Bedroom Assembly III (Feat. Flick Sterling)

[Lightman]

“Again.”

The English Rose commanded, her fingers lifting in a precise arc as the crew adjusted the final suspension points. “Another inch of clearance. I want the silks to invite, not intrude. They should feel like an option, not a demand.” Her voice carried easily across the space, calm and assured, never raised. This was the third trial run of her evolving arena, and there was no room left for approximation. The hush under the lights felt earned now, a disciplined quiet shaped by repetition and expectation. She watched the corde lisse ropes settle into their lines, hanging with deliberate promise above the pit, reachable but never indulgent. Balance, always balance.

The battlefield below had been refined into something deceptively tender. A mattress floor stretched taut beneath a pristine duvet, its surface yielding just enough to reward movement and punish hesitation. The edges were banked with pillows in muted shades of blush, wine and bone, layered thickly to soften falls while framing the pit like a decadent secret. It echoed the geometry of a Karate Combat pit, but translated through Madeline’s sensibilities into something intimate and theatrical. Combat disguised as comfort. Danger wrapped in linen. She had learned from the gauntlet and from the handicap match that followed. Excess had been pared away, intention sharpened. Tonight was different. Tonight was singular.

One-on-one had its own honesty. No shared rhythm to hide within, no partner to absorb momentum or distraction. It suited this phase of her assessment perfectly. Madeline moved slowly around the perimeter, stocking-clad feet silent against the floor, eyes tracking sightlines and shadow. The aerial elements added a vertical temptation, a way to escape the obvious language of the mattress and rewrite the fight above it. Not too high, not too low. Everything here was a choice, and every choice would reveal something. She allowed herself a brief nod of satisfaction as the lighting warmed, red and amber tones melting together until the pit glowed like a private indulgence glimpsed through a half-open door.

Felicity Sterling. The Knotty Duchess. She occupied Madeline’s thoughts with increasing clarity. Flick, as she styled herself, carried a reputation that resisted easy categorisation. English-born, sharp-tongued, restlessly inventive, she had danced across disciplines and demeanours with an almost reckless curiosity. There were flashes of brilliance in her history, moments of audacity that suggested instinct rather than polish. There were also contradictions, detours that made it difficult to decide whether she was a risk or a resource. Madeline found the ambiguity compelling. This match would serve as both an introduction and an examination. If there were substance beneath the bravado, the pit would coax it out.

She paused at the foot of one of the hanging silks, whisking it with her fingertips. The fabric swayed, responsive, alive. Felicity struck Madeline as the sort who might climb simply because it was there, who might test the limits of the space out of curiosity alone. That could be dangerous, or it could be revelatory. Madeline had designed this arena to reward awareness and punish impulse, but she was not uninterested in seeing those rules challenged. Flick’s past suggested a willingness to blur lines, to treat performance as a language rather than a costume. The question was whether she could listen as well as she acted.

The cameras were checked discreetly and patiently; their presence was implied rather than announced. Madeline preferred it that way. The illusion of privacy mattered, even when the reality was observation. She adjusted the pillow that had shifted, ensuring the asymmetry remained intentional, then straightened, silk robe catching the light as she moved. In the mirror on the far wall, she caught her own reflection and studied it with the same cool attention she afforded her fighters. Architect, curator, adjudicator. The roles overlapped here, as they always did. It pleased her to know that the space bore her signature so completely.

There was a quiet thrill in anticipation now, a sense that the room itself was holding its breath. This third trial was less about stress-testing materials and more about testing people. How they adapted when comfort disguised threat. How they chose when offered too many possibilities at once. Madeline walked to the centre of the pit and let the mattress dip beneath her weight, feeling the give, the promise of motion. Felicity would have to scan this terrain, or be read by it instead.

Satisfied, Madeline stepped back and smoothed the robe at her hip, her expression serene. Everything was ready. The silks waited overhead; the ropes hung patiently; the bed-pit gleamed with soft-edged menace. All that remained was the arrival of the woman who would give it meaning.

