Wolves in Sports Bras

[RockRye]

For GoingBananas

The private training room was simple. Padded floor, mirrored wall, heavy bag in the corner, a few weights and stretching mats scattered around. It was dressed up just enough to look pretty on camera, not that Avery had any intention of giving a real seminar.

She was dressed the part, of course. Her form was snugly wrapped in a tight blue-and-white sports bra and matching shorts that hugged the curves of her hips and thighs like they’d been painted on. Her feet were bare, toes flexing against the mat as she paced slowly back and forth across the room, running through the plan again in her head, not that she needed a reminder. This sort of thing came as naturally as breathing.

She’d done more than her fair share of fantasy sessions in her other life, and this wasn’t far off, just dressed up with a few more stakes. A little act. A little setup. And someone who apparently hadn’t made many friends in high places. Avery didn’t care much about the politics. What mattered was that she’d been handed a chance to do what she did best, tucked inside a clever little wrapper, and LAW administration would appreciate her for it. No rules, no need to be polite, and no pretense of fairness. Only the slow, satisfying grind of someone walking straight into the lion’s mouth thinking they were here to learn. And a hidden camera, already running, tucked behind the ventilation grate, ready to catch every moment when “instruction” turned into demolition.

Avery wasn’t always so willing to be someone’s enforcer, but this one? This had a flair for drama. A bit of flair, a touch of revenge, and a starring role for her. That made it worthwhile. And she'd teach, alright. Just not the lesson he was expecting.

The door creaked.

Her head turned, blonde hair swaying just a bit with the motion. She paused mid-step, one hip jutting to the side as she slid into a practiced, welcoming smile, sweet as sugar if you didn’t look too hard at her eyes.

“Well, well,” she cooed, voice smooth and bright. “Right on time.”

She took him in, top to toe, the way one might assess the ripeness of a piece of fruit at the market. Polite, maybe. But definitely judgmental.

“You must be Tomás.”

Her smile widened just a touch. Not kindly.

“Welcome to your special training session. I'm told you've been in need of some... correction.”

She gestured to the mat with a graceful sweep of her hand.

“Stretch a little. Get comfortable. You’ll be learning a lot today.”

And she meant every word of it. Just not the way he expected.

Gym Gear

[GoingBananas]

Tomás stepped, slow and cautious—more instinct than hesitation, but it showed. His gaze swept the perimeter. Something trained from his past life. Padded floor. Mirrors. The bag in the corner. The weights scattered across the edge. It didn’t feel like a gym. More like a stage. The kind that made his skin prickle. He could already feel the heat of the lights, the tight coil of something planned. Every inch of this felt off—not dangerous, not yet—but like someone had decided what was going to happen long before he walked in.

Still, he came. He had to. Since his debut, his weak grappling has been a repeatedly exploited weakness. If management was to be believed, and he had little to believe in, they made it clear they were tired of watching him get choked out on replay. After last week’s match, this wasn’t an invitation. It was an intervention.

His body carried the tension of that weight, even as he tried to project casual ease. Tracksuit bottoms clung to his legs with clean white stripes down the sides, matching the sleek black sneakers that barely whispered against the mat. His upper body was bare on purpose. Not to show off—but to make a point. No armor, no excuses. The ink that spiraled down his arm and across his chest wasn’t just for show; it told stories no one here had earned the right to hear.

And then there was her. Avery. Tomás had kinda heard the rumors. Not the kind you hear loud in locker rooms, but whispered over protein bars and between ice baths. The kind that made you wonder how long she’d been working in shadows before someone gave her a spotlight. Now, here she was—framed perfectly against that mirrored wall, dressed in something tight and tactical, her voice honeyed and dangerous all at once.

He met her eyes. She smiled. He didn’t. “Yeah. That’s me,” he said, his voice low, unreadable. He didn’t move right away when she gestured. He just stood there a second longer than politeness allowed, eyes scanning again. Something didn’t feel right, but he can’t be too sure. Can’t be outing himself as a paranoid freak. He walked to the mat, slow, deliberate, rolling his shoulders out, already stretching, already thinking ahead.

Gym Gear

[RockRye]

He looked every bit as she had imagined: fit, composed, but with an unmistakable shadow in his eyes. Suspicion. Hesitation. It made her lips curl in faint amusement.

