#MMA Training tips

[yokkaoboxingposts]

YOKKAO spearheaded this ‘exchange of disciplines’ where there is a free exchange of skills and techniques during training sessions. Philip Villa, the brand’s founder, and CEO believes all the fighters that will participate in the cross-training events will benefit and grow from the exchanges. This is only the first leg of Superlek’s tour and it could not have started any better. The two MMA champions displayed their crisp techniques for the duration of their training session. Read more at https://yokkao.com/blogs/news/superlek-trains-with-bellator-middleweight-champ-johnny-eblen

[queencvbra]

if you're one of those random mma guys that tries to mansplain martial arts on the internet, please I am begging you for the love of god just go train for like two weeks in anything traditional and see how fast you learn to shut the fuck up. you don't know what you're talking about and you sound so goddamn stupid.

[academicelephant]

Shane is a great teacher (and I gotta say, as a person who's studying education it's always nice to watch someone who really can teach) and I totally love his videos despite not being a martial artist myself

[dr-grayson]

Welcome to the beginning of my first Masterclass series. We're starting with Blue Glove, the first rank in Savate. Throughout this series I am going to detail the techniques and skills you should be focusing on as you rise through the ranks. While combinations are important I'm also going to focus on things like angles, footwork, positioning. The many things that a beginner might not notice, here's the core tips from a Silver Glove. Check it out!

[sokeanshu]

3 LEAD HAND BOXING TECHNIQUES

[shouyuus]

mma!bakugo who just so happens to train at the gym that you part-time at on the weekends (front desk stuff, bookkeeping, etc) and has always been a bit scary from afar bc he's got this constant scowl as if he's got a bone to pick with just about anyone and anything who crosses his path, but his coach (also ur boss) assures you that he's a big softie once you get to know him. you tell him in no uncertain terms that you think you're good, thanks.

mma!bakugo who's always the first one in and the last one out on your shifts, who's got shit manners but always holds the door open for you and sometimes you swear you can catch him watching you as you go about cleaning some of the equipment but goes tomato red whenever you catch him in the act and immediately yeets off to work on drills for about half an hour before he'll glance at you again.

mma!bakugo who doesn't know how good he looks when he's wiping sweat from his chin or chugging water from his massive 2-liter water bottle, a trickle of cold water dripping down his chin to run down his neck, his adam's apple bobbing as he gulps down the water, smacking his lips as he wipes his mouth on the back of his bandaged hand; doesn't notice the way that every girl (and a lot of the guys tbh) are staring at him, but he'll glance towards where he saw you last, standing helping a new guy sign up for the gym membership, smiling and laughing, and he knows it's what you're supposed to do but it doesn't stop the way his gut twists or the way he goes way too hard at the punching bag, hard enough for his coach to hike an eyebrow and ask what's gotten into him today? it's not like him to "lose control" like this

mma!bakugo who never calls you by your name where other ppl can hear, always says like "hey sweetcheeks, can you hand me a water?" or "dollface, can you do me a favor?" and you'd always roll your eyes and remind him that "that's not my name, bakugou-kun," even as you're doing whatever thing he asked for anyway.

mma!bakugo who keeps quiet and watches when a guy tries to hit on you (unsuccessfully) bc he knows you can handle yourself, but the moment the guy reaches out to try and put hands on you, he's on his feet, stalking across the gym to shove his way between the pair of you like "oi. she ain't interested." and by now, everyone's gone quiet, their eyes trained on him and the guy and you; the guy sizes bakugou up, puffing out his chest for a second, but the next, he seems to notice the thick cords of muscles braiding down bakugou's arms, the expertly wrapped knuckles on both his hands, and he puts two and two together fast enough to know that this really isn't a fight he should be picking.

so he scoffs and makes as if he weren't ever really that interested anyway, turning around and muttering beneath his breath that you weren't even that pretty to begin with.

"thanks," you say, but bakugo just frowns and cocks his head.

"don't let anyone talk to you like that, got it?" and there's still that signature grit to his voice, the sharpness to his eyes, but something about it is different today -- it's ever so slightly softer than he usually is. he opens his mouth like he's about to say something more but pauses at the last second and turns around, shoulders a little hunched, and you could swear you can see the tips of his ears go red.

mma!bakugo who, after you get him an omamori from a shrine visit that says "certain victory", can only stare down at his, mouth open, a lil speechless, until he looks up to find you blushing just as hard as he is, purses his lips, clears his throat and glances off towards the side, tucking the charm into his training shorts like "thanks. now i've really got no excuse huh."

mma!bakugo who when he wins (as you knew he would), throws up his hand, the charm you gave him clutched in his palm, catches your eye in the crowd, smirks and jerks his head; when you squeeze your way up to the barrier, he boops your nose with a gloved hand before tugging it off with his teeth, letting it drop to the ground, bending down so his eyes are level with yours, his chest still heaving, his skin flushed from the recent fight, there's a cut on his lip and a bruise blossoming high on his right cheek but neither of you seem to care -- all he can see is you.

he tugs on a loose strand of hair, cocks his head, you smile and glance at the omamori clutched in his hand and say, "guess the lucky charm really worked."

mma!bakugo who hikes an eyebrow at your words before his eyes track down to your lips and he sighs, leaning against the soft barriers, not caring that there are just about seven different cameras trained on the pair of you right now, runs a finger down your jawline till he can tip your chin back --

"or..." his voice is just a little hoarse, his normally bright eyes dark, his pupils nearly completely blown out, a total eclipse of the usual ruby red of his gaze --

"maybe my lucky charm is just you."

[jiujitsunews]

🎬🥋 From the director's chair to the Jiu-Jitsu mat, Guy Ritchie's journey is nothing short of extraordinary! His passion for Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is as captivating as his films like “Snatch” and “Sherlock Holmes”. 🎥💥

🔍 Dive into our latest article to uncover the fascinating story of Guy Ritchie’s journey in jiu-jitsu, from his early days to achieving the coveted black belt. We’ll share some details about his martial arts career that you may not be familiar with. 🥋🏆

👉 Discover how Ritchie’s commitment to Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu remained unwavering, even with his incredibly busy job in the film business. Learn about the wisdom he accrued from training Jiu Jitsu and his tips for aspiring BJJ practitioners. 📚💡

🥊 Did you know Ritchie is also involved in other martial arts? Find out more about his journey in Shotokan Karate and Judo. 🥋🥇

🔗 Read More: https://jiujitsu-news.com/guy-ritchie-bjj/

[healthmonastery]

Unleashing the Fighting Machine: Conor McGregor's Journey to Optimal Health and Fitness

Conor McGregor, the notorious Irish mixed martial artist, is not only known for his charismatic personality and spectacular fighting skills but also for his commitment to health and fitness. McGregor’s success in the Octagon can be attributed, in part, to his relentless pursuit of physical excellence. Through a combination of intense training, specialized nutrition, and a holistic approach to…

[doomtrooper77]

Meet Gusieppe "Joe Murder" Murderetti. Mob Boss's Mob Boss

It had been a couple of weeks since he had been back to the Dungeon gym. He got his workout in at the gym at work, but this place was made for growing. The Dungeon was mainly a private gym. Most people didn’t know it existed, and those who attended liked it that way. From the outside, it looks like an abandoned warehouse. You might also think so if you just paid attention to the unpainted walls and steel girders above your head. Graffiti on the walls. Look at what the gym contained: a sea of free weights, benches, racks, and machines to lift big. The only cardio was the fighter’s section in the far corner. Full boxing ring, a full-size MMA octagon, mats galore for jujitsu to karate. The other side of the building was for recovery. 3 full Saunas, 3 shower areas, Cold Plunges, 4 huge Japanese heated Soaking tubs, and massage rooms. This place was a lifter's dream. But there were no influencers here. Nobody is setting up their camera for Instagram or TikTok. The place was clean from top to bottom. Members didn’t pay, you had to be invited.

