Fortune's First Blush

[RockRye]

Avery's lips curled into a condescending smirk as she took in Madeline's attempt at what she might best describe as philosophy. "Oh, wonderful," she drawled, her voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. "What is that, a nugget from your latest reading of Sun Tzu?" She let out a sharp, dismissive chuckle as she adjusted her position slightly, her back still pressed against the mat.

She did not intend to insult Sun Tzu. She had read The Art of War years ago, of course, and often revisited it when she fancied a brush-up on strategy, because she outmaneuvered her enemies with strategy. Reading that again would have been a far better use of her time than enduring this dull excuse for a wrestling match. At least with Sun Tzu, she could fancy herself a general on the battlefield, plotting moves with precision. But this? This pointless, infuriating wriggle-struggle Madeline seemed intent on pursuing? It was beneath her. It was more like one of those awful, awful "young adult" novels.

When Madeline squirmed further atop her, their bodies pressed together more tightly, Avery couldn’t help but notice the clashing of their hips. Madeline’s slender but toned frame mashed against Avery’s fuller, more commanding curves. For a fleeting moment, the closeness might have been intriguing, under other circumstances.

But this? This was just tedium. Avery sighed, a low, exaggerated sound meant to punctuate her boredom. Even the verbal sparring that had kept Avery mildly entertained earlier had dulled, like a favorite wine left uncorked too long.

Lifting her chin just slightly, Avery gave a lazy response to Madeline’s ongoing attempts to rationalize their exchange. "Outcome? Darling, I seek greater outcomes than this," she said, her tone dripping with superiority as she used her one free hand to gesture at the two of them tangled. "But really, you're right, I shouldn’t have said ‘flopping.’ Calling this… whatever it is… ‘flopping’ would insult the majestic flailing of fish. And I do love a good bouillabaisse." Her lips curled further into a smug grin.

Her disinterest, it seemed, had an unintended effect. Madeline peeled herself away, retreating enough to break the physical closeness. Avery didn’t bother to sit up; she remained reclined, propping her head lazily on one hand as if to show how utterly unbothered she was. She let out a soft chuckle when Madeline announced that she had "learned what she came for." How infuriatingly cryptic was this woman?

"Dare I ask what that might be?" Avery retorted, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face as though the conversation were merely a passing breeze. "And dare I bother getting up if you've already made up your mind? I don't know that I can stand another few minutes of squirming."

[Lightman]

Madeline listened to Avery’s voice like one listens to distant thunder—inevitable, loud, and ultimately harmless. The sarcasm dripped thickly, and yet beneath the practiced mockery, beneath the theatrical boredom and the opulent disdain, Madeline caught the real thread: Avery was restless. Frustrated. Not because she didn’t care—but because she cared more than she will admit.

That kind of irritation didn’t come from indifference. It came from a desire unmet.

“You mistake stillness for weakness,” Madeline said calmly, not rising to the jabs, not returning them. Her voice was level, low, but it held an edge now—a shift in tone like the first note of a new movement in a symphony. “And it has allowed me to gain a bit of insight. You crave to wrestle, not to perform. Something that forces you to feel, not think. Something real.”

She paused. Just long enough to make sure Avery understood what was about to change. “Then I suppose we can cease the pleasantries.”

The next move was fast—fluid, but undeniably deliberate. In the space between Avery’s lazily smug question and the next breath, Madeline lunged forward, seeking to slide her knee up and over Avery’s midsection in a seamless straddle. The motion would be clean, driven by her hips and core, not flailing or flashy but exact. Her opposite leg followed immediately, hooking over and planting beside Avery’s far shoulder, until Madeline was seated squarely atop her chest, thighs framing either side, knees pressing into the canvas.

Decisive, controlled, distributed and balanced, the Englishwoman’s mount would have her upright, not to crush, but to contain. There’s no need to go all out…at least, not yet.