[HotWheels]

Flick Sterling spun in a slow circle in the middle of the corridor, hands on her hips, looking utterly perplexed by her own lack of direction. LAW really needed to invest in some maps, or maybe just paint big arrows on the floor for the geographically challenged. "Left at the vending machine, right at the moody photo of the bloke in the mask... or was it left at the moody bloke?" she muttered, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

She didn't mind the detour, though. It gave her a moment to appreciate the absurdity of what she was walking into. They had called it a "match-test." A trial run. Whatever they wanted to call it, the brief she’d gotten sounded less like a wrestling match and more like a dream she’d had after eating too much cheese before bed. A giant bed? Plush cushions to catch her falls and let her, what was the word, luxuriate? It was like someone had peeked inside her head, tidied up the mess, and built an arena out of one of her many, many crazy ideas.

She adjusted her gear, checking her reflection in a passing window. She’d dressed down for the occasion, shedding the voluminous sleeves and heavy ceremonial robes of her usual entrance attire for something that fit the "boudoir tangle" aesthetic perfectly. It was a stark white ensemble, a daring halter-style bikini top held together by a central gold ring that drew the eye straight to her cleavage, paired with high-cut white briefs that left her hips entirely bare. The only "bindings" were the decorative white straps crisscrossing her thighs and calves, accented with gold bands that gleamed against her skin. She looked like a moon goddess ready for a slumber party.

"Yeah, just right," she told herself with a decisive nod.

Finally, she spotted a door that looked more important than the others - mostly because it didn't look like a broom closet. She didn't bother knocking; privacy was a concept she struggled with at the best of times. Flick pushed the door open and stepped inside, and the low, appreciative wolf-whistle left her lips before she could stop it.

"Ohhh shit. This is proper," she whisper-muttered.

The room was bathed in warm, amber light, smelling of expensive linen and expectation. The "pit" was exactly as promised - a massive, inviting expanse of duvet and mattress, banked by pillows that looked soft enough to sleep on for a week. But it was the verticality that caught her eyes; the silks and ropes hanging from the ceiling like vines in a jungle. She hadn't been told about that part. Was that just for her? If so... hell yes.

And then, there was the spider in the center of the web.

Madeline stood there, wrapped in a robe that hid most of the goods, but Flick had seen the pictures. She knew what kind of architecture was hiding under that silk. Even covered up, the woman radiated a kind of calm, posh authority that made the hairs on the back of Flick’s neck stand up in the best way possible. She had left the lifestyle of the rich and infamous, but she still rubbed bottoms with them more often than not. Madeline seemed her type of bottom to rub.

Flick skipped down into the pit, hopping over the pillow barrier and landing on the mattress with a bounce that tested the springs.

"Aha! You got a good one," she declared, when the landing launched her back into the air instead of sinking beneath her weight.

She didn't stop moving. Her eyes locked onto a pair of hanging silks, and instinct took over. She reached up, gripping the fabric, and in one fluid motion, hauled herself up, swinging her legs through to hang upside down in a casual, suspended split, her blue twin-tails dangling toward the duvet. She swung there for a moment, defying gravity, looking at Madeline from an inverted angle with a grin that was all teeth and mischief.

"English Rose! Name fits," she chirped, her accent thick and jagged, cutting through the disciplined silence of the room. She flipped herself upright, landing softly on the mattress again, bouncing on her toes. "You didn't tell me we were having a sleepover! Look at this place! It’s bloody gorgeous. And you..."

She raked her eyes over Madeline, winking aggressively.

"You look like you own the place. Which, I guess you do. I'm Flick. But you knew that. What's the plan then?"

