Fortune's First Blush

[RockRye]

For Lightman

The currently empty halls of the LAW training facility were a clean, almost sterile contrast to the debauchery that seemed to cling to most corners of the campus. Even in this more secluded wing of the building, Avery Merrit walked like she was being filmed, hips rolling, shoulders back. She wore a sleek two-piece sparring set in black and cream, the top hugging her curves with delicate lacing, the shorts high-cut and clinging, emphasizing the long, sculpted strength of her thighs. The gear was tasteful, in a provocative, Avery kind of way. She didn’t believe in dull workouts or drab introductions. She believed in making statements.

This whole "assessment" was absurd, of course. A woman of her pedigree and her talent didn’t need the equivalent of a tryout. But the League had its protocols, and she was grudgingly willing to play nice. For now. What made the pill a touch easier to swallow was the name attached to it: Christiansen. A name that, to the right people, represented old British money and prestige. Avery had heard whispers years ago, at fundraisers and in magazines left lying on penthouse coffee tables, about a Christiansen daughter who had scandalized her family by stepping away from the gold-and-glass world they were born into and throwing herself into something as vulgar, as physical, as erotically-inclined wrestling. Naturally, Avery had taken interest. How could she not? The story was practically a funhouse mirror of her own, save for the other heiress' opportunity to choose a life outside of the family fortune for herself. Avery avoided the onrushing jealousy.

So as she padded down the polished corridor toward the private sparring room, Avery wasn’t entirely closed off to the meeting. If Christiansen was anything like an inferior version of herself, they might even get along. At least until one of them decided to win the room. That’s how it always went among nobility, didn’t it? Still, Avery had every intention of dazzling. If she was going to be assessed by this woman, it would be by her own standards. Every bend of her body, every snap of her movement, every strategic choice would be graceful, explosive, and intentional. She’d show power, precision, and charm. And she’d do it without looking like she’d broken a sweat.

She reached the door and paused just long enough to smooth a lock of hair from her face. Then, with a self-satisfied smile, she pushed it open and stepped through, ready to perform and maybe, just maybe, ready to meet someone who could look her in the eye without flinching.

[Lightman]

The private wing of the LAW facility held a hush that Madeline preferred—free from the shrieking clashes of egos, the camera-chasing flirtations, the posturing that seemed to define the rest of the building. Here, under the low hum of overhead lights and the soft squeak of rubber soles on polished floors, things were simpler. More honest. And right now, they were about to get interesting.

Madeline Christiansen stood centred in the room, already warmed up, one leg extended in a controlled stretch against the padded wall. A white compression top hugged her torso, crisp and snug, the short sleeves tracing the line of her arms. Across her chest, the bold blue and red accents added just enough identity—nothing flashy, just national pride in simple threads. “Rose Thorn Fightwear” was stitched subtly on the left leg of her navy training trousers, cut practical and tapered, worn over compression shorts that allowed freedom of movement without flash. Her hair, the deep chestnut of English autumn, flowed freely. She didn’t need to peacock. She never had. The presence did the work.

Madeline rolled her shoulder, glancing toward the door without urgency. She already knew who was coming. Avery Merrit. The name had floated across her desk with the kind of subtle fanfare Madeline had grown accustomed to ignoring. But the brief had intrigued her. A woman of status. Style. Spoiled, no doubt, but smart. Wealthy, well-connected, dangerously aware of it. The kind who didn’t just want to win, but to own every space she stepped into. Madeline had seen the type before—back when she sparred two-on-one against Hiroyuki and Senji, both of them full of bravado, neither prepared for her to fold them like laundry with a smile. LAW had made it a bit of a habit lately to toss her these “assessments.” She understood why. She didn’t just evaluate skill. She tested nerve. She exposed the cracks in a person’s pride and saw what spilled out.

Madeline heard her before she saw her—the crisp cadence of designer soles kissing polished tile, that faint breath of practiced grace. Madeline didn’t turn her head, but her gaze sharpened slightly. Women like Avery didn’t walk down halls; they glided. Every step was a campaign. The measured sway in that gait, the deliberate strut. Like the walls themselves were watching.

Then the door pushed open. And there she was.

Avery Merrit looked exactly like the file had promised—taller than expected, body all curves and clean lines, dressed to perform. Black and cream gear, tasteful but flirtatious, clinging in ways designed, no doubt, to seduce and intimidate in equal measure. She carried herself like she didn’t sweat—like she never had to. That amused Madeline more than it annoyed her.

