Fortune's First Blush

[RockRye]

Avery surged forward again, power radiating through her frame as she sought to press her advantage against Madeline. Yet, even as her muscles coiled and released, she could already sense what the clever Brit was preparing. Predictably, Madeline was ready to divert and evade, her strategy as clear as day. Avery could almost hear the metaphorical gears turning in her opponent’s head, anticipating the exact moment to sidestep and disrupt Avery’s forward momentum. She prepared for the shift, noting the subtle cues. She knew what was coming.

And yet, Madeline slithered into her space, skillfully exploiting her overcommitment. Her foot left the canvas, and her hips bent sideways awkwardly, nearly sending Avery to a date with the mats. Off-balance and momentarily destabilized, Avery had to relent.

She straightened with an exaggerated sigh as if the entire exchange bored her once their bodies peeled apart, the tension between them replaced by a momentary lull. Avery stood tall, brushing a few errant strands of hair from her face with a practiced flick, and cast Madeline a sideways glance filled with theatrical disdain.

“I suppose I should applaud the technique.” She let the faintest of smirks touch her lips, the kind that spoke of carefully veiled condescension.

“You’ve had some excellent training, haven’t you? I'm positively jealous already,” she added, her words tinged with a gentle barb. The implication hung in the air: Madeline’s polished moves were the product of tutelage, while Avery’s prowess was self-made, forged through raw ingenuity and determination. She tilted her head with a coy, amused expression, her eyes glinting mischievously.

“Although,” she continued, her tone shifting to something more playfully provocative, “if you wanted to bump hips, darling, you could have just asked.”

She leaned back slightly, hands resting lightly on her hips as she cast her opponent an almost teasingly expectant look. “Now then,” she said, her voice saccharine with sarcasm, “what’s the plan, boss? Shall we dance again?”

[Lightman]

Madeline watched Avery reset with the dramatic flair that belonged on a Paris runway more than a sparring mat—head tossed, hair swept, a sigh that practically echoed off the walls. Theatrics, yes, but well-executed. There was artistry to how the woman deflected—every setback softened by poise and a clever retort, as if losing balance had been part of the performance all along.

The comment about her training landed exactly as intended, and Madeline didn’t rise to the bait. She didn’t need to. There was no shame in refinement. No apology in being taught well. Where others clung to the illusion of having built themselves alone, Madeline had long embraced her mentors, the silent rigor of repetition. Avery might wear her independence like armor, but Madeline wore her discipline like silk—light, elegant, impossible to tear.

Still, the tease about bumping hips nearly drew a laugh from her throat. Instead, she allowed a breath of amusement to pass through her nose, the faintest glint of knowing dancing in her emerald eyes. “If I had asked,” she murmured, circling with a languid step, “you’d have turned it into a press release.”

She didn’t wait for the next barb. She didn’t need more dialogue to know where this was headed.

Avery had tested the waters with force. Now Madeline would show her what it meant when pressure flowed the other way. She moved in low and sharp—sudden, but never rushed. A classic collar tie and inside wrist control, executed with clean precision. Her right hand shot up to the nape of Avery’s neck, fingers lacing gently behind the blonde’s head, not yanking but anchoring. Her left hand snaked in beneath Avery’s guard, claiming the wrist before it could parry. It was a wrestling setup as old as time, one that spoke of control, not chaos.

But Madeline didn’t stop there. She adjusted her lead foot inward, placing it just inside Avery’s stance, and with a shift of her weight and a sharp tug from her collar tie, she snapped down—testing Avery’s balance again, this time not with a full throw, but with a sudden jolt meant to draw a reaction. A stagger. A defensive lean. Anything she could read.

This was the real assessment. Not brute strength. Not the exchange of pleasantries. But how someone adapted when initiative changed hands.

“You asked for a dance,” she said calmly, her tone low and clipped as she pressed forward with another feint, keeping close. “Let’s see if you can follow when you’re not leading.”