[RockRye]

Avery Merritt tilted her head as she lay on the mat, her blonde hair fanned out like a halo against the canvas. Madeline’s words echoed in her ears, and to her mild surprise, they weren’t the tedious moral platitudes she had been expecting.

“You should be more patient, less focused on domination. Wrestling isn’t about the show; it’s about the struggle.” Blah, blah, blah. That sort of rhetoric was what Avery had heard so many times before, and she had dismissed it just as often. After all, she had spent years perfecting her craft, not to adhere to some code of ethics or grind away in obscurity but to revel in the spotlight and thrive in the thrill of domination. The fact that Madeline didn’t say any of those things made Avery pause. Her lips curled into a thoughtful smirk, her head tilting just slightly as her polished nails traced a line along her own exposed collarbone. The moment lingered as she processed the insight, her brows quirking upward in a rare show of genuine intrigue.

“Well, what do you know?” she mused aloud, a touch of genuine surprise in her tone. “I can’t argue with that. How rare for me.”

Her voice, rich and dripping with self-satisfaction, carried a tone of faint amusement, though there was something deeper lurking beneath the surface. Perhaps it was just that her own ego enjoyed being stroked by someone perceptive enough to see her truth.

Avery shifted slightly, her long body stretching languidly against the mat as if to remind her opponent, and herself, of the physical advantage she always held. She did prefer the feel of a match. Domination, the thrill, the adoration… Why waste time playing chess games on the mats when she could press her superiority and thrive on the pleasure of it? Her mind wandered briefly into that indulgent thought, the satisfaction of pinning or squeezing her opponents, the look of awe and frustration in their eyes as she claimed her victories with poise. For a fleeting moment, her focus slipped, and she failed to catch the movement above her.

Madeline, seizing her opportunity, sprang into action. Before Avery could fully react, Madeline’s body sailed through the air with grace and purpose, her curvaceous form descending in a calculated attack. Avery’s eyes went wide, her usual confidence momentarily giving way to shock.

Her arms shot up in an attempt to defend herself, but she was a beat too late. The impact sent a groan spilling from her lips as Madeline’s body came down cleanly, straddling Avery’s prone form. The weight and force of the maneuver pinned her flat, her chest rising and falling beneath the pressure as she tried to adjust to the sudden shift.

But Avery Merritt was never one to stay defenseless for long. Her mind, sharp as ever, immediately worked through her options. Even pinned, she had her strengths, and Madeline’s upright posture offered her an opportunity.

Her long legs, toned and powerful, were already coiling beneath her like a spring. With a sudden burst of motion, she swung her lower body upward, her flexibility allowing her thick thighs and graceful ankles to arc high. She went back to a familiar well, looking to hook at least one ankle beneath Madeline's chin so she could drag the woman off the top of her and, preferably, into a most dangerous position.

[Lightman]

Madeline didn’t need to hear the praise. She saw it in the subtle shift of Avery’s expression—the small crease of surprise, the thoughtful, self-satisfied smirk that followed. It was the rarest thing: sincerity wrapped in silk and thorns. Avery’s words, almost admiring, curled through the air with the lazy elegance of someone who could afford to entertain curiosity without risk. But Madeline wasn’t here to impress. She was here to finish what had been started.

The moment Avery’s focus wavered, when her fingertips idly danced along her collarbone like a woman reclining for a portrait, Madeline moved. She wasn’t theatrical. She wasn’t loud. The Englishwoman simply acted. One controlled launch of her hips and a fluid swing of her leg carried her up and over, and then down, all momentum compressed into a driving, perfectly balanced mount.

The sound of their collision was clean—Avery’s breath knocked from her chest, a short, startled groan escaping her lips as Madeline’s thighs bracketed her torso. No apology, no pause. Just precision. Madeline rode the impact down, her weight distributed neatly across Avery’s chest, her hands planted flat against the canvas beside the blonde’s shoulders. She didn’t need to gloat. The position spoke enough. But Avery was not one to lie still.