He had the air of a man who had been through this song and dance before. She’d seen it plenty of times, those men who walked in with their proverbial tails between their legs, carrying the scars of past humiliations. It was written all over his guarded stance, the way his eyes darted around the room as though expecting some hidden trap. It amused her to no end. Avery couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been choked out so many times in matches that he’d developed some sort of anxiety, or worse, a strange affinity for it. She almost chuckled at the thought, imagining herself accusing him of having a fetish for such a thing.

She leaned against the wall with calculated ease, letting her eyes wander as he began to stretch. His movements were precise, measured, the kind of routine you’d expect from someone who took their training seriously. Avery studied him, her gaze dipping lower than it probably should have, a small indulgence she allowed herself under the guise of professionalism. Every stretch he performed gave her more to work with. The way his muscles shifted under his skin, the pace of his routine, it was all a blueprint for how she could dismantle him. The idea of crushing him in this manufactured deception, breaking him down with her own body, sent a shiver of satisfaction through her.

When he seemed to finish, Avery pushed herself off the wall, her movements fluid and deliberate. She approached him with a warm, professional smile, keeping any trace of her true intentions buried beneath the surface.

“All right, Tomas,” she began, her voice light but firm. “I’ve been informed by LAW about some... areas you need to work on. I’ll be the one giving the orders here, and we’re going to focus on what will make you better in the ring.”

She paused, letting her words hang for a moment, her gaze steady as she met his eyes. “But I know this can be... uncomfortable. So, we’ll start simple, ease into things.”

She gestured for him to stay put, circling around him slowly. Her tone shifted slightly, taking on a playful edge as she moved behind him. “Let’s play a little scenario. Suppose someone gets the drop on you. You’re at a disadvantage. What’s your plan then?”

Avery stopped just behind him, pressing a hand lightly against his back. Her fingers lingered for a brief moment, enough for him to know exactly where she was. Then, she waited, her head tilting slightly as though genuinely curious.

“Well?” she asked, her voice still carrying a touch of amusement. “How do you react if someone's in my position?"

[GoingBananas]

Tomás didn’t flinch when she touched him. Not because he didn’t feel it—he did, sharp and clear—but because he expected it. The whole damn room had felt like a setup from the moment he walked in, and her playing the cool professional only confirmed it. He didn’t turn to face her. Not yet.

He’d come here to keep things civil. He was tired, not weak. There was a difference. Management had chewed him up enough in recent weeks—torn apart on tapes, made an example of in meetings, the quiet nods and sympathetic looks that followed you when you walked down LAW’s back corridors. He didn’t need another lecture. What he needed was clarity. Technique. A path out of the rut.

But Avery was different. It didn’t seem like there was a path but a performance. And whatever this was—this slow stalk, the light touch on his back, the sugar-smooth tone laced with thorns—he could feel it for what it was. Still, Tomás breathed steady. Played his part.

“I’d feel the weight first,” he mumbled, his voice more grounded than defensive. “Your hips. Your balance. It’d tell me everything.” He straightened just slightly, enough to let her hand know he wasn’t folding, even if he wasn’t fighting back.

“You’re behind me, so I drop low,” he continued, drawing from memory, years of sweat and repetition back in the heat of gyms and camps. “Weight shifts to my back leg. I pivot—fast—outside your centerline.”

His left foot scraped slightly as he shifted weight demonstratively, just enough to show—not perform.

“If you’re high, I cut low. Drop an elbow behind me. We’re taught to break structure, not trade holds. If you’re grappling for control, I use my spine to feel your pressure. If you’re light, I reverse. If you’re anchored—” He hesitated, letting the edge of his voice curl with a dry note of realism. “—then we both hit the floor, and it’s about who recovers faster.”

His tone wasn’t defensive. It was instructional. Like he’d been asked a question, so he answered. No bravado. No challenge. Just truth. And maybe that was the most subversive thing he could do—meet with calm, calculated grit.

After a pause, Tomás tilted his head slightly, just enough to glance at her over his shoulder. “That answer your question?” It wasn’t sarcastic. But there was a weight behind it, the kind that said he wasn’t here to be humiliated for someone else’s footage. He was here to get better. And if she wanted to teach, really teach, he’d meet her in the fire. Not before.

[RockRye]

Avery’s sharp eyes glimmered with interest as she listened to Tomas. His words hung in the air, matter-of-fact yet tinged with an underlying weight that her attuned mind picked up almost immediately. Years of navigating social engagements and clawing her way up the ladder had honed her instincts, and she knew there was something unspoken beneath his surface-level explanation.