I had decided to bring my college buddy who was in front out of town with me. He was still in pretty good shape even though 10 years later, he spent most of his day behind a desk. I told him I knew a place where we could workout like we used to in college. He didn’t think much of the place until we got inside, and he grinned like a kid in a candy shop. We changed, and I told him no phones were allowed outside the locker room. He objected and said he had a deal he was working on, and he had to stay in touch. I told him it could wait an hour or two. We worked out together for about 30 minutes, and he said he wanted to work arms, and I told him I needed to do some legs. So we split up.

 I had my headphones on and was on my 3rd set in the squat rack. When I noticed everyone in the room was looking at something behind me. I racked the weights and turned to see my buddy in fucking Joe Murder's face. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

Joe Murderetti, aka Joe Murder, was not a local mob boss; he was THE MOB BOSS. Not the flashy one, he was the Mob Boss the flashy ones were terrified of. He was the one authorities knew had his hands in everything, from drugs to extortion, loan sharking, casinos, financial crimes, and murder for hire. They had come at his 10 different ways, and each time, not only did nothing stick, but people disappeared. Judges, lawyers, prosecutors, politicians, witnesses, and cops. He was called a wizard of the fucking underworld because impossible things happened when he was involved.

Joe Murderetti was also the person who invited me here to this gym. His gym.

My buddy was in good shape for your average guy. He was 6’2 "and 270 lbs. He looked solid and hadn’t lost much of a step since our college days. I was 6’3" and 290 lbs. I was a beast; I had to be when I was on the streets.

Teddy was running his mouth and putting his finger in Joe Murderretti’s face! He was always an arrogant hot head and when he got this way he never paid attention to the world around him. He didn’t see the fucking sea on monsters headed his way. Joe Murder owned this place. Most of the people who came here worked for him—either part of his day-to-day crew or one of 20 others who controlled most of northern Illinois.  At least 15 guys were converging on the two. Not one of them was under 300 pounds. Hell, Joe himself tipped the scales at 340-350.

 I flung my headphones and started trotting over. I got within 10 feet when I felt a big hand clamp on my shoulder and neck. My training and instincts kicked in, and I grabbed the hand and arm holding me and started to judo-throw them over my shoulder. Under normal circumstances, that person would have been slammed to the ground over my shoulder, and my knee would be in their neck. Instead, the big hand holding my shoulder grabbed my wrist, twisted it, and kicked my legs from under me; when we hit the floor, it was my face slammed into the rubber mat, and a massive knee was in the center of my back. Air rushed out of me, but my training kept me attempting to move. I tried to twist, but not only was the weight on my back too much, but the person holding my arm twisted it further and pulled it up toward my head. The pain was excruciating. I was only able to twist my head to the side and yell out, “Mr. Murderetti, Mr. Murderetti!” Another shadow passed over me, and a big, lugged boot sole stepped on my head and neck, pushing me further into the ground. I stopped struggling.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Teddy and Joe Murder looking over at me on the ground. Teddy's eyes got big, and he started moving in my direction, but two more massive guys grabbed him. Teddy's only training was from football when we played in college.  One guy had him wrapped in a chokehold, and the other had slammed his fist into Teddy's gut twice already. Before he could hit him a 3rd time, Joe Murder casually held up his hand, and the chokehold loosened, and the puncher stood at the ready.  Joe Murder was still looking at me.

His dark eyes locked on to me, and he said, “David, what does this have to do with you?” His voice was deep, yet he had the south-side Chicago Italian accent. This was the voice of the mobster on the street. I had heard that voice speak in a boardroom executive tone to north side charity dinner smoothness. Today, it was the voice of the man who owned the streets.

“I’m sorry, Teddy didn’t know who you were. We came in for a quick workout, but I wasn’t paying attention. This is my fault.” I said. Joe Murder made another small gesture, and the two monsters holding me down pulled me to my feet. They did not let me go.  By this time, there were 10 other massive guys surrounding us. All of them looked as if they wanted a piece of us. Everyone else in the gym disappeared.

Joe walked over to where the two men held us and absently said to them, “Let him go.” Both men let me go but didn’t move away. Joe stepped up to me, and an aura of menace surrounded him. Each of the guys on either side of me could have twisted me into a knot. But something about the man standing in front of me made them seem like puppies in comparison to a tiger.

Joe Murder was 2 inches shorter than me, but damn near a foot wider. He made you feel like the closer he got, the more you shrank into yourself. “Your buddy has a loudmouth and seems interested in business that’s not his,” Joe said. Teddy spoke up, “Dave, tell these knuckle draggers to let me go! Tell them you’re a cop, and they just fucked up big time. You’re gonna drag them in and put them under the fucking jail!” The last sentence cut off as Teddy got another shot to the gut. His legs crumpled under him, but the guy held him up.

Joe Murder’s eye twinkled dangerously, and then he said mockingly, “Under the jail! Yeah Dave, tell me how you’re putting us under the jail.”

Over the next week, I will post a member of Joe Murder's crew daily.

[carminecherry]

RULES? THIS IS A STREET FIGHT | hanma shuji

KINKTOBER 2024

this is PART ONE of the series NO TAPPING OUT

⇝ PAIRING: timeskip!hanma x fem!MMA fighter!reader

⇝ SERIES SYNOPSIS: after winding up in a street fight, you catch the eye of a sick bastard whose mental wires are so horrifically crossed that pain and pleasure have become one. he lives for the fight and once he has his eye on something or someone there is no getting away unscathed. he wants to sink his teeth into you and see how good of a fighter you really are. you will never go down without a fight. and you will never tap out. (Basically, Hanma is a fucked up, horny weirdo who has an unhealthy obsession with you)

⇝ PART ONE LENGTH: 3k words

⇝ PART ONE WARNINGS: graphic descriptions of violence, animal death (18+ minors do not interact):

all characters are 20+; Alternate Universe! Canon Divergent. you're nearly recovered from a life-threatening injury and got the go ahead from your physical therapist to do some light exercises. however, your walk to the gym is cut short when you find yourself caught in a street fight.

⇝ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Welcome to Kinktober 2024! After not thinking hard about it, I figured Hanna is the perfect scary, fucked up guy to write about. For plot reasons, Y/N is a seasoned MMA fighter. Hanma is a fucked up, horny weirdo who develops an unhealthy obsession with you.

keep an eye on the tags and stay safe this kinktober! <3

Spotify Playlist to listen to while reading:

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT.

Your footsteps on the pavement echo as you cut through a dark alley between the city buildings. The air nips at the skin of your face, forcing you to nuzzle into your jacket. Winter has set in, draining the city of life and color, the brittle corpse of a vibrant fall. The sun sets quickly these days, light retreating earlier and earlier. 