Madeline felt it almost immediately—the faint shift in Avery’s spine, the slow, subtle tightening of muscle below. The way her hips angled, not in resistance, but in preparation. Most might have missed it. Madeline didn’t. Her instincts, trained and honed by countless hours rolling with women who believed brute strength could erase a thousand tiny technical advantages, screamed what was coming.

Legs.

Madeline saw the arc before she felt it. Avery’s thighs, strong and sculpted, were already in motion, one ankle slicing up like a pendulum aimed to loop around Madeline’s neck. It was graceful, quick, and beautifully executed. But this time, Madeline didn’t let it land.

Her left arm shot up, elbow tight, palm open—not to block, but to intercept. She caught the incoming ankle at the arch, letting the full force of the movement meet her palm mid-air. With her other hand, she pivoted at the wrist and threaded under Avery’s opposite leg, dropping low and shifting her base wide. It wasn’t just defence. It was a transition.

With one decisive sweep of motion, Madeline pushed Avery’s raised leg outward while pulling the opposite in toward her shoulder, twisting Avery’s hips into a corkscrew. It was a high-level leg drag pass, turning what had nearly been a triangle setup into a complete dismantling of Avery’s guard.

Her knees slid in close, her weight crushing down along Avery’s ribs from the side now, pinning her in a modified kesa-gatame. Her chest pressed against Avery’s arm, isolating it, while her free hand reached beneath the shoulder, fingers locking for control. She spoke only once, and when she did, her voice was low and close.

“You wanted something real,” she murmured against Avery’s temple, her breath steady, skin just barely brushing. “This is what it feels like to be out-wrestled.” She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to. Her silence and her control were satisfaction enough.

[RockRye]

Avery could once more feel her legs poised to snap around Madeline's head. The satisfaction of slamming that little evasion merchant into the mat, watching her pretty features twist in pain while Avery's thighs ground her into submission, was within reach. And Avery, perhaps in a rare show of generosity, might have even been kind in her words if Madeline had simply stayed put and accepted that she had to tap. But no, of course, she wouldn't. Madeline always had to wriggle out, didn’t she?

The misdirection hit first. Avery’s legs parted, one shoved aside, the other hoisted upward at a painfully awkward angle. A groan escaped her lips as the tendons in her thighs and hips protested, but her frustration spiked as Madeline scrambled forward. She felt the smaller woman press herself down, her lithe body weighing against Avery’s chest and ribs, flattening her curves in a way that was more irritating than immobilizing.

What she thought would only be a crushing and stretching of her arm turned into a grip that pulled her neck to the side, too, as Madeline wrapped around her upper body. The groan that followed wasn’t just from the physical pressure, it was from the audacity of this woman to think she could keep her pinned in such a manner. Avery’s free hand curled into a fist momentarily, her nails digging into her palm as she felt the stretch in her arm and shoulder, the awkward angle testing her flexibility and patience alike.

Avery hissed, her lips twisting into a sneer as she turned her head to glare at the side of Madeline’s face. “Oh, is that what this is?” she bit out, her voice thick with sarcasm. “If we’re going to waltz, sweetheart, I’ll need a better lead. I still don’t see any wrestling here. I could lie here all day.” She couldn't, but she wouldn't have called herself close to losing a "wrestling match" from this position, either.

And she was done indulging Madeline’s evasions. Flexing the muscles in her trapped arm, she focused on the one motion she needed to jar the woman loose. The pull in her shoulder was sharp, a warning pain she dismissed outright, but she surged upward, trying to drive her elbow sharply into the side of Madeline’s neck and shove her neck into an awkward angle.

[Lightman]

Madeline felt the tension before it even reached its full force. Avery’s body, thick with muscle and quick to react, was already preparing to roll, to wrench free from Madeline’s tightening hold. The slight shift in her posture, the controlled flex of her core, told Madeline that the fight would escalate. But then, perhaps to Avery’s dismay, so would Madeline’s response.