Still stretching, she let her leg slide down from the wall and stepped forward with an easy, predatory grace, arms loose at her sides. “Well,” Madeline said, voice low and poised, that upper-crust accent tinged faintly with amusement. “You’re not exactly what I expected. But I’m not surprised either.” She let her eyes roam—not lecherous, but clinical, thoughtful. Weighing Avery’s stance, her balance, her poise.

“I take it this whole evaluation is beneath you,” she added, one brow arched. “But you showed up. That counts for something.” She gave a pause. Not long. Just enough to let the silence flex its muscle. “Let’s not waste time, then. I’m not here to flatter you, and you’re not here to impress me. We’ll see what you are when it stops being about the entrance.” Madeline turned, not waiting for a reply just yet, walking to the mat with the slow, unshakable calm of someone who knew she’d be running the tempo whether Avery liked it or not. She glanced back once, a glint in her green eyes. “If you’re half as good as your PR, I might even enjoy this.”

[RockRye]

Avery stood just inside the door, watching the other woman with her arms loosely crossed beneath her chest, one hip cocked like she was posing for a camera she hadn’t bothered to acknowledge yet.

Madeline was of course one of those pictures of British beauty pulled from the wall of some adoring art collector or other. Chestnut hair hanging free. Fit. Elegant. The kind of woman who probably rolled out of bed looking like a BBC period drama heroine and drank her water out of a crystal decanter. Avery already felt a flicker of grumpy envy settle somewhere behind her ribs, and she shoved it down with a familiar flip of her hair and a practiced smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She hadn’t gotten nearly the once-over she expected walking in as Madeline regarded her with something closer to scrutiny than admiration, and while she’d never admit it out loud, the lack of attention annoyed her more than it should have. That kind of poise usually came with a fake compliment or two. Madeline gave her none.

Ugh, and everything she said. And everything she did. She turned and walked toward the mat like she owned it, like being close enough to LAW that she could assess new blood gave her gravity, and Avery hated how many people would probably agree with that. And she sounded as if she had Avery, and possibly even everyone in the world, figured.

“Well. How very quick with your analyses,” she said with that soft, silvery warmth she used in every promo, every press shoot, every meet-and-greet. Her heels clicked across the room slowly, each step placed with the elegance of a runway model and the weight of a woman who wanted to be seen. She did not yet cast aside the sandals, ensuring the message rang clear. She was on her own schedule. “And I do love a woman who leads with conviction. It’s refreshing.”

She let the air between them stretch, catching Madeline’s gaze.

“You’ll forgive me, though, if I'm a tangle in that head of yours,” she added, voice still sweet, a little playful. “Are all the flashy, refined women here so pathetic in the ring? It seems I have to shatter a stereotype.”

By the time she reached the mat, she rolled her shoulders once, loosening up, gaze flitting up and down Madeline’s form with less admiration and more calculated observation. After several more seconds of stalling, she finally absconded with the sandals and stood ready to spar, as intended.

“Let’s get to it, then. I’m sure we’ll both be a fascination.”

[Lightman]

Madeline didn’t need to glance back to know that Avery had arranged herself in the doorway like an oil painting come to life—hip cocked, arms folded, the pose that whispered self-worship even in silence. The energy rippled off her like perfume: expensive, exacting, and just a touch insecure.

The Englishwoman heard the smile in Avery’s voice before she turned to look. That practiced silkiness. Smooth, manufactured warmth stitched for public consumption. Madeline had seen enough socialites and self-made darlings to recognise when charm was a defence. It wasn’t personal—yet—but it was familiar. The kind of woman who didn’t enjoy being seen without being adored.

“Conviction tends to weed out indecision. Saves time,” Madeline replied lightly, adjusting the cuff of one sleeve as if she hadn’t just dissected Avery’s entrance with clinical precision. Her voice, as always, was neutral but not dull, her accent clipped and clean, a blade dressed in silk. The brunette watched the slow, deliberate approach across the room—heels tapping out a beat that demanded attention, all poise and timing and performance. And yet, Madeline didn’t move. She stood as she was, hands at her sides, breath easy, gaze level. She had no need to outshine Avery’s show. That wasn’t her game.

“A tangle?” she repeated, voice cultured, with a gentle amusement curling around the syllables. “I doubt it. Though I’ll admit, you are… decorative in motion.”

Then came the barb.

Madeline’s lips curved, just faintly. Not quite a smile—more of a silent acknowledgment. A recognition of the jab, the bait wrapped in velvet.

