Bedroom Assembly III (Feat. Flick Sterling)

[Lightman]

Madeline took the commentary in stride, even welcomed it. Flick’s refusal of moderation was not unfamiliar to her. She had met it in ballrooms and back rooms alike, in people who burned bright and fast because stillness felt like suffocation. “Overboard has its merits.” Madeline replied evenly, eyes sharp with interest rather than judgement. “So long as you know where the edge is when you finally reach it.” Her tone carried playfulness now, the lecture pared away in favour of something more pointed.

She allowed herself a faint smile at the talk of applause and worshippers. “Of course they pay.” she said lightly. “Spectacle has always sold better than subtlety. Rome was not built on quiet competence.” Her gaze flicked up and down Flick with open appraisal.

There was a moment, brief but telling, when Madeline recognised the eye roll for what it was. Not disdain, but impatience. The desire to move things along. She did not bristle. She adjusted. Her hands lifted slightly, palms open, posture relaxed but ready.

When Flick surged back into motion, Madeline followed, never chasing, never retreating too far. She felt the attempted reset before it fully formed, saw the calculation behind the grin. The step onto her thigh came suddenly, bold and unapologetic, and Madeline reacted on instinct honed by years of close quarters problem solving. She dipped her base and turned her hip inward, denying Flick a clean launch while absorbing the pressure through her core.

The foot pressed into her stomach, meant as a springboard rather than a strike. Madeline exhaled with it, bracing and redirecting rather than resisting. She caught the ankle with one arm while her other hand slid to Flick’s calf, not to yank, but to guide. With a sharp pivot, she allowed herself to be pushed back a step, converting the force into rotation. The mattress groaned beneath them, forgiving and treacherous all at once.

Madeline dropped her weight deliberately, pulling Flick off balance with her as she went. The mattress dipped and groaned beneath them, forgiving and treacherous, stealing some of Flick’s rebound and turning spring into stumble. “If you want to fly…” Madeline murmured as she guided the leg down and across her own body, redirecting Flick rather than rejecting her. “…you must accept that someone else may decide where you land.” She twisted, pulling Flick off line, aiming not to throw her but to make her land awkwardly, to force her to think on impact rather than fly through it.

[HotWheels]

Flick felt the shift instantly. One moment she soared, weightless and cool as ice, ready to execute a backflip that would have looked fantastic on an Instagram reel. The next, a grip on her ankle tethered her to the earth - or rather, the duvet. The trajectory died. The rotation stalled.

Gravity reclaimed her with a vengeance.

She didn't land on her feet. She didn't land in a pose. Flick crashed into the mattress in a tangle of white straps and blue hair, the soft surface stealing her dignity even as it cushioned her bones. She tumbled sideways, limbs flailing for purchase in the deep bedding, coming to a halt in a sprawl that was decidedly un-photogenic.

She blew a stray lock of hair out of her face, glaring up at the English Rose. The lecture grated on her nerves harder than the impact. Decide where you land. Rome wasn't built on competence. Blah, blah, blah. It was like wrestling a fortune cookie.

"You know, for someone who likes bodies, you sure do love the sound of your own voice," Flick observed, scrambling up to her knees. She didn't bother standing fully; the mattress made footing treacherous, and she preferred being closer to the ground now. "I don't need a pilot or a life coach. I need - and I want - a playmate. And you just ruined a perfectly good dismount."

She didn't give Madeline time to draft another paragraph of wisdom. Flick moved. She abandoned the aerials for the moment - if Madeline wanted to ground her, fine. They would stay grounded. Flick lunged forward from her knees, diving low. She wrapped her arms around Madeline's waist, burying her face into the woman's stomach, and drove her shoulder forward. She used pure, frantic momentum, aiming to tackle the taller woman backward onto the pillows and turn this philosophical debate into a messy, horizontal brawl.

"Less talking! More wrestling!" she shouted into the fabric of Madeline's gear as she drove her legs.

[Lightman]

Madeline’s mouth curved despite herself when Flick complained. Not wide. Not kind. Just enough to show that the barb had landed and been enjoyed. “If you want me quiet…” she said lightly, “…you will have to earn it.” Then she did exactly that. She stopped talking.

And when Flick surged in low, all speed and shoulder and intent, Madeline met her without retreat.