The moment Avery tried to yank her arm free and snap her upper body upward, the air between them thickened, the collision of intent palpable. Avery’s hand was still firm, digging deep into Madeline’s wrist, but that was where her momentum came to a screeching halt. She was expecting another desperate scramble, more evasive manoeuvring, perhaps a half-hearted wriggle out. What she didn’t expect was how Madeline didn’t retreat. Madeline’s posture shifted, her body rolling with Avery’s movement, staying in step with the growing tension between them. She had already calculated the angle, sensed the second the pressure in Avery’s shoulder reached its tipping point. There was no hesitation as she adjusted her grip, her fingers tightening around Avery’s arm with an elegant precision that mirrored the flick of a wrist in jiu-jitsu. But there was nothing delicate about the way Madeline moved now.

Madeline’s legs, once poised delicately to keep control, twisted underneath Avery’s body like coils of steel. She braced herself low, locking her feet behind Avery’s knees, anchoring herself to the mat with all the force her frame could summon. Avery’s struggle to dislodge her felt almost futile at this point. The woman was too far in motion to back out. Madeline seized her opportunity—her body flowing upward with calm, unyielding force as her grip on Avery’s arm shifted. She pulled with calculated power, re-aligning the angle of Avery’s shoulder as she slid her forearm across the back of Avery’s neck. The sharp sound of fabric ripping from their violent scuffle barely registered over the burning strain building between them. Avery’s head shot back, the grip on her arm so tight that even her resistance became a slow, grinding thing, like an engine that was running out of gas.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Madeline said softly, her voice sharp with an edge that couldn’t quite hide beneath the thin veil of civility. “I know you love to act like you’re still in control, but I think you’re realising this moment isn’t about flexing.” Her voice hovered, mocking but fluid, her eyes trained on Avery’s. “It’s about not letting you off the hook when you think this is a sparring match.”

With the leverage in her favour, Madeline dropped her weight across Avery’s torso, forcing her opponent to feel the full brunt of Madeline’s pressure. Avery’s body stiffened beneath her—tense, testing, defying—but not breaking. Not yet. In one smooth, assertive move, Madeline shifted her hips slightly, placing herself closer to the crest of Avery’s body, tightening her control with the precision of a snake constricting around a prey it had no intention of releasing. She knew just how far to push before her next move would drive them both toward a conclusion.

“The problem with this,” Madeline continued, her voice lowering to a near growl, “is that you still think it’s a choice.” She pulled harder on Avery’s arm, her wrist twisting slightly to lock the blonde’s body into an even more awkward angle, making it impossible for Avery to do more than struggle in vain. “But, if you still insist on seeing actual wrestling,” Madeline added, eyes now narrowing. “I’ll give it to you.”

A simple shrug of her hips, a shift of her weight, and Madeline began to press down on Avery’s vulnerable side. She felt the bones of Avery’s ribcage dig into the mat as she adjusted for better leverage. There would be no escape this time, not until Madeline had her fill.

[RockRye]

Avery’s confidence practically radiated as she surged upward, her arm snapping toward the ceiling like a coiled spring released. As always, she relied on her overwhelming power to break free from the grasp of smaller, less powerful opponents like Madeline. To Avery, it was a given. Her sheer power and presence would shatter any attempt to contain her. Her lips curled into a smirk as she imagined the way her might would humble this "technician," putting an end to all this delicate, convoluted grappling nonsense. Already believing she had succeeded, Avery aimed to bring it crashing down on Madeline’s neck with the same ruthless intent that defined her every movement. Yet, she never made it.

Madeline’s deft hands seized Avery’s arm mid-motion, her fingers like steel clamps that redirected the blonde powerhouse’s momentum. Avery’s features twisted into a scowl, her brow furrowing as she felt herself being turned, her body betraying her as it was twisted onto its side.

“This nonsense again?” she started, her voice dripping with irritation as she prepared to launch another biting remark. But the words faltered as Madeline’s legs coiled around hers, locking at the knees and bending them in a direction they weren’t meant to go.