Spoiler

[Lightman]

The door opened abruptly, and Madeline initially didn’t react. Before the door creaked, she heard the footsteps, with an uneven rhythm that suggested wandering instead of a steady march. The sound possessed a faint musicality, which, in its disrespect, hinted at either a lack of knowledge or a strong sense of self. She adjusted the silk, letting it fall between her fingers, and then turned with unhurried grace to address the intrusion. Her lips curved into a small, secret smile after hearing the appreciative sound, though her eyes remained unchanged. First impressions were crucial, and Felicity Sterling’s had been quite striking.

Flick entered the room and went down into the pit, and Madeline watched him with a clear, assessing look, noticing everything without focusing on anything for too long. The warm light perfectly illuminated the white of her clothes, which stood out against the red and gold tones of the room, and Madeline found the intentional minimalism intriguing. This was not someone hiding behind a costume or ritual tonight. This was a presentation stripped to its intent. With her hands clasped gently at her waist, her robe secured, and her posture calm, she let the moment unfold as the mattress settled with its new occupant.

Madeline finally spoke. Her voice was refined and elegant, and it carried without any strain. “I’m pleased you approve. It would be dreadfully awkward if my guest found the accommodations lacking.” Her eyes lifted briefly as Flick took to the silks with instinctive ease, following the movement upward, assessing grip, control, confidence. A quiet hum of satisfaction settled in her chest. There it was. Impulse paired with capability. Interesting. When Flick returned to the mattress, Madeline inclined her head slightly, a gesture that hovered between greeting and acknowledgement.

“You have a way of sensing a place before you act.” Madeline added, as she neared the pit’s opening but remained outside. “That reveals more to me than any highlight reel ever could.” Her gaze met Flick’s directly now, unflinching, a study in calm scrutiny. The mischief, the bravado, the open curiosity all registered, catalogued rather than judged. “And yes. English Rose. Though I find names are rarely as simple as they appear.”

She allowed herself a small exhale, almost a laugh, when Flick commented on ownership. “Well. I tend to curate my environments carefully, depending on whom I am with.” Madeline replied. “Control is a kindness when applied properly. It spares people the embarrassment of chaos.” Her tone remained cordial, even warm, but there was a precision beneath it that made the words land with weight. She stepped down into the pit then, the mattress dipping subtly beneath her bare feet, claiming the space without announcement.

Madeline took a moment to walk the perimeter with Flick present now, as if seeing the arena anew through fresh eyes. “This is not a match.” She said lightly, glancing back over her shoulder. “Well, not yet. But definitely not in the official sense. Think of tonight as a conversation. Between you and the space. Between you and me.” She paused near one of the rope lines, fingers brushing it thoughtfully. “I have seen what you choose to do when the rules are spoken loudly by a particular official. But I am far more interested in what you do when it’s more like a whisper.”

Her attention returned fully to Flick, studying the way she bounced on her toes, the restless energy that refused to be contained. “You seem like the sort to have worn many faces.” Madeline observed, not unkindly. “Some deliberate. Some necessary. Reinvention can be a talent, or a defence. I have not yet decided which it is in your case.” There was no accusation in her voice, only curiosity sharpened to a fine edge. “And that uncertainty is precisely why you are here.”

She gestured upward toward the silks and ropes, then down to the yielding floor beneath them. “Everything here is designed to offer you a choice. Ascend or ground yourself. Perform or endure. Neither answer is wrong, but each tells me something different.” Madeline clasped her hands behind her back, silk whispering softly as she moved. “I prefer not to rush these things. People reveal themselves most honestly when they forget they are being tested.”

A faint smile curved her lips as she came to a stop opposite Flick, close enough now for the warmth of the lights to catch in her eyes. “As for the plan…” she said, voice lowering just a touch, inviting rather than commanding. “…We talk. You acclimate. You decide whether this place excites you or unsettles you.” Her gaze held steady, unblinking. “And I decide what to do with that information.”

Madeline inclined her head once more, a gesture of polite finality for the moment. “So, Flick Sterling…” she concluded softly. “…Welcome. Take your time. First impressions are fleeting, but instincts have a habit of lingering.”