The air feels more hollow now, carrying sound further. The scuff of your shoes and the rustle of your jacket as you adjust your arms to cross; the tips of your ears growing rosy with cold. 

The worst thing is how it cuts right to your bone. Like ghostly fingertips trailing up and down your skeleton. Prodding in their icy nails, finding points of weakness and wrapping their fingers there. Gripping ferociously tighter and tighter.  Locking your joints, making your movements stiff. 

You shake off the spectral grip, but the tightness in your body clings to the ghost of past injuries. You’ve racked up quite a few over the years, on and off the ring. But you’re no stranger to discomfort. 

You roll your shoulder as it starts to cramp, laughing curtly to yourself. You can feel the hourglass of time trickling away, especially on days like today. It was catching up to you, your scrappy younger years of street fighting. Your short-lived wrestling career. 

You were still on hiatus, living on the money you saved from your brief stint in the spotlight. Your body kept score. You rub absently at your locked elbow. 

Physically, you’re more or less healed. The physical therapy has been hell but you’re through the worst of it. You had only a few more weeks until you could start training properly again. All of those hours of practice, all of the years of building up your body to be taken away in an instant by a stupid  accident. 

You stretch your arm in front of you, staring at the hinge of your elbow. You test the range of motion, flexing as far as you can, remembering how when you opened your eyes it had been bent the wrong way. This time, it’s the memory that makes you shiver. 

It had come back to you in flashes, large chunks still missing. You laid there, phasing slowly in and out of consciousness. The last thing you remember is riding on the back of your motorcycle, cruising down the city streets, the world blurring between oranges and reds as the seasons changed. 

You can’t remember the exact moment, but the police report stated you had been sideswiped by a drunk driver. You lost count of how many times you read those crinkled pieces of paper. A thin file to encapsulate the biggest moment of your life.

Your precious bike had been totaled. Seeing all of the pictures, you don’t know how you survived. The drunk driver hadn’t been so lucky. You don’t forgive him and you don’t mourn him, the feelings sit complicated and unprocessed in your chest even now. 

You remember the sounds first. The drone of his car horn through the crunched metal of his vehicle. The screaming, your screaming, ripped from your throat. It sounded foreign. The sirens in the distance, growing louder. The rush of traffic as vehicles swerved around you. 

You couldn’t move the first time you awoke, body shocked. Whether it was a gentle breeze rocking the tree branches above you or if your vision was wavering you’ll never know But the leaves swaying side to side had been hypnotic, a moment of calm in your calamity. Your eyes followed as one deep-ruby leaf detached and floated to the earth. 

Turning your head to see where it landed, you saw your mangled arm. It looked fake, bent in all the wrong ways. You couldn’t feel it, move it. This couldn’t be real, that’s all you could think. The safety gear on your body was torn to shreds. 

There was red. So much red. Another crimson leaf fluttered to the ground. The peace was in such contrast to everything else. Your blood pooled, the edge trickling its way over the leaves adding a sick, glossy red to the autumn colors.

There were more memories. The ambulance arriving, the swarm of bodies blurring your vision. Asking you questions, the words sounded strange; just noise. The electric shock of pain when they put you on the gurney. The blackness that ate at the edge of your vision. 

They said it was a miracle that you survived, bones set well, you could walk, could use your arms… Everything was a miracle. The word lost meaning over the months as you recovered. Now, here you are. A miraculous, spiteful force of nature, freezing her ass off walking to the gym. You’d finally gotten the go-ahead from your doctors to do some light exercises. You were happy to be able to do something, anything. Body growing restless after months of unuse.

This walk had never felt this long though. Your legs are heavy and tight, slowing you down. You round another corner, the sun dropping below the buildings, shadows creeping farther and farther. A new sound slices through the hollow night air. You pause, looking around. It was far away, but it’s piercing. Like the feeling of falling through ice and being plunged into the freezing waters beneath.

It was an inhuman cry, hissing and wailing out. You hear the hushed laughter of boys beneath the sound. The tightness in your joints are forgotten as they’re drenched in the adrenaline that rushes through your veins. 

You surge with power as you hurriedly approach the sound, quickly finding the small posse at the alley’s dead end. You don’t stop, you don’t hesitate, you don't assess the situation before you’re running,  swinging, knocking one of the three boys to the ground; his hair is a crispy box-dyed bleach mess. He let out a startled cry, his voice cracking; he couldn’t be older than 16, the youngest looking of the group.

The two other boys turn, startled. The shorter with tightly permed black hair and the other with a buzz cut close to the scalp. Little gangster wannabes. They back away from the crumpled, trembling lump of fur at their feet. The cat lets out a weak cry. You feel strange, like you're out of your body. There is a feeling. Is it anger that flares? Your body moves on its own. 

You kick the boy on the ground, a yelp followed by a wet heave wracks his body. The other two break from their stupor, springing to action. You still feel heavy, tight. Like trying to run in a dream. But the motion is familiar, the strength is still your own as you connect a solid right hook with the shortest boy. A sick pop clicks in his jaw as he goes stumbling back. The final boy looks terrified, but lunges at you nonetheless. 

You sidestep his attack easily, tripping him as he approaches. You pause there, with all three on the ground. Logical brain finally clicks on as you snap back into your body. Your eyes sweep the narrow space. 

The dirty ground littered with trash, the blackened brick of the walls that feel like they’re closing in on you, the quivering mass of fur, matted in blood, crawling its way to the safety of the corner. You stand as the barrier between the three young men and their feline victim as they get back on their feet. Shit. 

3-on-1 would’ve been a challenge in any condition, but after months of strict bedrest you’re utterly unprepared. You had the advantage of surprise, but now… With your back to the wall, you had very few options.

You take a deep breath, cracking your neck in anticipation. “Come on, bring it you little fucks. Fight with someone who can fight back” They hesitate. “COME ON!“ You agitate. They share a look, the shortest boy seems worse for wear as his jaw hangs limp in his hands that cup it. Dislocated. That has to suck. The buzz cut boy leans to whisper to the permed boy who nods gingerly before taking off. “COWARD!” You shout after him. 

This leaves you with two. You’re liking these odds more. They were slightly taller than you, but still children. Gangly and uncoordinated. Any natural athleticism they have is unfocused, untrained next to you; hardened over years of practice. “Come on man, let’s just go” says the box-blonde on the left. The other boy, with his buzz cut barks back, “Nah, let’s teach this bitch a lesson” with fake bravado. The blonde looks nervous but nods, squaring his shoulders.

You stretch, bouncing on your feet, prepared for them to make a move. The buzz cut boy charges with a battle cry. You bite back a laugh at the childish attack as your foot connects with the side of his head in a signature roundhouse kick. It’s like punting a bowling ball. You hop it off, rolling your ankle through the tingling sensation of impact.

He tumbles to the ground with a grunt. Blood mixing with saliva that drips from his mouth. The box-blonde is shaking. Arms up in fists but makes no move. “Come on! Get her! Don’t be a pussy!” The buzz cut shouts to him from the ground, lobbing a big ball of spit and blood to the icy concrete with a splat. 