“I think you’ll find the women here aren’t so easily categorised,” she said smoothly, taking a step forward, her motion fluid, precise. “Though if you’re determined to build your reputation on sweeping generalisations, I suppose you’ll have to work rather hard to be the exception.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. If Avery wanted to perform, she could. But Madeline had no interest in playing the audience. She was here to measure what lay beneath the polish. As Avery finally slipped off the sandals and joined her on the mat, Madeline tilted her head just slightly, assessing the stance, the shape of her breath, the way her eyes moved. Not admiring. Not dismissing. Just… weighing. Watching the difference between the woman Avery played and the one that moved beneath her skin.

“Fascination,” she echoed, the word light in her mouth like the taste of a rare wine. “Yes. I expect we will.” The English Rose stepped back, feet sliding into place, arms loose at her sides. Her body language said, ready with no need to say anything. “And perhaps,” she added, voice soft as snowfall, “by the end of this, one of us will know something genuine about the other.”

[RockRye]

Avery stood with the grace of someone who had mastered the art of looking composed under pressure, her head tilting ever so slightly as if in acknowledgment. Beneath the surface, though, she was grinding her teeth at the gall of her British counterpart. It was rare to meet someone who didn’t flinch, falter, or bite back with raw emotion when she set the hooks. Instead, Madeline had deflected with a calm that made her as frustrating as she was impressive. Avery hated it, but she couldn’t deny a flicker of respect for the other woman’s fortitude. Not that she would ever admit as much aloud.

In a different context, Avery could see them forming a tenuous alliance, perhaps over drinks in some glittering ballroom. They’d toast to the foolishness of lesser mortals, sharing sharp observations and barbed wit as they cast judgment over the room. Hell, she might have even flirted with someone blessed with the Brit’s regal looks and grace. But the league had forced the blonde into a corner, elevating Madeline as the seasoned judge and positioning Avery as the one who needed to prove herself. It wasn’t simply their impressive bodies clashing now; it was Avery's ego, her reputation, and the roles LAW had cast her into without consent that compelled her to present her claws, if only to see if she could find enough prey instinct in Madeline to sink them beneath her skin.

Avery’s voice, syrupy sweet, broke the silence. "Oh, I’ve put in those hours, believe me. But I’ll happily let you decide for yourself how hard I’ve worked."

Her pageant-like smile widened just a fraction, more a weapon than a gesture, as she took a step back and allowed herself to fall into her fighting stance. Her arms raised fluidly, her movements lithe and deliberate. She looked ready for anything, poised to strike like a coiled viper or to evade with the grace of a dancer. She kept her gaze locked on Madeline, but her mind shifted briefly. So far, Madeline had proven herself above the petty traps and insecurities that lesser socialites often carried. It didn’t mean she was invincible, but Avery would need to find another angle if she wanted to unseat her opponent mentally.

Avery exhaled softly, keeping her voice steady, even warm. "Let’s start this properly, shall we?" She stepped forward, extending her hands in an invitation. "A test of strength. Seems only fair to begin that way for an assessment."

[Lightman]

She saw it—just a flicker. A tiny shift at the corners of Avery’s mouth, a subtle twitch of the jaw. The kind of thing one only noticed when they’d been trained to study the space between poses. Madeline didn’t press on it. She filed it away. Control, after all, was not about grand gestures. It was about recognising the cracks in someone else’s armour and choosing not to rush them. Yet.

Avery’s presence was a study of contradictions. There was nothing hesitant in her performance, and yet Madeline could feel the tension coil behind every graceful motion, a carefully restrained demand for validation disguised as casual confidence. The Englishwoman wasn’t surprised. Many women in LAW expected rooms to bend to their presence. When they didn’t, when the atmosphere remained still and unbowed, that expectation soured into something more volatile.

Still, Madeline had to give her credit—Avery was no fraud. She hadn’t wilted. Not under scrutiny. Not under silence. And while the sugar-laced tone in her voice threatened to drown the room in sweetness, Madeline understood the tactic. Mask the blade in charm. She’d done it often enough herself. She didn’t smile in response to the offer. Not quite. Just a subtle shift of her brow, a calm, almost queenly acknowledgment of the challenge.

“How democratic of you,” Madeline murmured, stepping forward. Her tone was light, but there was weight beneath it—cool steel under velvet. “I was beginning to wonder if we were going to spend the entire session fencing with metaphors.” Her feet whispered across the mat as she closed the distance, her movements clean and deliberate. No dramatics. No posing. Just a kind of crisp, unhurried surety that came from knowing she had no one to impress.