[HotWheels]

Flick listened. She really tried. But as the English Rose continued to bloom with flowery language, Flick felt her attention span withering. The woman sounded proper fancy-pants, admittedly to the point of sounding like the type Flick had tried to avoid ever since she got so sick of the high life and tried to live like the more down-to-earth people of the word. Every sentence dripped with elegance and syllables, but she could deal with verboseness. The problem lay in the quantity. Madeline liked to talk.

The words washed over Flick and subsequently off her back like water off a duck's back. Control and chaos? Whispering rules? Faces and masks and things being fleeting? It sounded less like a fight briefing and more like the philosophy lectures she used to skip to go make out with her latest crush behind the gym. Flick’s face, never one for subtlety, contorted through a spectrum of pained expressions. Her eyebrows knitted together, her nose crinkled, and her lips pursed as she tried to catch a solid fact in the stream of abstract concepts.

She grew restless. The mattress beneath her feet demanded movement, so she rolled back and forth from heels to toes, letting the springs bounce her rhythmically while Madeline finished her soliloquy. Eventually, the impatience won out, and Flick distilled the speech down to the only bits that mattered: Not a match. Do what she wanted. Prove she wasn't rubbish.

"Right... that's a lot," Flick exhaled the moment Madeline stopped, shaking her head as if to clear the water from her ears. "Gonna say that knocks out the 'talking' portion you mentioned, yeah? Because I ain't got a clue how to respond to most of that. Gotta be honest, I'm pretty simple. But what I do wanna do-"

She didn't wait for permission. The silk called to her. Flick reached up, snagging the fabric with a grip that belied her slender frame, and hoisted herself effortlessly into the air again. She wrapped the white material around one leg, securing herself, and spun, creating a blur of white skin and white fabric against the amber light, looking like an angel twirling above.

"And about the... eh... excited or unsettled bit?" she called out, spinning slower now, hanging casually by one arm and a tangled leg. "Yeah, just excited. I could probably just hang about up here all day and have a laugh. Spin around, look pretty. This place suits me great."

She stopped her rotation, hanging perfectly still above the mattress, her eyes locking onto Madeline standing below. A wicked, predatory grin spread across her face.

"Or... I could use these to swing down there and snag that pretty, posh head of yours between my thighs. Just snap." She scissored her free leg in the air for emphasis. "Do my best impression of that one bird who scissors James Bond in that one movie. Actually, you know, you give off proper Bond villain vibes. Might be fun to squeeze the breath out of you. You know, if we end up doing that. I'd be game to do that." She wriggled her eyebrows as if that added to the temptation.

[Lightman]

Madeline watched the shift with quiet amusement, the moment when Flick’s attention slipped its leash and instinct pawed at the floor. She recognised it immediately. Not disinterest exactly, but restlessness, the kind that came from a mind that preferred motion to metaphor. As Flick bounced lightly on the mattress, face cycling through unguarded reactions, Madeline allowed her own cadence to soften. There was no offence taken. Adaptation was a courtesy, not a concession.

“Hmhm. All right.” She said gently, lifting one hand in a small, placating gesture. “Let us pare it down.” Her lips curved, not quite a smile, but something warmer than before. “You are right. I do enjoy language. Occupational hazard.” She tilted her head, eyes following Flick’s movement with calm attentiveness. “To keep it short. You are free to explore. I am free to observe and test. And you are here because I want to see whether your confidence can survive proximity.”

When Flick took to the silks again, Madeline did not retreat. Instead, she stepped closer beneath her; the mattress responding subtly to her weight. She looked up, unbothered by the height or the implied threat, studying the lines of tension in Flick’s grip and leg wrap. “Much better.” said Madeline. “That, I understand.” There was approval there, unguarded and genuine. “Excitement is far more honest than confusion.”

She folded her arms loosely as Flick spun, white against amber, an image designed to distract and delight. “The vertical space suits you.” Madeline observed. “Some people need to feel the ground beneath them. Others prefer the option of escape.” Her gaze sharpened just a fraction as Flick stilled herself above, eyes locking downward with playful menace. Madeline did not look away.