[RockRye]

As Madeline’s stoic mask finally cracked at Avery’s playful remark about their hips, Avery felt a swell of triumph ripple through her. She didn’t let it show—her face remained as poised and confident as ever—but inside, she relished the small victory. It wasn’t every day she managed to summon amusement from someone as composed as Madeline, and it was an accomplishment she would quietly savor.

Madeline’s words in response were wittier than expected, too, and Avery welcomed the volley. She suppressed what might have been a hearty laugh in a more casual setting, instead letting out a reserved snicker that rolled smoothly off her tongue. A retort hovered on the edge of her lips, but before she could deliver it, the two women began circling each other with measured steps, the tension thick in the air between them.

Avery’s eyes remained locked on Madeline’s, sharp and calculating, as the Brit suddenly surged into her space. There was no mistaking Madeline’s intention. It was another calculated attempt to offset Avery’s power and send her stumbling. Avery reacted instinctively, her arms swinging out in a broad motion as she aimed to block Madeline’s advance, fully intending to catch her square in the chest and stifle her momentum. But Madeline was quicker, slipping deftly through Avery’s attempt and weaving into her space with frustrating precision.

The move was all too similar to the last one, and Avery wasn’t in the mood for a repeat. Instead of fighting to recover her balance gracefully, she made the deliberate choice to lean into the stumble. If Madeline wanted her to lose her footing, then she’d take it a step further, but on her own terms.

Planting her weight on her forward foot, Avery pivoted slightly and drove her shoulder forward, aiming directly at Madeline’s midsection. The intention was clear: if Madeline wanted to stumble her, Avery was going to ensure that Madeline would either go to the floor with her or be the bastion that kept her upright.

[Lightman]

She felt the faint tremor in the air when Avery caught that crack in her expression. A flicker of triumph, however well-concealed. Madeline didn’t fault her for it. She understood the satisfaction of drawing something genuine out of an opponent who gave nothing away. Still, it was a game of inches, and Madeline had no intention of surrendering more than she chose. Their words hung between them like perfume: sharp, expensive, and intentionally provocative. Avery snickered, restrained but not insincere, a velvet-gloved acknowledgment that the battle of wits mirrored the passion between their bodies.

Then came movement. Madeline surged, and as expected, Avery countered—not with resistance this time, but with improvisation. She leaned into the stumble, choosing chaos over correction, collapsing forward with deliberate recklessness. The shoulder came in low, fast, and heavy, a battering ram aimed with full intent toward Madeline’s centre.

Clever, Madeline thought.

She didn’t try to halt the impact. That would be folly. Instead, she welcomed it with clinical elegance. As Avery’s shoulder barrelled forward, Madeline’s right arm hooked around the base of her neck, slipping low and tight—an overhook, tight and snug at the collarbone. Her left arm folded beneath, hand bracing across Avery’s far shoulder, catching her mid-charge in a modified front headlock clinch. The hold doesn’t aim to choke, not yet. Its purpose was to steer.

Madeline’s knees bent as she dropped her weight back just enough to absorb the blow without yielding. Her stance narrowed slightly, bringing her body down into a lower base. And then—pivot. Her left foot carved a crescent behind her, anchoring her balance as she twisted at the waist, redirecting the driving force of Avery’s shoulder across her body rather than into it. Fluid, rehearsed, almost hypnotic movement. She wasn’t stopping the train—she was laying a new track.

Avery would feel it—not pain, not defeat—but that frustrating, gliding control. The sense of being moved against her will by something quieter than power. Something built on years of reading the angle, not resisting it.

[RockRye]

Avery's lips curled in frustration as the sequence played out. She could feel herself slipping, not in skill, but in patience, a predator just shy of her prey. The game Madeline seemed to favor for this pointless, foolish assessment wasn’t wrestling, not to Avery; it was a calculated dance of misdirection and denial. A pattycake on the mats, where each touch was robbed of the satisfying finality Avery craved. It grated on her nerves, and her pride bristled with each glancing counter.