She met Avery’s eyes fully, matching the gaze without hesitation, and raised her hands in kind. Her fingers settled against Avery’s with a smooth inevitability, palms meeting with the quiet, intimate pressure that came just before the tension turned into strain. “You’ve worked,” she said softly, as their hands locked and muscles braced, “but I’m here to see how well.” There was no countdown. No theatrics. Just a quiet inhale, a tightening of the frame, and then the test began.

[RockRye]

Avery’s lips curled into a faint smirk as Madeline subtly reminded her once again of the authority she held in this setting. Authority. The word clung to Avery’s mind like an unwanted guest. No one had authority over her anymore, not since she clawed her way out from under the gilded cage of her family’s control. Money might have come easily in her youth, but freedom hadn’t, and the sort of judgement she would endure today symbolized everything she’d spent her adult life fighting against.

But that mattered little, and she could not fully blame Madeline for the circumstances, if at all. With a thoughtful tilt of her head, she let her voice carry a softer, almost wistful tone. “That's almost a shame, really,” she mused. “I imagine an ongoing clash of words could be a pleasure in and of itself, don’t you think? We would have so many witticisms to exchange.” There was meager mockery in her words now; it had given way to a faint spark of intrigue that suggested she might genuinely enjoy such a battle of minds under different circumstances.

As their hands clasped, the touch brought a momentary flicker of intimacy to the contest, a shape and closeness better suited to ballroom dancing or an affectionate embrace. Avery’s fingers shifted subtly, the faintest wriggle of a tease, and she locked eyes with Madeline, her challenging gaze conveying far more than any words could. This wasn’t about dominance through dialogue; it was about power and presence. And Avery planned to overwhelm Madeline with both.

With a sharp inhale, she shifted her weight, planting her feet firmly against the mat and driving forward with all the force she could muster. Her powerful body came alive with the effort. Her thick thighs, honed by years of ballet and of squats and sprints, flexed beneath her form-fitting gear, muscles rippling as they propelled her forward. Her strong core tightened like steel, emphasizing the hourglass curve of her waist while showing the definition that lay beneath. Even her arms, leaner than the rest of her but muscular from countless hours spent perfecting submissions and basic grappling, showed their strength as she pushed against Madeline’s hands. She felt the faintest jolt of success from the initial application of her superior size, and she threw her full weight behind the subsequent effort, hoping to force Madeline to the edge of the mats.

[Lightman]

Authority.

Madeline could almost see the word flicker behind Avery’s eyes like a ghost she hadn’t invited, its weight pressing against the blonde’s otherwise unshakeable poise. Not fear—no, Avery was far too composed for that. But there was resistance. A hint of rebellion tucked beneath her practiced elegance, the kind that usually belonged to someone who had once been very good at being obedient until they weren’t. Madeline knew the type. She’d danced with her versions of that ghost more than once.

She didn’t press on it. It wasn’t her place to dissect the history of every opponent who stood across from her—but she wasn’t blind, either. And she wasn’t unkind. There was something in Avery’s tone now, a quieter lilt that brushed against sincerity, that softened the air between them just slightly.

“Would it?” Madeline replied with a faint smile that didn’t bare its teeth. “Perhaps. If we were seated with a glass of wine rather than squaring for leverage.” Her voice held that trademark composure, but she allowed the corners of it to turn upward, ever so slightly. It wasn’t quite an agreement, but it was an acknowledgment. She, too, could see that other world—where conversations were weaponized with wit instead of weight, and one need only parry with a raised brow or an elegantly chosen insult.

But they weren’t there.

Their hands met, and the press of Avery’s fingers was precise, deliberate—playful, even. The touch that dared one to notice its softness before it tightened. Madeline noticed. Of course, she did. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull. Her grip was firm, unwavering, shaped by years of form and function rather than brute force.

Then, the rhythm shifted. Avery moved with power and beauty, the blend of dancer and fighter revealed in the ripple of her limbs and the sudden surge of strength that came barrelling toward her. Madeline felt it all: the drive of those legs, the steel coil of a midsection built for endurance, the lean ferocity in every joint. She absorbed the brunt of it without surprise, without drama, bracing with knees bent and spine aligned, the poise of her stance disguising the effort behind it. A lesser woman might have stumbled. She didn’t. Not yet.

Madeline’s breath caught low in her chest as she resisted the push, not by meeting it head-on with equal force, but by adjusting subtly, turning just enough to bleed off the energy, like a ballroom dancer accepting a lead only to reclaim it a beat later.