At the mention of snapping thighs and cinematic villains, Madeline laughed softly, a low sound that carried no nerves at all. “Ah.” she replied, eyes glinting with recognition. “Bambi and Thumper. Diamonds Are Forever. An efficient way to die, apparently.” She took another step forward, directly beneath Flick now, her chin tipped up just enough to maintain eye contact. “Though if we are trading references, I suspect you are closer to Xenia Onatopp. Pleasure and pressure intertwined. She always enjoyed a slow squeeze.”

Her tone remained light, conversational, but there was a deliberate steadiness to her posture that undercut any illusion of vulnerability. “Bond villains tend to underestimate the people who smile while threatening them.” She added. “It is a common flaw.” Madeline lifted one hand, fingers brushing the silk beside Flick’s leg, not tugging, merely acknowledging its presence. “As for whether you would manage it, that is the interesting question, is it not?”

She withdrew her hand and stepped back, granting space without ceding authority. Her eyes traced Flick’s suspended form once more, taking in the balance, the ease. “You are not unsettled. Good. That tells me you will take risks. The trick will be whether you choose the right ones.”

Madeline clasped her hands behind her back again, silk whispering softly. “I believe we have spoken enough.” The English Rose said before she’d bend her knees slightly, spacing her feet well onto the bed, grounding herself. “Come at me whichever way you’d prefer. I look forward to seeing what you’d create with this opportunity.”

[HotWheels]

Should Flick have felt a bit thick for only catching the drift and not the dictionary definitions? The thought crossed her mind for a nanosecond before it fizzled into nothingness, as did most worrying thoughts in Flick's mind these days. She hadn't cared about feeling "smart" in the traditional sense since she all but gave up on school around fifteen, deciding it didn't suit her. While her peers panicked over exams and university placements, Flick had dropped out of that race to focus on a different kind of education. She found she had a much better time figuring out the geometry of complex shibari ties than she ever did with actual geometry. She knew the important shit about how to live and survive living, and she needed nothing more.

If Madeline wanted to wrap her threats in velvet metaphors like all the other rich folk she’d rubbed elbows (and other parts) with, that remained her business. Flick understood the gist: I’m watching you, and I might hurt you. She felt content to stay the optimistic fool, nodding along with a vacuous grin while she sharpened her knives behind her back.

But the Bond talk? That grabbed at her.

"Yeah, them two!" Flick chirped, swaying gently to keep her rhythm, the silk twisting in her grip. "Lithe little nightmares, won't they?" Her eyes became a bit distant and dreamy as she pondered them. "But you're bang on about Xenia. Shiiiit, she got a couple of my friends back when into the whole session scene. Way better style. Though between you and me, her scissor technique looked a bit loose. I reckon I could teach her a thing or two about keeping it tight."

She grinned, the expression sharp and hungry. Being compared to a sexually aggressive Bond villain who crushed men to death? She had never heard a better compliment in her life. It fit her perfectly. "I do like a squeeze," she admitted, winking aggressively. "But I don't mind screwin' up like a Bond villain, either. Giving it, taking it... it's all fun, long as someone's struggling. But if you want to see what I can create..."

And even if Flick didn't fully understand all the words, she understood body language. Madeline grounded herself as an invitation, and Flick didn't hesitate.

"Ready or not."

She shimmied higher up the silks, placing her feet into the loops and pumping her legs, treating the expensive fabric like a playground swing at recess when the teachers would yell for her to sit down. She built momentum, rising higher and higher with every arc, her twin-tails trailing behind her like streamers. The air rushed past her ears, filling her with that weightless, giddy sensation she craved.

At the apex of her backswing, she dropped.

Her hands snatched the silk lower, freeing her legs from the loops. She swooped down like a pendulum, feet aiming straight for Madeline’s chest. To any observer, it looked like the obvious move: an attempt to swing right in and clamp the scissor shut around Madeline's head.