“You’re pathetic.” You goad. Your wrestler persona peeking through after all of these months on the sidelines. “Sniveling children. Get out of my sight.” You seeth, eyes, boring into the lanky blonde. You hold him there, under your gaze. His decision is clear. He links arms with his fallen colleague and pulls him down the alley as they make their escape. 

You exhale, letting your body relax. The only sounds now are your breaths and the shuffling of your shoes as you back into the space further, eyes still on the empty space where the boys had run away, the darkness setting in as the veil of night raced across the sky. 

Your back meets the dirty brick of the alley wall as you slide down, the stupidity of what you’d just done really sinking in. If things had gone south… You risked more than your safety, you risked thousands of dollars of P.T., all of those months of recovery, even the future of your career. 

The jagged breathing from the lump in the corner pulls you back. That's why you did it; risked it. You extend a brittle finger to the creature. It tries to curl away from you but it’s… Fading. Your chest clenches. You reach further, giving a gentle scratch to the cat as it tries to bite. It can’t move enough. 

You continue, giving soft strokes over the cat’s forehead, avoiding the open wounds. One eye is… Gone. The other blinks at you, teary. The sound is unreal. Like a weak gurgle, mewl of agony. Your throat constricts, swallowing hard. Tears blur the edge of your vision.

The cat, with what little strength it has left, doesn't fight you. Instead nudging up into your finger, still shaking. You scoot closer, slowly, letting its body rest against yours. You feel its coldness pressing into your leg, siphoning your heat. It vibrates there. Twitching occasionally. It’s whimpers soften. A small noise replacing it. A staccato purr. 

The breaths come slower, body stilling. You look down, each beat of your heart clenches in your chest painfully. You feel warmth on your cheeks, wetness, tears finally falling. You share one final look with the cat before its eye closes, slowing in its spot next to you. 

You lean your head back into the bricks, feeling like you're sinking. A fiery gnawing at your chest like your drowning. And then you’re alone in the alley. The light glittering of snow crystals float from the inky sky, not enough to make proper snowflakes. They twinkle, catching in the low light. 

The cold wraps her arms around you, sinking into your bones once more. Locking you there as the little heat left beneath your fingers seeped from the soft fur, unreplaced. You breathe, a cloud forming before you as the temperature plummets. 

You could've sat there forever, but you’re stirred by the sound of footsteps approaching. Three… Maybe four people. You harden your face, pulling yourself up from the pavement, bracing for whatever or whoever turns the corner.

You feel yourself detaching from the moment as it sears into your mind. The long shadows of four men are cast along the frigid brick. Three familiar silhouettes, one taller, larger, meaner looking man between them. His head was shaved close to the scalp like the smaller boy next to him; the family resemblance is unmistakable. An older brother, perhaps, your age or slightly older. 

He turned a scathing look to his miniature, “You’re wasting my time with one, little bitch?” “She’s strong, bro. She’s gotta be running with someone.” The older brother brings a fist down on the younger’s buzzed head, “You fucking pussy, wasting my time. This better be worth my while…” The little brother massages his head, “She’ll make it worth your while…” The elder turns his eyes to you, looking you up and down. The look in his eyes makes you feel sick, alarm bells going off. 

You’re in deep shit. No escape. Feeling the effects of your healed injuries. You can’t stand this. Feeling weak. It made the sick feeling intensify. You put your fists up. Once again, bouncing lightly on your feet as though second nature. The large man’s face changes, intrigued. “N-nothing to say now, huh bitch.” The box-blonde sputters out.

A look of annoyance flashes across the big man’s face. “Can you actually fight? Show me what you’ve got, kitten.” His arrogance, his tone. It makes your skin crawl. You were gonna make him hurt. 

Muscle memory takes over, testing the new, healed tissue. You’re a bolt, closing the distance between the two of you in a blink. Feigning a hook and landing an admittedly low blow. Burying your foot deep between his legs. Your shoe presses into the denim of his jeans and the soft, sensitive flesh beneath, finally ending against the hard bone of his pelvis. The noise he lets out in guttural, sick.  

But this is a street fight. He holds his crotch, huffing, a dry heave. The three smaller men back away. Veins pop along his brow and shaved head. Face red with anger. “I’m gonna fucking kill y-.” Your knee connects with his lowered face, your elbow ready to rebound the soft spot where his skull meets his spine. A dirty move you haven’t used since you were a teen. He stumbles, dropping to a knee.

You don’t stop, kicking once hard into his chest. You feel the crack of a rib. His meaty arms shoot up as the wind is knocked out of him, trapping your leg. “Fuck!” You twist, but his grip tightens. You punch hard, but can’t get enough force with your leg like this. 

His eyes are murderous as he crashes his body to the ground, pulling you with him. He still hadn’t regained his breath, and  this new position allowed you to snake your free leg behind his head, squeezing hard. Wriggling to get purchase on his arm, securing him in a headlock. The tide is shifting back in your favor before a dirty sneaker crashes into your face. 

You see stars, grip loosening. Another kick to your shoulder, then your head. The other three boys were stomping you. You squint your eyes, tuck your chin, hanging on until the big man loses consciousness. If you can just hold on. You see red smattering the soles of the boy’s shoes. 

This is what they’d done before. Trampling the poor creature that lay lifeless in the corner of the alley. Stomping on those who were vulnerable. You hate them. You hate them. Acidic, venomous, the electric feeling of adrenaline in your veins, pushing you.

The body in your grasp finally goes limp and you bounce up, feeling the world spin, skull knocking into the chin of one of the boys. There's something hot, sticky in your eyelashes, making it hard to see. You wipe, seeing red. You can’t help it, this is so fucked. You laugh. The sound ricocheting harshly off the walls. 

“You could’ve just left.” You laugh, head spinning. They shift on their feet, uneasy, fists raised. Eyes darting between the man on the ground and you. You hang your head, another humorless laugh escapes you.  

You cast your eyes to the man on the ground too, freezing when you see the tattoo peeking up above the collar of his shirt on the back of his neck. A gang tattoo that you’ve seen here and there around the ring. Bad news. These guys gamble on matches, big money, and deal in the darker, shadier parts of the underbelly of the city. 

Very bad news, when he groans from his place on the ground. It’s now or never. You rush the boy with a dark perm, his jaw still slack and hanging unnaturally from his face. He flinches, jumping out of your way. You see an opening and you take it. 

Sprinting down the alley. The heavy slapping of your shoes on the concrete and your heartbeat in your ears. You hear the hesitant steps of someone trying to follow you and a shout after you, but yours are the only steps that twist around the maze of alleyways. You could run them with your eyes closed. The alleys where you grew up. 

You zip around, losing your pursuers. You feel the rush, the high as muscles reawaken, cold air filling your lungs. You didn’t know if you’d ever be able to move like this again after the accident. It’s melancholic; feeling so good to move but so shameful to run away. Your heart could burst with all of the emotion from tonight. You had no plan, no destination, Just to put as much distance as possible between you and the foursome you escaped. Coward your heart whispered. Weak… You would get back, get strong again. You would win. You never want to run away like this again. To lose.

[ryuzakemo128]

Fourth of July

Pairing: Joel Miller & Tess x Gothic Female MMA Professional Fighter

Content Warnings: No outbreak au, Rich! Billionaire! Joel Miller, MMA profession fighter female reader, gothic female reader, romance, sarah is alive in this universe, age gap (Female reader is 35, Tess is 41 & Joel is 55), character death, grief.