Then came the moment that nearly broke her composure. The sudden, unexpected catch of Madeline's arm around her neck. It wasn’t a choke, not really, but the shock of it made her emit an involuntary, humiliating gargle of surprise. Her face burned as the sound escaped her lips, a brief, fleeting moment of vulnerability that felt like an eternity to Avery’s pride. Stumbling mid-charge, she felt the awkwardness of their bodies colliding in a graceless spin, neither elegant nor decisive. It was an ugly pirouette that left her growling under her breath.

Her sharp glare locked onto Madeline's legs beneath them, the heat of her irritation bubbling over. Enough of this.

Decisively, Avery shifted her focus. If Madeline wanted to cling to her like this, then Avery would make her regret it. Her hands darted with purpose, seizing the back of the other woman’s thighs with a firm grip. Her fingers pressed into the taut muscle, the strength in her arms and back coiling like a spring. Without hesitation, she planted her feet, letting the power in her core explode into motion. With a sharp lift and flick, she aimed to topple Madeline, sweeping her legs out from under her to finally break their frustrating stalemate.

[Lightman]

If anyone was watching this, they could see the moment the current shifted. It wasn’t physical—not yet—but perceptible, like the static before a storm. Avery’s frustration rippled through her frame, coiled beneath her skin like a live wire. Pride and precision had frayed, unravelling under the weight of unmet expectations. Madeline didn’t need to see the grimace to know she was getting under the woman’s skin. The pace, the technique, the restraint—it wasn’t what Avery had come here to play. And that, precisely, was the point.

But then came the sound. A sudden catch of breath, a wet, startled rasp from Avery’s throat as Madeline’s arm snuck high and tight around the collar, just shy of a true headlock. Not quite a choke. Not quite an embrace. But it was enough. Enough to jolt Avery’s pride into open rebellion. The sound had barely left her lips before Madeline felt the shift—a heat, a tension in their entangled bodies as Avery moved with renewed, forceful intent.

Madeline didn’t gloat. She didn’t even smile. That would’ve been vulgar. But internally, she noted it, like a teacher marking a red circle around a student’s first mistake. Emotion. Impulse. A beautiful thing when it’s wielded. Dangerous when it’s worn.

Then came the grip.

Madeline’s brow tightened the second she felt Avery’s hands slide past her hips and seize the backs of her thighs, low and deliberate. It was no idle touch—there was intention in the pressure, in the quick coil of Avery’s spine. She’d felt enough power through Avery’s frame to know what was coming. A classic counter. Madeline was light, but not light enough to ignore the danger of being hoisted from below and driven to the mat with brute strength.

Fine. Then they both fall.

Rather than scramble to break free, Madeline moved with it. As her legs left the ground, Madeline shifted her weight, bent her right arm, and snapped it over Avery’s shoulder, hooking it around Avery’s neck in a tight front headlock as Avery lifted her. Her left leg threaded inward, pressing tight against Avery’s inner thigh to prepare for the descent. If Avery insisted on toppling her, she wouldn’t go quietly—she’d drag her down with her.

They'd hit the mat together in a tangled thud, but Madeline adjusted mid-fall, already transitioning. As their bodies met the canvas, she rolled her hips to the side, aiming to rotate and trap Avery in a grounded front headlock, turning into her with deliberate, unhurried control. The goal wasn’t to wrench or punish—it was to contain. To teach.

[RockRye]

Avery’s hands clapped onto the backs of Madeline’s thighs with a firm and commanding grip, half expecting some unseen, supernatural force to reject her effort outright. After all, grappling with Madeline always felt like there was some unspoken rule that the British woman dictated the flow of their exchanges. Yet, there was no sorcery, only the tangible resistance of Madeline’s impressive legs, a detail Avery grudgingly acknowledged with a mental nod of respect.

With a determined grunt, Avery shifted her stance and pulled, her body coming alive in a display of raw power and athleticism. Her arms flexed, veins and tendons standing out as she heaved against Madeline’s formidable frame. Her shoulders rounded and her back arched, the definition of her muscles pronounced under the strain. Avery’s core tightened as she twisted her hips, forcing every ounce of strength into a coordinated effort to wrench Madeline off balance.