The exact details of his reasoning didn’t matter to her at the moment. What caught her attention wasn’t the technicality of his response but the subtle resignation that dripped from someone who had been pushed down too many times. She smiled to herself. Tomas was becoming far more intriguing than she’d initially anticipated. This wasn’t just a hit job anymore; there was a challenge here, a mind worth unraveling. Breaking into his psyche with her usual tools of pain and sensuality would be satisfying, sure, but now she was entertaining the idea of digging deeper, prying open his thoughts in ways more delicate and nuanced.

She completed her circle around him, stopping just behind his right shoulder. “Hmm,” she murmured thoughtfully, tilting her head as if she were an artist appraising her next masterpiece. “Your technical mind is sharp." She stepped into his line of sight again, her expression softening into something almost kind. “So why does someone with all the right answers struggle so much in the ring?”

Avery closed the distance, her tone adopting a warmth that could almost be mistaken for genuine concern. Her hands rested lightly on her hips as she tilted her head, her penetrating gaze locking onto his. “I’m not here to tear you apart for no reason,” she lied effortlessly, her voice soothing but layered with purpose. “If I can help you get over this hump, I will. But you’ve got to be clear with me, Tomas. No hiding anything. No holding back.”

She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me. What’s really holding you back? What’s dragging you down when it matters most?”

Before he could answer, a thought occurred to her. Standing before him, her tall frame, athletic build, and air of command likely made her seem larger than life, like a threat poised to strike. That was intentional, but it wouldn’t serve her next goal. She shifted gears seamlessly, lowering herself to the mat in a single fluid motion, sitting cross-legged with the same elegance and dignity she might display at a high-society function. Her back was straight, her posture poised, but the move was disarming. She reached out and patted the mat directly in front of her, her expression inviting.

“Come,” she said, her voice soft yet authoritative. “Sit here. Let’s talk and come up with a solution.” She smiled faintly, folding her hands in her lap in a way that was both approachable and composed. Lowering herself to his level was a calculated play, designed to ease his tension, lower his guard, and give him the illusion of control.

[GoingBananas]

Tomás didn’t answer right away. Her words rang clearly in the small space between them, calculated with just enough warmth to make them feel like a balm instead of a blade. But he didn’t fall for it. Not entirely. He knew how people moved when they wanted something, and Avery—poised, perceptive, and far too confident—was already laying the groundwork. She didn’t need to raise her voice or lean on intimidation; she wielded the suggestion like a scalpel. Subtle. Precise.

And yet, here he was, feeling the edges of that careful control tugging at him.

He turned his head slightly as she came into view again, noting the deliberate softness in her eyes now, the shift in her posture. Calculated empathy. She asked with the cadence of a therapist but the stance of someone playing the long game. And it was a good question, he had to admit.

Why did someone with all the right answers keep falling short?

Tomás drew in a breath through his nose, slow and even, and let it settle in his chest before answering. “Because Muay Thai isn’t wrestling,” he said plainly. “It’s instinto. Reaction. I spent decades training my body to strike without hesitation. Timing, not tactics. Pain, not position. But over here, that gets you disqualified.”

He watched her as he spoke, gauging whether she understood or just wanted more.

“I can’t use what I know. I have to unlearn it. Every time I step into that ring, I’m fighting against myself.” His jaw flexed, a subtle tic born of frustration rather than aggression. “And when the match gets intense, when it speeds up, I stop thinking. I go back to what I know. That’s when the mistakes happen.”

The memory surged before he could stop it—Dalia, quick-footed, slippery and teasing, egging him on like she always did. That smile she wore when she thought she had him figured out. The way the match tilted just slightly too far into instinct, and then it happened. Unintentional. Immediate. Regretted. But the damage was done.

He didn’t resist when she lowered herself to the mat. The shift was as strategic as everything else she’d done, and he recognized it for what it was—a new angle, a new way in. Nevertheless, he moved. Not out of obedience, but because he was tired of walls. And maybe, just maybe, there was something worth taking from this.

He eased down across from her, one knee bent beneath him, the other up, forearm draped loosely across it. He didn’t sit fully like she did—he wasn’t quite ready to mirror her—but he closed the distance. His eyes lifted to hers again. “You want the truth? There it is. I don’t fear taking hits. I fear giving them when I’m not supposed to.”

His voice was calm, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed more. There were layers he wasn’t unpacking yet—not here, not now—but a piece of it had slipped free. He didn’t fill the silence that followed. Let her sit with that.