Avery’s body arched involuntarily, her teeth clenching as the torque of the hold pulled at her arm and neck, sending fire down to her collarbone. “Ngghhh!” she let out a warbling cry, a sound so raw and desperate it barely sounded like her own. She immediately regretted the noise, shame flushing her cheeks even as the pain increased.

Madeline pressed her full weight into Avery’s side, driving her into the mat like a nail under a hammer. Avery’s head snapped to the side, her blue eyes staring wide at the far wall, her breath hitching as her mind scrambled to find an escape. For a fleeting moment, panic flashed across her face, but she clamped it down quickly, gritting her teeth and forcing her pain into a mask of scorn.

Her voice emerged strained, punctuated by grunts of effort and suppressed cries of pain. “This must be… agh... riveting… for the crowds,” she bit out, her tone cracking as the pressure twisted her arm further. “This ugly little... twist-fest.”

Even as the words left her mouth, Avery’s body trembled from the effort of holding back louder cries. Her breathing was labored, punctuated by sharp gasps as her body writhed subtly beneath Madeline’s oppressive weight. Pain and pride warred within her, each driving her to find a way out.

[Lightman]

Every shudder, every involuntary jerk of Avery’s body beneath her, Madeline can feel it all, as clear as her own heartbeat. The ripples of resistance moving through the blonde’s frame were beautiful in a way only a grappler would truly appreciate: a slow, desperate collapse of muscle under the precise angles of leverage and control. It wasn’t brute force winning the day. It was architecture.

Avery’s growl of frustration, that strangled, unwilling sound torn from her throat, would have made lesser opponents gloat. Madeline didn’t need to. The sharp flush burning across Avery’s cheekbones, the tension in her jaw as she bit back shame and fury—that was enough. Proof, pure and simple, that technique could humble strength without ever raising its voice.

Madeline heard the biting remark Avery spat through clenched teeth, each syllable brittle and bitter. Ugly little twist-fest. The words might have carried more weight if not for the tremor chasing them, the gasp woven so tightly behind the insult that it nearly undid it.

She shifted her weight again, subtle but merciless, sinking deeper into the scarf hold, her hips grinding just a fraction lower to press the last vestiges of air and arrogance from Avery’s lungs. Her grip on the wrist tightened, her thighs squeezing slightly to compress Avery’s midsection.

Madeline’s voice, when it came, was gentle—almost amused, like a teacher correcting a particularly stubborn student. “Of course you would find this...ugly,” she said, her words low and precise, “It’s only because you are on the wrong end of it.”

She let the thought dangle there for a beat; the pressure increasing in a slow, methodical ratchet, careful not to injure but enough to ensure Avery could feel how little of the situation was in her hands.

Madeline leaned her weight subtly forward, her bountiful chest brushing close to Avery’s trapped shoulder, tightening the coil further. Her mouth hovered near the blonde’s ear, her tone slipping into something closer to a hush—calm, matter-of-fact, the voice of inevitability.

“Let me remind you, you wanted real,” she murmured. “And this... this is real. Not the roaring crowds. Not the posing. Just you, me, and the simple truth of who understands the mat better.” Her legs shifted, snaring Avery’s far arm tighter against her ribs, cranking the shoulder at an even crueller angle. Not reckless. Not violent. Just absolute.

“Now, do be a good girl,” Madeline finished, silk-smooth and devastatingly soft, “and tap before you embarrass yourself further.” The Englishwoman didn’t push. She didn’t threaten. She just waited, letting Avery’s own pride be the instrument of her undoing.

[RockRye]

Avery’s fury churned within her like a roiling storm, her lips curling in a sneer that barely masked the growing strain on her body. She HATED this, hated every damned second of it. There wasn’t even a crowd to witness her predicament, and yet she still felt a sense of horror and humiliation. It was just her, Madeline, and the suffocating truth of her current helplessness in the clutches of an inferior, even smaller, woman.

This posh bitch wrapped herself around Avery like a serpent, her deceptively powerful thighs shifting up and tightening like a vice against Avery's midsection. And worse? Avery could feel her gloating. Every smug adjustment of Madeline's position only served to stoke the flames of Avery’s humiliation and anger in response.