Masterlist - Part Two

AO3 Link

Words: 3,845

Divider Credit: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Summary: “I doubt you’re in the business of killing deadbeat fathers. Though part of me wishes you were.”

Joel walked in the room while you were getting your back tattoo finished. You weren’t interested in talking to anyone. You just got out of a nasty break up. So you weren’t in the right mood to make ‘small talk’ to anyone. Least of all anyone willing to insult you.

Tess had been working there part-time before you moved there. Ever since then? You were concentrating on training at least four to six hours a day just to remove yourself from the house. You didn’t have much in terms of furniture. It was clearly evident. Evident, you still didn’t know.

Do you want to repeat the effort? Once done, you paid cash and gave a $500 tip to express your appreciation for the cover-up. You chose to tattoo your ex's name on your back, foolishly. The break-up left a sour taste on your tongue. Leaving you feeling hollow, empty inside. 

You were ignoring your roommate’s boyfriend, he was old enough to be your father. If you knew who your father is. If you weren’t raised by a single mother. Maybe you wouldn’t have come from a broken home. Maybe you wouldn’t have gotten into so many dirty fights growing up. 

Your black crop top back on and your car parked outside the tattoo parlour. The lovely, beast of a vehicle you bought after you broke up with your boyfriend. Your dirty beast, a ford f 450 super duty pickup truck. A matte black crimson skull decal to your truck's hood.

Tess must have pointed it out to him as they drove past the area. “That's the roommate I mentioned, finishing her move with the last of her clothes.” With a gesture towards your parked truck, she indicated him. She hesitated, unsure how to bring him up given your recent breakup.

Joel narrowed his eyes at the vehicle she pointed at. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen a pickup truck before. On contraire, he’s seen enough to last a lifetime. Perhaps even two, depending on how many older gentlemen are standing or sitting around him. So why did is one here?

You didn’t know they were there, not like you would acknowledge them if you knew otherwise. The pent-up energy inside of you burning through like molten lava, gurgling and gargling from the earthy depths. The sooner you were running on a treadmill, at least tonight. The better for your sleep. 

The truck pulled out the parking lot, straight to your little cottage at the back of Tess’s home. Joel raised an eyebrow as the two of them were coming back from their Hawaiian vacation. You must have moved in while they were away. He looked at Tess completely, utterly, confused.

“Is she ok? Did something happen while we were gone? What has her so worked up?” Joel questioned. Shooting them at Tess like they were arrows from a quiver. Understanding was needed now. Not tomorrow. Now. He didn’t want to set someone off and not know the context behind it. 

“She broke up with her boyfriend and I offered her to stay in the cottage in the back of my house.” Tess answered. It wasn’t anything more than that, right? Couldn’t be. Tess answered like it was the simplest thing to do without telling your boyfriend. He didn’t like it.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was going to move in last week?” Joel asked her again. He couldn’t believe Tess couldn’t trust him enough to tell him about you. 

“Well, for one thing you always put things off, two you were busy with your father’s company, and three, she had nowhere else to go. Where else would she have gone to?” Tess answered. Pulling up the gravel driveway to Tess’s home. “She’s my friend. She’s not going to hurt a fly. A rough break-up makes a lot of people angry and hostile.” 

Joel’s jaw tightened as he stepped from Tess’s car. Straight to your cottage, you didn’t bring any of your old furniture with you. Which just made the cottage seem emptier than it was in actuality. Your clothes now unpacked into the walk-in-closet. Your empty suitcases in the living room and Tess’s old, worn out brown leather couch.

You were running on your treadmill in your living room, watching your television, like you were trying to mentally escape your own body. Like you didn’t want to be on the planet anymore. Like nothing seemed to matter now. Watching a gruesome zombie apocalypse show you started watching yesterday afternoon. 

Tess told him, reminding him, “She mightn’t want to talk to anyone today. So don’t feel too offended if she doesn’t want to talk right now. She’s got a nasty temper that you should never see. Ever. I don’t care if you think you can handle it. Hers is lethal.”

“She got into a lot of fights growing up. So she’s not afraid to throw hands if she feels threatened or, in this case, betrayed. Moral compass and all that, anyone who fucks with it? I don’t want to see the outcome. Despite seeing her go off on someone yesterday.” Tess continued to hope to ward him away from you. 

You’re like a wild animal re-released back into the wild. Fierce. Unpredictable. Not to mention wanting to be isolated from the wide world? Who were you before, and what did you do? What’s an MMA profession fighter doing in here?

What's an MMA fighter up to in his girlfriend's backyard? What are you planning to do with your life? Do you even have a plan in motion now? How aggressive are you really? Do you live up to the danger Tess described? She could have exaggerated some parts of you.

He knew Tess has a soft spot for strays, regardless whether it was human or animal. He didn’t know what got into Tess letting you stay in the cottage in the backyard. What did she bring into their home? Who are you beneath the aggressive facade you projected to everyone.

Observing from afar, he saw your borderline manic fury rise, fuelled by Slayer and a silent TV show. Your intense energy was unsettling. If anger could drive you this much, what would you be capable of against adversaries? The notion gave him the chills. It felt like the ground moved. 

Moving in beat with each of your steps, anger fuelling every step, fists clenching around the treadmill’s railing. Squeezing until your knuckles went white and sweat drenched down your face. You didn’t notice the front door opening. Your attention stolen by the music. By the show on your large television. 

You didn’t hear him clear his throat to get your attention. Too much in the ‘zone’ to really pay much attention to him. He tapped you on the shoulder. Which didn't work, but he did feel how much sweat you were producing. An almost endless lake of sweat pouring down.

Joel groaned, seeing how stubborn you are, pressing the button to shut the treadmill off, “You’re going to pass out if you continue to go this hard. You can’t continue to run if your fuel tank is completely drained.” he scolded you. Not driven by anger as you hoped for.

“What do you want?” you asked him. It was more of a demand rephrased into a question because you were trying to reign in your rage. He didn’t earn any of your anger. Not yet. 

Joel's gaze softened despite your hostility. Recognising it wasn't personal, he took a step back, hands raised. "I'm just checking in, as Tess said you're moving in. You seem stressed with the treadmill. Need anything?"

“I doubt you’re in the business of killing deadbeat fathers. Though part of me wishes you were.” you quipped, stepping off your treadmill. Your ex-boyfriend left your child in the car. She perished from the heat. The excuse your ex gave you is that she fell asleep. He forgot she was in there. You remember telling him to stop leaving her in the car many times before. 

He never quite listened to you. Like the words went from one ear and out from the other. You told him, warned him. If anything happened to her. You were out the front door, and he wouldn’t find you. He didn’t think you were serious. He thought you were joking, being sarcastic as usually were. Then Olivia, your daughter, passed. You left, you were gone while he was staying over with his older brother. 

Your ex-boyfriend had tried calling your number half a dozen times already. Tess told you to get a new phone, a new number, a new everything. But you couldn’t let go of the voice mail of Olivia’s voice when she called you ‘mama’ for the first time, the voice recording of when she giggled and ran off with your phone, the video of her first steps. 