With a mighty pull, she succeeded, sending Madeline hurtling toward the mat. Predictably, the wily Brit wasn’t going down alone. Madeline’s headlock stayed locked in place, keeping Avery tethered to her as they crashed together. Avery grimaced as her neck bent uncomfortably under the pressure. Despite the discomfort, Avery welcomed the shift to the mat. This was her playground. She was more than content to fight her way free here, where brute strength and a touch of technical acumen could counter even the best-laid plans. She could already feel Madeline angling to deepen the headlock and turn her advantage, but Avery wasn’t about to let her.

Her aggression flared, ignited by the challenge. She reached up, her hand palming at Madeline's forehead with forceful intent. Her fingertips dug into Madeline’s hairline, trying to disrupt her opponent’s positioning and force her head back. Meanwhile, Avery’s thighs came into play. With surprising agility for someone her size, she swung her thick legs upward, the muscles in her quads and hamstrings engaging with explosive strength as she sought to capture Madeline’s head between them and peel her away from the headlock.

[Lightman]

The Englishwoman could feel the quake of effort roll through Avery’s body the instant the grip tightened around her thighs. It wasn’t desperation—it was a declaration. A raw, full-bodied surge that tore through every inch of the woman’s frame. She could hear it in the grunt, feel it in the arch of her opponent’s spine. Avery wasn’t just lifting her—she was daring her not to fall. And while Madeline often dictated the rhythm of her matches like a conductor with a baton, she understood the value of conceding a beat when the music demanded it. So she allowed herself to fall. Gracefully, deliberately, without fear. It was not surrender—it was a redirection. A recalibration.

The canvas greeted them with a solid crash, one that drove the breath from her lungs but not the control from her grip. The headlock stayed secured, her forearm snug across the top of Avery’s neck, not crushing but constricting—anchoring. Even as her back struck the mat, Madeline was already shifting, hips angling, elbow tightening. She’d planned to cinch the hold deeper, rotate her weight and lock in the control. But then she felt it—Avery’s hand on her forehead, aggressive and unrelenting.

Madeline’s head was forced back, the angle compromising her leverage. The fingers weren’t just prying—they were demanding. It was crude, yes, but effective. Few women had the gall to try and shove her off her own hold like a piece of furniture. Fewer still had the strength to back it up.

Then came the real threat.

She caught the movement just as Avery’s legs began to climb. The whip-snap of those powerful thighs, an ascending guillotine that sought to clamp down and flip the momentum in one decisive scissor. Madeline felt the heat of those legs sweep past her shoulder and realised the play immediately—a headscissor break from bottom position. Bold. Beautifully executed. Almost effective.

Almost. Madeline moved first.

With surgical precision, she released the headlock and twisted her own frame with a torque born from countless mat hours. Her left arm shot under Avery’s rising leg, threading behind the knee, while her right hand clamped down across her opponent’s near-side bicep, pinning it with a sudden, decisive hook. With one explosive shift of her hips, Madeline slid out and around, pivoting into a dominant side control position before the scissor could close. Leaving Avery’s thighs to snap shut on empty air.

Madeline’s body settled atop her, snug and precise, one knee braced near the ribs, her chest angled across Avery’s torso, controlling her far arm with a practiced grip. No weight crushing, no scrambling chaos—just crisp, methodical control.

“You’d be dangerous,” Madeline murmured near Avery’s ear, breath controlled, unshaken, “If you stopped trying to win every second and started trying to learn from them.” She adjusted slightly, letting her forearm press down gently across Avery’s collarbone. Not choking—just reminding.

[RockRye]

This had to be a joke. Surely, someone had planned this, a little hazing for the already-successful newcomer. LAW couldn’t have her feeling too superior to their veteran wrestlers, after all. Someone must have told this woman, Don’t wrestle Avery. Just act like an eel. Twist, writhe, and don’t do a single thing more.

