats as she takes to the air and for a moment her lithe silhouette is limned there by the high lights so far above. There is a subtle gasp from him, taken in as what he witnesses is a thing of beauty...
    Yet he has no time to admire. He is back, she lands, rolling and seeking to take his legs out. He's forced to slide back, one leg extended far behind him as he prepares to ready for that attempted take down. Only for her to uncoil with the speed of a whipcrack and lash up with both of those feet.
    And she'll feel the connection, the /crunch/ of it hitting... both of his arms crossed as he absorbs a good amount of that strength with that block. Yet it knocks him back /hard/ into the top rope and breaks his balance as he tries to stop that rebound from sending him right back into her. He tries to get his guard back up, but it's a small window of a chance she has right then and there.

Melissa Gold has posed:
    And that connection lands in a way that twists her sideways, rolling in the air like a log as he flies backward, his attempts not to bounce back into her futile as she lands on him.
    Powerful thighs wrap around Alexander's left hip, one riding high behind him to hook his waist and tighten, the other riding low before him to hook around his powerful thigh, neutralizing it as she grinds his legs together to limit their movement.
    Pressing home her advantage her hair flying wildly, framing her face before him, her right arm pulls his head back, and her left the second rope over his neck, snapping it down on his throat.
    Then she plays the waiting game, pulling down on the rope, pressing her entire body against him, thighs tight around him, feeling every muscle beneath her writhing as he struggles, her harsh breath blowing hot against his shoulder, groaning from effort and ... more, somehow.
    "Just give it up already!" she hisses, tightening all her grips, legs and arms both, making the contact more painfully intimate. "Tap out."

Alexander Aaron has posed:
    Perhaps it's the ropes that had confounded him even as he feels them drawn taut over his throat. And she can feel his breathing tighten, holding his breath and trying to maintain focus and awareness even as the feeling of her lithe powerful body against him is a staggering thing. He shakes his head at first, rebellious, defiant even as his features darken and she can see the pulse of blood through his neck. Roughly she'll feel a stiffened finger try to stab into the pressure point behind one knee, seeking to cause a blaze of pain but not enough to get her to free him.
    Instead as the world starts to fade, as he turns his head and sees that blaze in her eyes, he knows she's not going to hold off, hold back... and for some reason that's just fine with him. It gives him the freedom now, for the first time in a long long time, to surrender.
    She'll feel his hand upon her thigh, feel it tap three times in quick succession. To signal that's her point. And the first one they're both conscious for.