She dropped her weight at the last moment, hips sinking into the mattress as she framed with her forearm against Flick’s collarbone and slid the other arm over her back. The impact thudded into her centre, but she turned with it, letting herself be driven just enough to redirect the line. Her leg stepped back and around, her hip turning across Flick’s path, converting the charge into a sideways spill rather than a straight drive.

They went down together. Madeline rode the fall, landing on her side rather than her back, her knee threading between Flick’s thighs as her arm stayed tight around the upper body. Not a hold. Not yet. Just enough contact to keep Flick close, to make space something negotiated rather than assumed.

Close enough now that she could feel the heat of her, the impatient energy buzzed through her limbs. Madeline tilted her head slightly, studying Flick from inches away, curious despite herself. Madeline did wonder what Felicity meant by a “playmate”. More so if that is all she wants her to be…

Then she shifted her weight again, beginning to climb, testing whether Flick would push her off or let her rise.

[HotWheels]

The tackle didn't land the way Flick wanted. Course it didn't - to borrow from the Americans, Flick kept playing pitcher and Madeline was only playing catcher. Not Flick's preferred way to tango, but whatever floated her boat. Madeline dropped her weight, framed with her forearm, and Flick's momentum got redirected sideways instead of driving straight through. The mattress swallowed both their movements, turning what should've been a satisfying crash into something softer, more controlled.

They went down together, a messy tangle of limbs, and Flick found herself on her side with Madeline's knee threading between her thighs and an arm wrapped tight around her upper body. Close. Really bloody close. She could feel the heat radiating off the woman, smell whatever soap or shampoo she used, sense every point where their bodies connected through fabric and skin.

Okay, good. This was what she wanted with such a hot body.

Madeline's face hovered inches away, studying her with that same infuriating calm, and Flick caught the way the woman's head tilted slightly. Then Madeline shifted, beginning to climb, testing whether Flick would push her off or-

"Oh no you don't-" Flick said with a grin, and instead of pushing away, she pulled Madeline closer.

Her free hand slid down between them, fingertips ghosting along Madeline's ribs, tracing the line where fabric met skin. Light. Teasing. The kind of touch that had nothing to do with wrestling and everything to do with distraction. She let her fingers drift lower, skimming across Madeline's hip, feeling the warmth of skin through thin material.

"See, this-" Flick's voice dropped, warmer now, more playful. Her hand continued its path, sliding to the small of Madeline's back and pressing there, pulling their hips flush together. "-this is what I'm on about, yeah?"

She shifted her leg, the one hooked around Madeline's knee, and used it to pull the woman's thigh tighter between her own. The position put pressure in all sorts of interesting places, and Flick didn't shy away from it. She rocked her hips slightly, deliberately, grinding against the leg trapped between hers while her hand stayed pressed at Madeline's lower back.

"Less thinkin'," she breathed, her face still inches from Madeline's, blue eyes dancing with mischief. Her fingers flexed against Madeline's back, blue nails dragging lightly through fabric. "More feelin'."

[Lightman]

Madeline sensed the change right away, in both the power dynamics and the underlying purpose. Flick pulled her closer instead of away, turning proximity into provocation, and Madeline’s breath stilled for a fraction of a second. Not surprise. Assessment. She did not recoil from the closeness, nor did she indulge it. Instead, she let her weight settle, deliberate and patient, allowing the mattress to dip beneath them both.

“You tell me to stop 'thinking'…” Madeline murmured, quiet and wry, her tone carrying amusement rather than admonishment. “…Yet you are doing quite a lot of talking yourself~.” Her forehead hovered close, eyes steady, unflustered by the teasing contact. There was a composure in her stillness that answered Flick’s mischief without needing to outplay it.

She began to move, not away, but through. Madeline slid her knee higher, inch by inch, careful to keep her base wide as she sought to free it from between Flick’s legs. One arm threaded under Flick’s far shoulder, hunting for an underhook, while the other planted firmly into the duvet for balance. It was an attempt, not a claim. A question posed through pressure rather than force.

The contact became more structured, less accidental. Madeline angled her hips, chest lowering slightly as she tested whether Flick would resist or yield, whether the invitation to feel would override the instinct to scramble. She kept her head tucked close, denying space, her weight distributed, so that Flick had to carry it rather than shrug it off.

Her knee pressed, her shoulder followed, not crushing, just insistent. Enough to suggest that if she chose to advance, she could. She paused there, balanced on the edge between ascent and stalemate, letting Flick decide whether to wriggle free or tighten the snare she had set.