“I must say,” she murmured through steady breath, “you do have quite the entrance.” It wasn’t flattery. It was a fact. Spoken with the grace of someone who’d faced storms before and never once let the wind see her knees bend.

[RockRye]

Avery could vividly imagine it. Her powerful, sculpted frame overwhelming Madeline’s, driving the quick-minded Brit off the mat entirely, her back colliding with the wall behind them. Avery could see herself there, pinning Madeline against the wall, the smaller woman caught beneath her weight and strength, her breath stolen by Avery’s dominance. Much could happen with a lovely body pinned by hers, after all, and the statement such a display would make would be utterly satisfying.

But Madeline, of course, wasn’t about to let that happen without a fight. Avery could feel it in the subtle shift of their shared stance, the way Madeline’s body adjusted, redirecting the force of Avery’s push to the side rather than straight back. A clever tactic, one that spoke of experience and strategy. Avery's lip curled slightly in acknowledgment. Madeline was one of those cunning types who always seemed to have an answer.

Her feet adjusted instinctively, digging into the mat as her legs braced and moved in practiced, patient steps. She pivoted slightly on the ball of her back foot, grounding herself with a firm base, while her lead foot edged forward, her toes spreading slightly to maintain balance as she realigned her stance to counteract Madeline’s redirection. Her shoulders dropped just slightly, rolling back to stabilize her upper body and center her weight. Avery’s hips tilted forward as she braced herself, her torso twisting ever so slightly to bring her core strength into play. The motion was smooth, practiced, and deliberate, strength paired with control as her entire body worked in unison to reset the dynamic in her favor, the movements of a ballroom dancer adjusting to her partner.

Avery let out a low, pleased laugh through her huff of exertion, the sound rich with confidence. “Glad you enjoyed it,” she shot back, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of challenge. “Why don’t I show you more of it?”

Without waiting for a response, Avery leaned in, her powerful frame driving forward once more, her muscles flexing visibly beneath her sleek, athletic build. Her legs pushed against the mat with the force of a sprinter’s start, her arms tightening against Madeline’s as she threw her weight behind another determined shove. This time, her focus was sharper, her intentions clearer, she wasn’t just looking to move Madeline back; she was aiming to show her who had the edge in this contest of power. She would toss her aside if needed.

[Lightman]

Madeline didn’t need to see the fantasy playing behind Avery’s eyes to recognise it. The gleam in her stare and the tension coiling through her limbs revealed it. That hunger to dominate, to impress through force, to leave someone like her—refined, unreadable—flattened against a wall, breathless and bested. A performance, more than anything. One Madeline had seen variations of her entire career.

And while she was under no illusions about her physical size in this exchange—slighter, leaner, deliberately built for efficiency over brute power—she’d been in the ring long enough to know that desire rarely made up for balance. Timing. Leverage. Control.

Avery surged again, predictably bold. Stronger this time, angling low, drawing deeper from those formidable legs. But Madeline didn’t try to outmatch her strength—she let her have it, borrowed it for her own purposes.

As Avery’s weight barrelled forward, Madeline’s right foot slid back in a sharp crescent, pivoting on the ball and carving space just out of reach. She shifted at the hips, pulling her right shoulder back while keeping her grip intact. Avery would come with her, unavoidably, of course. The momentum had to go somewhere—so Madeline gave it a destination.

Her left arm would guide Avery’s right just enough to throw off her centre, then swiftly redirect the energy with a smooth pivot and step across. It was a classic Uchi Mata entry—modified, standing—and as Madeline’s inside thigh slipped up along the inside of Avery’s leg, the trap was already sprung. Her balance tilted just right, her left hip meeting Avery’s centreline at the perfect angle to disrupt.

“Careful now,” Madeline said softly, her voice light, almost amused as she exhaled through the motion. “You press too hard, and some of us might learn how you move.”

The technique wasn’t explosive, but it was clean—crafted. Madeline didn’t need to throw Avery across the room. She only needed to make her feel the slip. The second’s loss of balance. The shift from control to correction. And above all, the reminder that there was more than one kind of power at play here.

She didn’t release immediately. She let their frames remain close, poised, suspended in that brief beat of contested control. A breath between tides. Then, just enough space to reset. Madeline’s gaze lifted, meeting Avery’s again—not mocking, not smug, but calm and clear and knowing. As if she’d just drawn a line between the two of them, elegant and precise, and dared her opponent to step across it again.