Olivia was almost five years old when she passed last week. A mere three weeks from her fifth birthday. You felt cursed. Cursed in the worst way someone could be. Cursed to walk the earth forever, questioning if you should have left your ex sooner. Questioning what you should have done better. Feeling this curse weigh you down until you felt water reach your ears, and you were far away from the shores.

You didn’t want to do more than eat breakfast, train for two hours in the morning, practice your writing, train another two hours, eat lunch, go for a walk to see a movie by yourself in the afternoon and come back home for dinner. It was to help you keep your mind from spiralling completely. You kept your television on, playing some kind of background noise. Often falling asleep in front of the TV Like it was a lullaby. Like it was the only thing helping you fall asleep. 

Death took something precious from you. Not like it was death’s fault exactly. You couldn’t be mad at itself. It was natural, normal, part of life. You were furious at your ex. For being so negligent. All of your anger is reserved for him alone. 

Your soul felt like it is set on fire whenever your mind drifted back to her. Back to the day you left her alone with him. Thinking she would be safe. Thinking she would be there when you got back. 

She wasn’t. You panicked, looking everywhere for her. 

Her laughter echoing into your ears while you tried to find her. By the time you found her. She was dead already. She was gone. 

A scream tore from you, eerily muffled. Your feet seemed to sink in the ground, dragging your sanity with them into a new abyss of hate you didn't know existed. A layer of hell made in your name. In your image. By your design.

Joel answered your phone for you. He wasn’t going to let someone hurt you more than you are already. It would be like beating a dead horse into the soft earth beneath it. It didn’t make sense to let someone drive you further into yourself. It wouldn’t make sense to let someone hurt so much if he could do something about it. 

He knew he didn’t have to, didn’t need to do this. But Joel couldn’t shake the feeling that you needed someone to stand up for you. To keep the predators at bay while you were in your most vulnerable state. “You’re not answering his calls?”

“I stopped last week, the whole fucking mess, was last week.” you answered. Which for him? This meant you were the one who broke up the relationship. “Tess suggested I get rid of the entire phone and just start over. But I have too much of her on that phone. I can’t let go of it. Not yet. Maybe never.”

You continued to pace yourself, you bought yourself four slow cookers, which made Joel raise an eyebrow when he saw you carry them in one afternoon. Each one sat side-by-side. One had a wagyu beef stew, one had rice pudding, one had a chicken roast, and the last had a vegetable stew.

“Why do you have four?” Joel asked, as he poked his head into your kitchen. It was clear he was trying to start a conversation. You hadn’t talked to anyone other than Tess in almost a week. The silence was deafening.

“Why not four?” you answered. “I eat a lot. I’ve always eaten more than my younger brothers. I always had the bigger appetite out of the four of us.” 

You thought it would be an obvious choice to have four instead of one. Thinking ahead when all you wanted to do was sleep on the couch and eat pizza. 

“You know, I’ve got a fridge in the main house if you need more space. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to know where you’re going to put all those slow cookers. It’s a small cottage, and four of those are going to take up a lot of room. Unless you’re planning to turn this into a kitchen.” Joel pointed out, watching as you started to unpack your groceries.

“Hopefully they’ll be the only thing I need.” you answered. “I’ll be using them a lot, Anything I won’t have the space for? I’ll give to Tess. She never complains about the extra food anyway.”

The days continued to flow unimpeded. Like you hoped for. A bargain to keep your soul from leaking all over the floor or down the drain. You bought yourself a new double bed and a new bookshelf. Putting all your books inside. A cuckoo clock placed in the living room for more background noise. 

More white noise to keep your thought from drifting far away. You placed your worn out clothes into bags to give to thrift stores. A complete reset on everything. Just like your therapist told you might help ease into a better routine. 

But it didn’t work. It didn’t help at all. 

Not in the way you hoped it would. Not in the ways it matters more. 

You switched on the galaxy lamp and laid onto the floor of your living room. Allowing yourself to drift off, even if it was just for ten minutes or fifteen. 

“You can’t ignore it forever, you know?” Joel’s voice cut through your thoughts, making you flinch.

“Ignore what exactly? As far as I’m concerned, I’m doing ok.” you answered, your eyes still shut. “I’ve been well-behaved and going to therapy twice a week. I’m fine.”

‘If you're going through hell, keep going,’ quote by Winston Churchill in a frame above the front door. 

The first thing Joel noticed, it wasn’t dark nor morbid like he assumed your mindset would be. It wasn’t light, it certainly wasn’t what he expected from you either. Not completely. Contrast to the gothic decor adorning the walls. Skulls and dark art everywhere. But that one quote stood out like a lighthouse in a sea of despair.

Joel flipped through your timetable to see what your schedule is like. Training for two hours after each meal. Writing in your journal on your computer every morning before breakfast and every night before bed. 

Your job needed you to train this much. It was also the closest thing you have to a coping mechanism that didn’t outright mock you for what kind of person you are.

“Was there something you wanted or are you content with gawking?” you asked as you got off the floor, taking another mental note to put down a rug in the living room. Perhaps even a deep crimson one to add a small amount of colour in the abyss of black around you.

It’s been at least two weeks since you moved in. You didn’t know what to make of the guy just yet. Usually it took three weeks of staring to approach them or have them approach you. “If you’re going to lurk around, at least make yourself useful and check on the roast.” 

You walked into your office, which had your desktop computer and your other electronic devices. You didn’t have anything other than your bed and a bookshelf in your bedroom. Anything electronic remained in your office. 

Joel must have heard about the date you were about to go on. The date you hoped would provide a good enough distraction. Even for a few hours. You didn't think Joel would get so jealous over the thought of you dating someone this quickly. Yet he did. 

Tess smirked at just how jealous Joel had become despite only knowing you for two weeks, almost three. “It's odd for you to feel this jealous.” She mentioned the previous dates the two of them had been on with a third person in the mix. “Did you wish it was you taking her on a date, Joel?” 

Tess could see the blush slowly creeping up his neck. He looked away from her. But he didn't deny any of what she said. He processed the image of taking you out on a date himself, rather than seeing you with someone who wouldn't know what to do with you. Not in the way Joel would. 

Not in the way Joel wanted to. And most definitely not how he would. The thought alone made him flustered. Far more than he would or could bring himself to say out loud. Perhaps Tess knew he wouldn’t say it out loud. It wasn’t like either one of them were monogamous by any stretch. Their relationship wasn’t defined by the traditional norms or labels people loved to slap on. They were open about who they were seeing and as long as Sarah didn’t know about who they were dating outside the relationship.

Joel didn’t want to have his ex-wife on his arse about Sarah living in a house with two adults in an open marriage. He didn’t want another lecture from a woman who decided he wasn’t enough and left. Without a note. Without a goodbye. Without another word thrown his way. 

He knew you wouldn’t be ready for a relationship, let alone a serious one, who knows how long you were dating the fucker you recently broke up with. If it was indeed close to five years or more? Though the smell of your sweat while you were showering in the main house is addictive, he knew you were only showering in the main house while the shower in the cottage was replaced. 

The smell of your body wash, it was technically men’s body wash smelling of dark chocolate filling his nostrils. It didn’t help you had the body spray of the same scent. He had to admit. The scent is growing on him. 

After you got dressed, he spotted you wearing your men’s marvel shirt and black shorts. The heat must have been enough for you to rethink your sweatpants choice. You weren’t going on the date until at least five or six. Plenty of time to kill before then. 