But Flick lived for the misdirection.

At the very last second, just as Madeline likely braced for impact, Flick tucked her knees tight to her chest. She soared right past the English Rose's face, a blur of white skin, gold straps, and manic energy, close enough to disturb Madeline's hair with the wind of her passing. The moment she cleared Madeline’s shoulders, Flick struck. She whipped her legs out of the tuck, scissoring them open and then snapping them shut behind her, hunting blindly but accurately for the back of Madeline's neck. She aimed to hook the woman from behind, using her momentum to whip Madeline backward onto the duvet-mat in a chaotic, flying inverted headscissor takedown.

[Lightman]

Although it’s not been said, the former aristocrat can sense the rambling confession with a composure that never cracked, even as she parsed the subtext beneath it. Madeline did not mistake simplicity for stupidity, nor bravado for ignorance. There was a different intelligence at work here, one that lived in muscle memory and intuition rather than vocabulary. Despite the different upbringings, Madeline understood abandoning school and learning other geometries. Not all education came from classrooms. Some of the most dangerous minds she had ever encountered belonged to those who learned with their bodies first and justified it later.

The shift came when Flick returned to the Bond villains, her tone softening into something almost reverent. Madeline’s eyes narrowed with interest, not displeasure. “Lithe nightmares indeed.” The brunette said. “They understood intimacy as a weapon. A lesson many overlook. Even here.” At Flick’s critique of Xenia’s technique, Madeline let out a quiet laugh. “Everyone believes they could improve a legend. Ambition does that.” Her gaze sharpened. “Confidence, however, is only impressive when tested.”

When Flick spoke of squeezing and struggle, of pleasure braided with violence, Madeline did not retreat. She stepped forward instead, grounding herself deliberately, feet placed with intention, weight settled and ready. Her voice lowered, steady and inviting. “If creation is what you wish to show me, then by all means.” She lifted her chin slightly. “But understand this. I do not stand still for demonstrations.”

The moment Flick climbed higher, Madeline’s attention became absolute. She tracked every shift of weight, every change of grip, eyes reading the language of motion with practised fluency. The playful pumping of legs did not fool her. It was not done for frivolity. This was preparation, but it presented as joy. Madeline bent her knees just enough to stay mobile, shoulders loose, centre of gravity alive beneath her.

When Flick dropped, Madeline saw the line of attack immediately. The pendulum swing, the feet driving toward her chest, the obvious threat of a scissor. She raised her arms instinctively, bracing for impact, already calculating the angle of descent. Then Flick vanished past her face in a rush of air and white, the misdirection registering a fraction too late. Madeline felt the wind disturb her hair an instant before pressure closed in from behind.

Flick’s legs snapped around her neck with ruthless precision, grip held tight and confident as momentum yanked Madeline backwards. The mattress rushed up to meet her, but panic never entered her expression. She tucked her chin, turned with the force rather than against it, and slapped her arm out to disperse the impact as she hit the duvet. The pillows shifted and sighed beneath them, absorbing violence as designed. Madeline rolled through the takedown smoothly, refusing to let her spine take the brunt of it. She continued with the roll, the mattress aided her, giving just enough to allow rotation without bounce betraying her balance.

She came back to her knees in a single fluid motion, one hand planted on the duvet, the other braced on her thigh. Her breathing remained even, eyes already lifting to find Flick again. A few strands of hair had fallen loose from her careful arrangement, but her posture was unbroken. “Very good.” Madeline said calmly, voice steady despite the adrenaline now humming through her veins. “Excellent timing. Almost had me flat. Almost.”

Madeline rose slowly, rolling her shoulders once as if shaking off dust rather than a near-violent takedown. Her eyes bright with something close to delight; a faint smile curved her lips, sharper now, unmistakably eager. “Now you see why I prefer bodies to speeches.” She took one measured step forward, reclaiming the centre of the pit. “Ready or not works both ways.” Madeline added softly. “Again.”