The crushing pressure on her midsection was unbearable. The steel-like grip of Madeline's thighs ground into her abs, forcing the air from her lungs with each pulse. Avery’s powerful torso, usually so commanding and resilient, betrayed her with involuntary jerks and spasms as her ribs strained against the unyielding force. The sensation was maddening. Every inhale felt shallow, sharp, incomplete. Her body quaked under the strain, her breath coming in short, choked gasps as her core burned with exertion.

And it wasn’t just her midsection. The searing pain radiating from her twisted shoulder and neck only deepened her misery. Her muscles screamed for release, each sharp tug and wrench from Madeline pulling at her collarbone and tendons like they were strings in the hands of a cruel puppeteer.

And Madeline. She kept talking.

Avery’s sharp growl rumbled in her throat, her frustration finally erupting in a guttural snarl. "Grrrgh! Nngh—" Her voice faltered, breaking into a soft, pitiful gasp of pain she couldn’t suppress, no matter how much she loathed the sound of it.

She wouldn’t give in. She couldn’t. Avery, with her sculpted body and unshakable confidence, didn’t tap to this nonsense. And yet…

Her mind raced. Her body writhed and bucked against Madeline’s constricting hold, every ounce of her strength pouring into the futile struggle. But she wasn’t getting free. There was no leverage, no angle, no escape. Panic clawed at the edges of her resolve, and she hated it. Hated the feeling, hated the situation, hated Madeline for putting her here.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as her jaw clenched. Just jab her in the eye, her pride whispered, desperate for any way out. But even through the haze of panic and pain, Avery knew. This didn’t matter. This little insignificant blip in her rise to prominence didn’t matter.

Her growl turned into a low, reluctant groan as her resolve faltered. Her hand lifted, shaking with resistance, and then...

Tap. Tap.

Two quick, quiet pats on the mat. That was all she’d give. No grand submission, no fanfare. Just enough to end this indignity and no more.

[Lightman]

Madeline experienced each vibration of Avery’s fight, feeling the deep growl against her ribs and the fierce energy of a woman unwilling to compromise. She admired it in her way. The tenacity. The defiance. It was precisely what made Avery dangerous: not just the power, but the refusal to acknowledge limits until they closed around her throat.

But limits did come. They always did.

The one thing that people confuse about Madeline is that she’s sadistic. While she will admit there’s a mean streak, especially in a tough, back-and-forth match, Madeline didn’t revel in the suffering. More observing it. She noted the trembling in Avery’s breath, the involuntary clench of her abdominals under her thighs, the war being waged behind her opponent’s clenched jaw and balled fists. Avery fought like a woman who’d never been made to yield. And now, at last, she was learning the texture of that inevitability.

Then, there it was. Tap. Tap.

The contact was light, begrudging, but it landed. Madeline released immediately. Her grip loosened in a single smooth sequence. The constriction of her thighs eased first, then her hold on the arm unwrapped without drama or declaration. She uncoiled like a silk ribbon coming undone—graceful, practised, and cool. No theatrics. No extra pressure. Avery had made the choice. In this setting, Madeline saw no need to humiliate her for it.

She rose to her feet with calm precision, brushing a crease from the leg of her trousers before taking a step back. No pose. No smirk. Just space. Then she sat—cross-legged, elegant as a judge at court, near Avery’s side, her breathing quiet, posture impeccable. Her gaze rested on the woman still on the mat, not pitying, not triumphant, but undeniably in control.

“You were never weak,” Madeline said, as if addressing a basic misunderstanding. “Just... inefficient.” She let the words hang in the air like the final line of a poem. “That’s what separates power from mastery.”

There was no venom in it. No cruelty. Just truth, plainly spoken—offered, even. A closing statement, but not a dismissal. Madeline never underestimated those who tapped. Often, they came back smarter. And if Avery Merritt hated her for it, that wasn’t Madeline’s concern.