Joel questioned your blueberry source, recalling the hydroponic garden he'd seen you establishing in your sizable greenhouse, which dwarfed his own shed. You didn’t think much about the size when you got it at the time. Joel saw it when he came home one evening. He swore up and down it looked far more like an industrial farm rather than a greenhouse. Though, once Joel took a closer look inside the greenhouse?

He saw the hydroponic planters filled with blackberries, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, and even some exotic fruits he didn’t recognise. It was clear you put a lot of your spare time into this project of yours. The ledger of all the planters and the watering schedules written inside. 

The smaller planters with herbs growing inside them. Containing herbs like rosemary, thyme, basil, parsley, oregano, mint, chives, coriander, dill, and many others. All lined up and labelled. It was like a miniature jungle in the middle of the cottage garden. The lights hanging above it all, giving off a faint glow that made it look like it was alive with a bioluminescence. 

Just for you. 

Plans for a chicken coop or possibly even a quail coop on the cork board underneath a ‘Drawing Board’ label. A depressing sight. Like you were trying to block out the hope of ever having another child from your mind. Joel didn’t want that for you. There wasn’t a day in hell where he would have wanted you to give up on the possibility of having another child. 

Like you were trying to build a life here without having to live any of it. Without any actual life. Just plants, animals and possibly cats by the end of the year. All of that to keep you company. While they lived in the main house? 

No wonder you were so keen on using the scythe to cut the long grass. Turning the cut grass into compost for your flower garden at the front of the cottage. It is little to no wonder that he woke up one morning to your muttering outside the window. Garden scythe in hand. 

Now with the date going ahead as planned. Tess and Joel didn’t like the thought of sharing you with someone else or anyone else outside themselves. They knew they should accept it. But how could they? Regardless of the actual matter at hand, your past. They're warming up to you. The cottage's serenity starkly contrasted with the tumult you introduced to their lives.

You wore a black dress with sheer tights, knee-high platform boots, and sported a mermaid tail braid. Makeup included cat eyeliner, nude brown eyeshadow, and deep berry lipstick. 

Joel and Tess looked at you while you were figuring out whether to take a clutch purse or a fanny pack. Both had their arms folded over their chests. Joel had on a tight white tank top showing off his muscles and Tess wore a black tank top with a pair of blue jeans. They had a matching look of disapproval.

“What?” you questioned, looking up from your accessories.

“You’re going out like that?” Joel’s voice was a mix of shock and concern. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”

"Its just dinner and a movie." you reminded him.

Tess laughed. "You're going to scare the poor boy off with that outfit."

"I grew up with the guy. He knows what he's signing up for." You quipped, grabbing your small bag. Which contained your wallet, phone, and pepper spray. It was a necessary precaution. You knew better than anyone that not everyone had the best intentions.

Joel took a deep breath, his eyes lingering on the tattoo on your arm, the one you got to cover up the name of your ex. "You're going to be okay?" He asked, his voice soft and slightly concerned.

"If anything happens. I'll call." you reassured.

Joel nodded, his expression still unchanged. "Remember, you can always come home."

"And I don't owe him anything." you finished for him, remembering the same talk you had with Joel a few days ago.

[redtsundere-writes]

Jinx | Sukuna Ryomen

mma fighter!sukuna ryomen x femalecoach!reader

Part 6. In My Hands.

Beginning. ← Previous | Next →

Sypnosis: Sukuna is a world champion with anger issues. It's believed by many that he is untrainable. Yeah, you can't train him, but you can dominate him. Contents: Fighting. Sukuna being Sukuna. female reader being dom. Jinx AU (the BL, not the character from lol) Warnings: Mentions and sexual harassment. Angst. Humiliation. Cursed words. Word Count: 3551 words. A/N: Hello peeps! This is a kind reminder that you need to fix your posture.

I still remember the terrible day when I met Naoya Zenin. Six years ago, my first coach told me that I had to expand my horizons if I wanted to reach my full potential, so he sent me to the top jiu jitsu gym in the country. This was before Team Black Gym even existed. The Zen’in dojo was a beautiful temple on the outskirts of traditional Kyoto. There were several satisfying zen gardens, tall bamboo stalks and small ponds with beautiful koi swimming around. I felt dirty stepping into such a pure and sacred place. 

I shyly walked into the dojo. I had taken off my shoes to step on the tatami, so I wouldn’t get it dirty. The place was packed with fighters training the same move at the same time on the count of an old man who was analyzing each one of them. The walls were decorated with display weapons, scrolls with calligraphy, flags, and symbols of martial arts. The sensei started a break as soon as his eyes landed on me. 

“Welcome, you must be the student Geto sent,” he said while his eyes analyzed my physique unabashedly. 

At that time I didn't have much muscle, and it was obvious that I was a beginner compared to them. Two years have barely passed since I started training jiu jitsu seriously to get into the UFC. I was sure he thought I was just a scrawny, innocent girl as well. 

“Thank you for letting me into your dojo. I promise I will do my best,” I said, bowing politely.

“You are not part of this dojo yet,” he corrected me. “I’ll test you to know if you really belong here,”  he explained serenely. 

My hands nervously tightened the strap of the gym bag across my body. I was used to facing off in national competitions, but this was different. I would have to fight someone from the Zen’in family, a professional who had probably practiced mixed martial arts since birth. Someone who was light years ahead of me in experience.

The sensei called out a blond boy with black tips, taller and more muscular than me. A very attractive boy, but that didn't matter now. Was I supposed to face a man? I had only faced women before, could I really beat him? In that case, I had to show off so I wouldn’t disappoint Geto. 

“Meet my son, Naoya. If you beat him, you can stay,” Naobito explained without further ado before he went to sit on a small cushion that was on a step at the back. 

“Nervous?” Naoya asked me as we stretched out in front of each other to start the fight. 

“I have never faced a man before,” I confessed. 

“Don't worry, I won't be so rough. Just for you,” he said with a smile. 

“Naoya, such behavior is unacceptable!” Naobito exclaimed in annoyance. 

“I'm sorry, I just can't hurt such a pretty girl,” Naoya smiled warmly without taking his eyes off me. 

I think it was the first time I felt my heart fluttering for a boy. That only made me even more nervous. Not only am I facing a boy for the first time, it would be the first time I would be facing a boy I like. So far he has only been kind and warm towards me. I wish he had stayed that way. 

“Please, give me your best. Make me try my hardest,” I asked him nicely. 

“I like your attitude,” He complimented me. My cheeks couldn't help blushing at that. 

After Naobito announced the start of the fight, Naoya went straight for my ribs with a kick. He was extremely agile and fast. I could barely dodge it on time. I knew this wouldn't be just like any other fight, this was the fight. All my confidence vanished with each jab that made my feet instinctively recoil. I was fast, but not fast enough to dodge every punch. 

I was a floor fighter by instinct, so my best strategy was to take him down. I contorted my body to try to apply a headlock, but he wouldn't let me. He was like a worm slipping through my fingers. As soon as he maneuvered to grab my wrists tightly, I knew I had made a big mistake. Naoya was also a floor fighter. Luck really wasn't on my side this time. 