[HotWheels]

Oh, Flick could do this all day.

She loved a straight wrestling match - the raw, sweaty, in-the-dirt violence of it satisfied a certain primal itch - but this? Flying through the air, trying to make every move as perfect as it was gorgeous when she executed it? This fed her soul. It combined the thrill of the fight with the meticulousness of performance art. But the feeling proved even better. The tactile snap of her thighs closing around Madeline’s neck, the split-second confirmation that she had achieved momentary faultlessness with her spacing, timing, and velocity. It served her as well as a drug.

She giggled as she torqued her hips for the whip, then let go to make her own smooth tumble. Flick hit the duvet with a controlled thud, landing on her shoulder and rolling through the momentum effortlessly. She came up on one knee, a giant, manic grin plastered across her face as she watched the English Rose recover. And credit where due, Madeline handled it. She had a bit of the rolly-polly in her, too, by the look of it. It almost annoyed Flick if she hadn't felt so thrilled by the whole exchange.

"Oh, yeah, don't worry - I know," Flick teased, bouncing back to her full height and stretching her arms wide, preening like a peacock displaying its feathers. "Just the work of an expert, babycakes. No biggie. Standard procedure for the Knotty Duchess."

And clearly, Madeline wanted more.

"Ain't gotta tell me twice," Flick chirped, her eyes darting around the arena for her next toy.

She took off running, her bare feet sinking slightly into the mattress as she cut a wide loop away from Madeline to build speed. She snagged another hanging silk, but this time she didn't climb. She wrapped her right arm and right leg around the fabric, leaning her entire weight out to the side, turning herself into a human tetherball. She swung wide, arcing toward Madeline from the right flank, building centrifugal force, throwing the free leg out as a potential danger.

It looked like a repeat performance. Her trajectory aimed to sweep around behind Madeline again. But even later this time, Flick went for another distracting feint.

Just before she entered striking range, she released the silk. She didn't complete the arc. Instead, she dove off at a sharp tangent, tucking her chin and somersaulting past Madeline's left side. She hit the mattress and used the spring of the bed to launch herself upward instantly. She exploded vertically, twisting in the air to wrap her arm around Madeline's head in a three-quarter facelock, attempting to drag the woman down into a snapping, bouncing cutter. She knew she couldn't hurt Madeline on this plush surface - which just meant she could pull the move with zero hesitation and maximum flair.

[Lightman]

The moment the shift occurred, Madeline could feel it, with Flick’s energy going from playful to a fierce hunger. Madeline found beauty in its raw essence, a distinctive combination of joy and brutality that didn’t want to be anything other than what it was. Observing the grin, the cocky attitude, and the apparent confidence, she took a long, slow breath through her nostrils in response. “You are enjoying yourself.” Madeline observed aloud. “Just don’t get carried away.”

She did not rise too quickly, allowing Flick the visual of recovery, of composure reclaimed rather than snatched. When Flick praised herself, Madeline merely inclined her head, a small acknowledgement rather than a rebuttal. “Expertise announces itself.” she replied calmly. “It does not require witnesses to clap.” Her eyes never left Flick’s feet, tracking the subtle angle of her stance, the coiled readiness that telegraphed motion before it arrived.

When Flick broke into a run, Madeline turned with her, pivoting on the balls of her feet, shoulders relaxed, hands open. The mattress made footwork treacherous for the unprepared, but Madeline used its give deliberately, sinking and rising in rhythm rather than fighting it. She watched Flick take the silk, read the wrap, the lean, the conversion of body into pendulum.

As Flick swung wide, Madeline adjusted her base, stepping slightly off line, presenting her shoulder rather than her centre. She raised one forearm defensively, not to block the leg but to feel it if it came, to measure distance through contact. The feint came late, clever and audacious, and Madeline smiled despite herself as Flick released and vanished past her flank in a blur of motion.

