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typingatlightspeed · 1 year

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TF2 Fanfic - Collar and Elbow

In anticipation of his upcoming contract in America, Misha has been training his sisters harder than ever in fighting, so they can best defend themselves while he is away fighting in the Gravel Wars. Zhanna, being the oldest, bears the heaviest burden of this responsibility, and thus bears the brunt of her brother's aggressive training regimen. And she really hates his training regimen.

Yes this is another one of those Luna Wants An Excuse To Write Pro Wrestling fics, lol. Shout out to Tyson Dux's youtube channel for being helpful in figuring out the actual physicality of how specific moves work and how to escape them. Also: ARMBARS EVERYWHERE

No warnings! Genfic of siblings kicking each other’s asses because sometimes I decide to write wrestling.

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Zhanna grunted as her arm was wrenched, turned in with her palm up, twisted so that her shoulder felt like it would pop out of the socket. Without hesitation, she launched herself to the mat, rolling forward and coming up to her feet to yank her wrist free. Misha released his grip, a bit surprised by the acrobatic way in which his sister had removed his leverage, only to be seized by his own arm, his sister forcing it behind his own back and threading her arm under his, pressing against his back for leverage as she forced his shoulder to bend back too far, making the joint pinch.

It wasn't an impressive hold, by Misha's standards. He knew she was holding back. He turned, pivoting as he dropped to his knees to catch her at his side, gripped her thigh with his free hand, and casually tossed her over his shoulders and let her roll off onto the floor. Zhanna landed with a thud, splayed out on her back and glaring defiantly at her brother.

Both siblings climbed to their feet and circled one another. They had been at it for ten minutes, exchanging holds in the home-made ring in the gym Misha had built into their home. He wanted to be sure that in his absence, his sisters would know how to defend themselves. No one felt that responsibility harder than the eldest, Zhanna. So she trained, alone and with Misha's instruction. Twice weekly they would trade strikes. Twice weekly they would trade grapples. One day was a full-on fight, and the other two days were for firearms training and to let their bodies recover.

Misha had taken a contract in America. The money looked to be impressive, but it would take him far from home. He'd been training his sisters for years, keeping them strong and sharp. But even so, he worried, and it fell to Zhanna to be the one protecting everyone in his absence.

So he'd been harsher than ever in the lead-up to his leaving.

"Zhanna, you cannot just go for whatever grapple presents itself. You must pick your moves, leave no openings, make each action count. You're going to tire yourself out before you do real damage this way," he chastised, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"If I could strike you while I held you it would be different," Zhanna replied. She hated grappling-only days. Especially now, as the pressure was on for her to prove her might to her frustratingly massive older brother.

"Of course it would be, but you need to master the fundamentals of both to truly use them effectively together, I've told you as much," Misha countered. "Even with strikes, if you waste time with weak holds you're just presenting opportunities."

"You talk too much."

Misha huffed at that, and stepped in, moving to grab Zhanna. One of her hands shot forward, jamming the heel into his collarbone, letting her fingers wrap around the side of her neck. He did the same to her, his giant hand dwarfing her shoulder. In unison, they brought their opposing arms up to put pressure on the other's extended elbow, their faces inches away from one another as they circled and jockeyed for leverage in a collar-and-elbow tie up. Misha's nostrils flared, and Zhanna grit her teeth, narrowing her eyes at her brother, her opponent. Digging her fingers into Misha's neck, she pressed in enough to make him falter forward, and in that moment of weakness, she jolted him forward, dragging his head into the pocket of her shoulder, and hefted herself to that side, turning her body and letting herself fall, dragging Misha down with her. She lifted her leg to Misha's side, providing a fulcrum around which he pivoted as he fell, letting her spin out under him, tuck that foot under him, and throw her other leg over his neck as he landed, his arm fully in her grasp as she shifted her grip to hold his wrist and forearm in an armbar. Misha landed flat on her back, and Zhanna did the same, using the leverage of her leg over Misha's neck to arch her back and his arm along with it, forcing his elbow in the wrong direction.

Misha roared, shifting and trying to alleviate the pain, a burning stab shooting through his arm, Zhanna's leg refusing him the leverage to fight back.

"Are you going to tap out, dear brother?"

"It will take more than a fancy armbar to make me tap," he growled, casting himself from side to side to attempt to roll toward her. Zhanna untucked the foot she had planted on the floor and threw it over Misha's ribs, both legs tensed over him denying him the leverage he needed, and in a moment of frustration, he went slack, his face pinched as he tried to clear his head amid the growing pain in his overextended elbow. Taking a breath, he realized that the leg over his ribs was his way out, and took hold of Zhanna's leg across his neck, seizing her by the ankle. He crossed her ankle across the other, and pushed both feet up together, removing the pressure on his torso enough for him to shift his hips. A younger Misha would have an easier time of the next part, but he was not about to let the aches and stiffness of age make him look weak in front of his little sister. Misha lifted his legs, scissoring them around Zhanna's crossed feet, and rolled, using his legs to pull hers off and away as he forced the two of them to roll, coming up atop Zhanna, her belly to the floor, his arm tugged from her grip in the confusion.