[RockRye]

Avery leaned back in her seat, her poise practiced and deliberate, one leg crossed over the other as she surveyed Tomas with a mixture of curiosity and calculation. Psychology. Psychiatry. Therapy. Her father’s office had been a constant flow of sob stories—angry spouses, weeping parents, sullen teenagers—none of whom she cared to hear about. She couldn’t understand why anyone would want to burden themselves with others’ baggage. And therapists? To her, they were little more than professional listeners, paid to nod at all the right moments and feign understanding. It was a discipline she had no respect for and even less patience to practice herself. And she hated her father.

Yet here she was, dissecting Tomas’s words with the precision of a scalpel, finding herself oddly compelled to understand what made him tick. It wasn’t empathy driving her, not even close. Rather, it was the tantalizing prospect of learning just enough about him to twist the knife at the right moment. If she could unearth some vulnerability, some thread of insecurity, it would be far more satisfying to unravel him.

She tilted her head slightly, her lips pressing together in what might have been a thoughtful expression. There was something else beneath his surface, something subdued and oddly restrained, she imagined. It intrigued her.

When he mentioned his struggles, her brow arched almost imperceptibly. That wasn’t the answer she’d expected.

“Hmm.” Her murmur was quiet but deliberate, letting the sound hang in the air. Her gaze stayed fixed on him, steady and almost clinical as she absorbed his words.

“Fascinating,” she said at last, her voice neutral but tinged with curiosity. She leaned forward just a fraction, enough to signal engagement without stepping into flirtation. “So, Tomas, let’s say there are no rules, no disqualifications to worry about. Nothing to hold you back. You’re in the ring with me.” She gestured slightly with one hand, as if framing the hypothetical scene. “How do you see it going? What would your perfect victory look like? What moves and holds do you rely on, and how do you go for the kill?”

Avery reclined again, crossing her arms loosely. “Indulge me,” she added with a faint smile, her voice low but steady. “What does Tomas at his best look like?”

[GoingBananas]

Tomás could feel the shift in the air the moment she asked. Not a change in tone—Avery was far too controlled for anything so obvious—but a sharpening of intent, like a predator circling just outside of reach, waiting to gauge the depth of the wound. Her question wasn’t idle. Nothing she did ever was.

He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence sit between them, let her hold it, maybe even mistake it for hesitation. In truth, he was just considering how much to give her. Because he knew the type—those who asked not to understand but to collect. To turn vulnerabilities into leverage. Avery didn’t want answers. She wanted ammunition.

Still, he spoke. Slowly at first, but with the clarity of someone who knew his craft, who had spent enough years in the fight game to separate fantasy from function. “No rules?” he repeated, like the idea needed to settle on his tongue. “That’s the dream. No hesitation. No penalties. Just instinct.” His eyes dropped for a moment, not in defeat, but in reflection. The answer came not from pride but from muscle memory.

“I’d keep it standing,” he said. “Always. That’s where I’m cleanest. Sharpest. The clinch is my zone. I pull you in, break your posture, start working knees—ribs, thighs, if I want you worn down... head if I want you out. I’d feel your balance, read where you want to go, and make sure you never get there.” He made a loose motion with his hand, mimicking the flow of a clinch, then shifted his posture slightly.

“Elbows come next. They’re not pretty, but they’re precise. Short. Fast. You don’t need power if you’ve got placement. One cut in the wrong spot, and suddenly it’s hard to see, harder to think. That’s the control I like. Making someone bleed without ever stepping back.” His voice didn’t carry bravado—this wasn’t a pitch; it was a blueprint. Something carved into him over years of repetition, trial, and error.

“But if it hits the ground?” His shoulders tensed, and this time, he looked away, just for a second. “That’s where I fall apart.” He didn’t dress it up. No bravado. No denial. Just truth. “I’m not trained for the ground. Not like the grapplers are. I can posture up and throw strikes, sure—mount someone, keep pressure on their chest, rain down elbows or fists until the ref pulls me off. That’s instinct, again. Just pressure and punishment.” He paused, then gave a small shake of his head. “But the moment I’m on my back? Or someone slips into a position I don’t recognize? That’s where it ends. Because they’ve got ten options and I’ve got maybe two, and neither of mine ends well.”

His gaze drifted back to her, not challenging, but clear. “I know how to dominate. But I don’t know how to escape. That’s the part no one talks about when you transition from one style to another. You bring all your weapons, but you also bring your blind spots. And someone like you?” He studied her a second longer. “You’ll find those.”