The somersault and rebound happened fast, but not too fast. Madeline dropped her weight instinctively, widening her stance just as Flick launched upward. When the arm snaked around her head for the facelock, Madeline met it halfway, tucking her chin deep and threading her own arm inside, hand climbing to Flick’s wrist. She turned with the pull rather than resisting it, allowing herself to be guided down while denying Flick the clean snap she wanted.

They'd hit the mattress together, but Madeline refused to fall flat. She posted her free hand, rolled her shoulder through the impact, and slipped her head partially free, enough to breathe, enough to think. Her hips came alive beneath her, bridging just enough to off-balance Flick before turning sharply onto her side. The cutter would dissolve into a scramble, elegance traded for proximity.

Madeline came up on one knee again, close now, close enough to feel Flick’s heat and momentum still vibrating. She kept hold of the wrist she had captured, not wrenching it, merely anchoring it as she rose. “Flair like that wins crowds. But control wins endings.” Her grip tightened just enough to underline the lesson, then loosened, deliberately releasing.

She stepped back a half pace, giving Flick space rather than safety. “You are extraordinary in the air, I’ll give you that.” Madeline continued, voice calm, breathing steady. Her posture remained open, inviting the next exchange without fear of it.

[HotWheels]

Flick caught the admonishment about getting carried away and nearly laughed out loud.

"Getting carried away is kind of my whole schtick, yeah?" she called out, her voice bouncing with the same energy as her body. "What's the point of living if a girl ain't going overboard? Life's garbage when you sit still. I'm not big on garbage, dunno about you." She didn't have the time or the emotional bandwidth for moderation. Those sorts of people worried about retirement funds and cholesterol and... well, things. Flick worried about how high she could fly, how many different people she could earn the right to wrap around, how many tacos she could down before she felt sick or put her fitness at risk, one or the other. She wanted to experience things, even if that experience led to a little pain.

And the bit about not needing applause? Please. "Pssh, sod that," she added, rocking back and forth between her feet to secure her balance and appease her need for movement. "Getting praised is half the fun. Besides, I've made my share off people paying just to witness my... talents. Know what I mean? I like it when they clap. Usually they're doing something else with their hands, though." She waggled her eyebrows. Surely underneath all that English rose-ness, a pulse beat who liked a little fun.

Actually, the woman almost left Flick rolling her eyes. Madeline sounded like a walking textbook, or maybe a thesaurus. If Flick had to spend a week with her, she'd probably go nutty. Kind of reminded her of sitting in a room with a schoolmistress teaching philosophy. Good thing she was hot. Being hot bought a lot of forgiveness in Flick’s book. Maybe she loosened up off the clock, too.

All that proved irrelevant, ultimately, as the physical chess match continued. Flick landed her roll, propelled off her feet, felt the cutter connect, the arm wrap, the drag down - but Madeline stayed back there doing some witchy-woo-woo mechanics, shifting her weight and rolling through the impact instead of taking the bump flat. Flick couldn't see the specifics, focused on her own landing. She bounced off her ass, intending to spring straight back to her feet in a fluid kip-up, but a grip on her wrist anchored her.

She twisted, teetering on one foot like a drunken flamingo, before stabilizing on her knee. They knelt face-to-face again, leaving Flick with more unspent adrenaline. Madeline released her wrist with another pithy one-liner about control winning endings.

Flick popped up, vibrating with impatience. Cat and mouse? Start and stop? Lecture and demonstration? Boring.

"Eh, crowds pay my bills!" she retorted, a feral grin splitting her face as she started moving again immediately. "Worshippers, too!" She saw Madeline rising, saw the knee still bent, and treated it like a staircase. Flick stepped directly onto the woman's thigh, launching herself upward. She aimed to plant her other foot squarely into Madeline’s stomach, not to hurt her, but to use her as a human springboard to launch herself back and Madeline in the other direction. If they were going to reset, she was going to make it fun for her.