That was precisely how it felt. Avery’s palm, which had been firmly planted on Madeline’s head, slipped free as Madeline rolled and squirmed with infuriating ease. The woman slithered further to Avery’s side and across her torso like water, completely untouchable. Avery’s frustration bubbled up as her powerful, meaty thighs snapped together with an audible smack, a noise that should have heralded a devastating victory. But no. Madeline was out of reach yet again, leaving Avery’s legs clapping together like a mousetrap set off too late.

She flopped back onto the mat with a dramatic sigh, suppressing a groan as she stared at the ceiling. It didn’t take long for that frustration to bubble into a light chuckle, one brimming with mockery and disbelief. She might as well laugh as grow frustrated. This was all so silly anyway. She should treat it as such. What would they do, ban one of their newest moneymakers from matches if she was not "assessed" and earned some sort of high grade? Absurd.

When Madeline made her little quip, Avery's lips curved into her most condescending smile. She had just discovered a clear difference between the two of them. “If you’re not winning a wrestling match,” she drawled, her tone honeyed and airy, “then what exactly are you doing?”

She arched an eyebrow, letting her words linger before continuing, her tone carrying a playful edge. “And learn what, precisely?” She repeated the key word as though it were in a language she didn’t quite recognize, a little chuckle slipping past her lips. “How to squirm your way out of an actual match? How thrilling.”

As if she were not tangled with another fit body on the mats, Avery brushed at her hair and smirked, clearly having taken the latest act from the local escape artist. “And I'll remind you again,” she teased, her voice light and dripping with amusement, “if all you wanted to do was lay on top of me, you could’ve just asked. At least then we wouldn’t have to pretend this little flopping act is entertaining.”

[Lightman]

Madeline remained exactly where she was—poised and planted across Avery’s torso, one palm posted near the mat for balance, the other anchoring against the far bicep. Her position wasn’t crushing, but it was secure. Intentional. Measured. She didn’t flinch at the clap of those powerful thighs narrowly missing her ribs; she’d heard the sound before. Pride disguised as precision. Force mistaken for timing.

The sigh that came from below her made Madeline glance down—not irritated, not even amused. Just… curious. Avery wore her frustration like perfume: expensive, loud, and impossible to ignore. It spilled out in little flourishes. That chuckle, the arch of her back, the look that dared the ceiling to solve her problems.

Then came the monologue.

Madeline listened without interrupting, even as the words grew sweeter in tone and sharper in content. Avery offered each sentence coated in silk but edged in glass—condescension dressed as banter. She would’ve been insulted if it hadn’t been so predictable.

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” Madeline replied, her voice low, calm, and utterly unfazed. “But that’s the risk with performance, isn’t it? Eventually, you lose track of who you’re trying to convince—your opponent, or yourself.”

She adjusted her position slightly, not to punish, but to remind. Her chest shifted forward, hips tight to Avery’s, her left knee sliding in closer to prevent any attempt at bridging. Her pressure remained firm without becoming cruel, like a silk scarf drawn snug. Enough to pin, not to smother.

“But since you asked,” she added, coolly brushing a strand of her own hair behind her ear, “what I’m doing is demonstrating control. That’s what wrestling is, Miss Merrit. Not power for power’s sake. Not chaos dressed up as confidence. Just control. Of movement. Of space. Of outcome.” Her gaze lowered, catching Avery’s eyes squarely.

“As for this…flopping,” she echoed dryly, the word sharp in her mouth. “If you truly believe that’s what you’ve witnessed, then I’ve underestimated your experience far more than I thought.”

Then, with precise ease, Madeline peeled her arm off Avery’s and slid her weight back. Not retreating—resetting. Her movements were elegant, almost impersonal, like a craftsman setting aside tools mid-demonstration. She rose to one knee beside Avery, never taking her eyes off her.

“Get up, then. Show me something real. Or don’t. I’ve already learned what I came for.”