Misha rolled to Zhanna's side, to his hip, and stepped over her to straddle her back. He snatched up her legs and wrapped his arms around them, spreading them and cinching them against his waist, then squatted, forcing her back to arch at a sharp angle. Zhanna slammed the mat with her fists and forearms, searing pain sparking through her spine. "Son of a bitch!"

"Don't talk about Mama that way," Misha teased, squatting deeper, nearly sitting on her shoulderblades as the angle lifted her hips and belly from the mat. She roared in agony, clawing at the mat, trying to find purchase, trying to figure out an escape. "Do you see? I could have done any number of holds here, but a Boston Crab can completely immobilize an opponent. A leg lock might not have. A toe hold might not have. A chicken wing or hammer lock might have also worked, but this hold is terribly painful, don't you agree?"

"Fuck you!" Zhanna yelled, her voice strained with a mixture of pain and difficulty breathing. She pushed her chest off of the mat as much as she could and turned her shoulder in, tucking herself under and forcing herself to curl in, under herself, under Misha, until she was looking up at him from below. With a heave of her hips, she forced herself out and onto her back, throwing Misha to the mat with the force of the inversion. He released her and grunted in approval, nodding.

"You're getting good at using your dexterity to your advantage," he noted, sitting up. "That's good. Press every advantage you have. Against normal men, you have strength. Against me, you have dexterity."

"Tell me things I don't know," Zhanna spat, climbing to her feet.

Misha chuckled at that, rising to his feet. He rolled his shoulders and got back into stance, a grin on his face. "Fine. I'll tell you that you leave your legs open too much." He ducked into her space, bringing a forearm to her hip and snatching hold of her calf. Using his forearm as a fulcrum he pulled her leg out from under her, forcing her back to the mat with a slam, punching the air from her lungs as he dropped her leg. Misha stepped in for one of her splayed arms, his toe on her bicep to keep her in place as he bent and took hold of her wrist. He stepped back, yanking her until she was sitting up, then knelt next to her, tucking her shoulder into his armpit and taking her wrist in both hands to take full control of her arm. He sat, pushing her forward with his leverage, forcing her over onto her belly and prone, leaning atop her, holding her down with his weight atop her shoulder and back. He twisted her arm so she was palm-up, wrenching it up and back, pain lancing through her shoulder and elbow.

"What do you say, Zhanna? Submit?"

Zhanna shoved her other arm under herself, trying to wrench herself up, give herself leverage, but to no avail. Misha was too heavy and too much of his bulk was leaning onto her. Every time she tried to shift he'd wrench her arm harder, and it was quickly growing difficult to think straight. She settled down and tried to relax, tried to think, tried to analyze her situation. Then she saw it, her salvation: the metal jug of water that Misha always brought to the gym for their training, so they would have a ready source of hydration without having to leave the room and interrupt the flow of the lesson. It was small, about the size of a beer growler, and made of hefty steel, a ridiculous thing he'd picked up at the trading post and was always looking for excuses to use.

Now, she had a use for it.

Stretching her arm out, Zhanna clawed for the edge of the mat, to where it sat, hoping it was far enough. Misha, feeling her try to escape, leaned harder onto her, actually pushing her the couple of inches she needed. Taking hold of the jug, she grunted, "No, but Misha, look at this!"

Misha turned, confused, and was met with the jug crashing into his nose, breaking it with a sickening crack. He roared in pain, releasing his sister and rolling away into a heap, cradling his face. Zhanna took the opportunity to climb to her knees and shake her arm out, rolling it to try and work out the pain. "Submit?" she asked, lowering her voice to mimic him.

His hands falling away from his face, Misha was not surprised to find them covered in his own blood. He sniffed, to no avail, and turned to look at his sister. Blood poured from his nose, down his lips and chin, and a bruise had already begun to spread across his face. A lesser opponent would have been cowed by the rage on the man's face. Zhanna merely rose to her feet and settled into a fighting stance.

Misha barked out a laugh, slapping the mat with his bloody hand. "Finally! Finally you understand!"

Zhanna had not been prepared for that. "Understand what?"

"Striking only days, grappling only days. Yes, learning fundamentals is important, but what is more important is learning that in a true fight, there are no rules." Misha rose to his feet and considered wiping his nose on his arm before thinking better of it. "There is no such thing as a fair fight, Zhanna, and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is just trying to make up for their own lack of ability by imposing restrictions on you."

"So all of this time all I had to do was break your stupid rules?" Zhanna gawped.

Misha tapped his temple and grinned, then settled back into a fighting stance.

"What about your nose?"

"We'll fix it after this match. Now, no more baby games. Fight me!"

Zhanna roared and charged in at her brother, a laugh bubbling out of her as the thrill of combat finally took hold.

#TF2 Fanfic #Team Fortress 2 #TF2 Heavy #TF2 Zhanna

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