He didn’t say it with fear but with a kind of reluctant respect. He knew where the cracks were. And he was smart enough to know that she was already charting how to use them. Still, he didn’t flinch.

“That’s what Tomás at his best looks like,” he said finally. “Explosive. Unrelenting. But only if the fight stays where I know how to win. But rarely does a fight ever go like that.” And then he let it hang there, an open-ended truth, waiting for her next move.

[RockRye]

Avery couldn’t help but feel a sly thrill as the conversation unfolded. Maybe she did have a knack for this, a natural talent for drawing people out and stripping their defenses layer by layer. She would never give her father the satisfaction of gratitude, selfish, heartless bastard that he was, but there was an undeniable excitement in every little victory she claimed in peeling Tomas apart.

Tomas’s detailed explanation of his standing game held her attention. She knew enough about fighting and Muay Thai to appreciate the precision in his words, the controlled aggression behind each strike he described. His admission of his vulnerability on the ground made her smile an "understanding" smile. And then there was his compliment. He was right, of course. She didn’t have the frame of a striker; hers was built for dominance, for control, and for grappling. She fluttered her eyelashes almost unconsciously, not quite a reaction to his words, but more to the satisfaction of feeling the conversation tip ever so slightly toward her praise.

Each word he uttered made her path to dominating him clearer and all the more enticing.

As Tomas finished speaking, Avery appeared to ponder his words for a moment. Then, with an air of nonchalance, she reclined on the mat, moving with a deliberate elegance that made it impossible not to notice the curves of her body. Draped across the mat, she looked utterly at ease, her posture the picture of casual confidence.

"Alright," she said finally, her tone light but laced with suggestion. "If we’re going to work on this, we need trust. You’ve already let me in on your weaknesses. Why don’t we build on that? I’ll let you have the first move."

Her lips quirked into a faint smile, and her gaze flicked up to meet his. “Mount me,” she added, the words "slipping out" before she fully considered how they sounded, of course. She caught herself, clearing her throat, all for show. A touch of "embarrassment" and "foolishness" on her part that she hoped would disarm him. “I mean, in a wrestling sense. You know—take position, try something that isn’t just throwing a strike, and I’ll counter. We’ll see how it goes.”

[GoingBananas]

Tomás sat still for a long moment after her invitation, eyes narrowing slightly—not in defiance, but in thought. The air between them shifted again, like it always did with her. Avery moved through the conversation like it was a battlefield. Every word was deliberate. Every pause, a feint. Every glance, a calculated angle of attack. And now here she was, sprawled across the mat like a dare dressed in silk, tossing out phrases that walked a knife’s edge between flirtation and instruction.

Mount her?

He exhaled through his nose, soft but audible. There were moments in life where you knew you were being baited. This was one. But Tomás wasn’t stupid, nor was he prideful enough to mistake this for anything other than a part of the test she’d been building since the moment he stepped through the door.

Fine. She wanted to see what a striker did when pulled out of his element. Then he’d show her.

He moved with deliberate care—slower than he would in a fight, more focused on positioning than dominance. His knees slid across the mat as he straddled her midsection, not quite planting himself with the full confidence of someone who knew what he was doing but not hesitating either. The firmness of her core under him clarified that Avery wasn’t just for show. She was made for this.

Tomás adjusted his weight slightly, letting it rest across her belly, not too high, not too low. His calves pinned loosely around her sides, and for a second, he froze, taking in the absurdity of it. In Muay Thai, you never did this. You finished a fight before it got here. If someone was on the ground, it was because you’d knocked them there. He planted his hands on her shoulders—tentatively at first, as if feeling out the rules of an unfamiliar game. There was a natural instinct to raise one fist, to drive a blow down, but he resisted it. That wasn’t the exercise. He was here to try something else.

His grip on her shoulders firmed, thumbs grazing her collarbones as he instinctively leaned forward just slightly, enough to put his weight into her centerline without crushing her. He knew he was vulnerable like this. Exposed. If she wanted to throw him, he had no counter prepped. But that, he suspected, was the point.

His brow furrowed faintly—not in frustration, but concentration—as he studied her from above, his body still, his breath steady. His heart wasn’t racing, but there was a certain tension in his chest, the kind born not of panic but of awareness. This was where the rules fell away. Where technique ended, instinct had to carry the load.

“I’m not built for this,” he muttered under his breath, maybe more to himself than her. “But let’s see what happens.” He hasn’t shifted his weight yet. He waited. Ready, if not entirely comfortable. This was her move now.