We were two contortionists fighting for control of the situation. Time was a blurry concept, my limbs were screaming for a rest and my mind was arguing with my body that we had to resist if we wanted a place among the Zen’in. I would do everything in my power not to lose this fight. 

I elbowed him in his exposed cheek in a window of opportunity. I took the chance to pin him against the floor, his arms were against his chest and he was kneeing me in the back. I thought I had won the fight, but I didn't consider my opponent's amazing flexibility. He wrapped his right leg around my abdomen and cornered me against his other leg, knocking me to the ground with the strength of his legs in an instant.

“Shit,” I gasped trying to regain control. 

Naoya, having both arms free, was tearing me apart with jabs coming right and left. He had me cornered against his body like a dangerous boa as he was beating me relentlessly. I could only cover my face so he wouldn't knock me out. I was trapped, there was nothing I could do. I hit his back three times to announce that I was giving up. Naoya stopped and pulled himself away from me completely. 

“Good fight,” he said with his voice cracking, tired as I was. 

Naoya offered me his hand to help me up. I snorted and took it kindly, I had to behave like a good loser. I think that was the moment I started to like him. Even though he was sweaty and slightly beaten, he still looked like a damn angel. His smile was intact, his hair was unruly tousled and his green eyes looked at me tenderly. 

“She got Zen’in on her, I like her,” Naoya said to his father after I thanked him for letting me fight him. 

“Yes, it's just what Geto promised me,” Naobito mentioned while scanning me, still. “I've seen enough, you start tomorrow,” he warned me before announcing to the others that the class would continue soon. “I did it!”, I thought excitedly with a big proud smile on my face. 

“Congratulations and welcome,” Naoya shook my hand again in celebration. “Do you by any chance like Chinese food?,” he asked me out of the blue. I looked at him curiously while he smiled at me. 

That damn fake and hypocritical smile glittered in Team Black's small meeting room. Sukuna and the rest of his team were analyzing Naoya's fights to plan a strategy for the big fight. I had dedicated myself to watch each of his fights closely since I escaped from Zen’in Gym, just to see how someone else would beat the smirk off his face, but all those hours were finally coming in handy. 

“We can see that he is a good floor fighter with high stamina,” Gojo explained as he looked at the textual analysis of his fights in the last three years.

12 wins with 4 losses, a great streak without a doubt. Long and defined arms, strong legs and a beastly stamina. Half of his fights have ended quickly because he has cornered them against his body and the others have been by judges decision. He was still a superb fighter and has only improved since I met him. 

“We should go to the floor. Give him some of his own medicine,” Gojo said without taking his eyes off the documents. 

“I disagree,” I said while watching the fight on the screen. Gojo looked at me as if I just kicked his dog.

“I agree with Gojo. Sukuna was able to beat Toji Fushiguro in the last fight, he has improved a lot in floor fighting thanks to you,” Nanami commented. 

“I'm not saying it because I don't believe that Sukuna can beat a floor fighter, he can, but we can't take it to the floor in this fight,” I explained. “Naoya has two types of opponents: weak and strong. He acts very differently depending on which one he fights. Last month’s visit wasn't just to annoy us, it was to see up close what he's going to face soon,” I argued. 

“And which type am I?” Sukuna asked me, raising his eyebrow with curiosity. 

“Strong,” I stated. “He has only faced opponents that he has declared as strong 3 times. Yuta Okkotsu, Toge Inumaki and Aoi Todo when he got the stupid idea to fight for the heavyweight belt.”

I had seen those three fights live on television. The satisfaction of watching him suffer in the cage was better than any orgasm I've ever had. I had been watching him from afar all this time, I knew him better than he knew himself. I knew exactly what I was talking about.

“The weak are the opponents he knows he can beat easily, that's why he goes to ground quickly. With the strong ones, he usually takes his time because he knows he has no chance of beating them and only relies on his incredible endurance,” I explained. 

“What exactly is your plan?” Gojo asked me, not convinced by my idea. 

“We have to tire him out. Keep boxing and avoid the floor. Get him out of his comfort zone,” I explained. 

“I don't think that's the best option,” the white-haired man answered. 

“She knows him better than all of us. We’ll stick with her plan,” Sukuna said determinedly. 

“Is he defending me?” I thought to my surprise. I didn't think he would do something like that. I assumed he would be on Gojo's side being his lifelong coach, but I think he noticed that this fight mattered more to me than to him. Sure, he wants to keep his belt, but I want to break his pride. He was fighting for honor, I was fighting for revenge. 

“I agree with her. Sukuna is a great boxer, and now he knows how to escape from the floor. He can tire him that way for the last rounds,” Yuuji commented. 

“Well, I think that settles it,” Nanami sighed looking at Gojo. 

We left the meeting room. Nanami and Gojo went back to the office, while Sukuna, Yuuji and I were going back to training. I already had a foolproof training plan in mind to get my champion in his best possible shape. I would do anything to see Naoya suffer live. 

“Thank you for defending me back there. I assure you that you won't regret it,” I promised Sukuna. 

“I didn't defend you, I just made a good decision,” Sukuna said without paying me much attention.

“Call it whatever. Thank you,” I smiled at him anyway.

He looked at me like he always did, cold and serious. Every day I felt that I was getting closer to him. We may not have been the best of friends, but Sukuna knew he could trust me completely. I was really proud to have progressed that way with him. 

“Let's train!” I exclaimed excitedly. 

“I'm sorry to interrupt you,” someone said behind Sukuna. It was the physiotherapist, Shoko. “It's time for your session,” she reminded us.

“That's right,” Sukuna checked the time on his phone. “You can go now. See you tomorrow,” he said goodbye before following Shoko to her office. 

Sometimes I was surprised how often Sukuna needed so many sessions with the physiotherapist. It was at least one every week. When I was fighting, I didn't need more than one session a month. Well, that was until I messed up my neck, in which case, I went three times a week. As soon as they entered the medical room, I turned to Yuuji. 

“Something wrong with him?” I asked curiously. 

“What are you talking about?” He asked me, confused. 

“Is Sukuna physically well? Why does he need so many sessions with the physio?” I clarified. 

“Don't worry about him. He's fine,” he said with a small blush running down his cheeks. 

“You're a bad liar, tell me what's wrong,” I asked him.

“Well, it's just he has… “sessions” with the physiotherapist. Do you know what I mean?” he asked. Yuuji said the word “sessions” with a wink. 

Is Sukuna fucking the physiotherapist? That made perfect sense. I knew there was a reason why she was the only woman in the gym before I arrived. I just couldn't see her being his type. Shoko was very pretty, but it seemed like she didn't put much effort into her appearance. She always wore the same clothes, plus she smoked a ton, so always reeked of cigarettes. 

“I would never have guessed it,” I commented. 

“Neither do I. It's hard to tell with him, though. He's never had a girlfriend or even dated,” Yuuji commented. 

“That damn personality is the problem,” I thought. Sukuna was a ridiculously attractive man. While I was researching workouts that I could implement into his training, it occurred to me to look up his name on the internet. The first thing that popped out at me was the cover he appeared on for Men’s Health magazine. He looked amazing in the skin-tight bathing suit they had put him in as he was getting out of a pool. The drips sliding down his abs, the tattoos decorating his sculpted body and his piercing gaze. My mouth dropped to the floor in shock. 

“But I guess he's got the girls going crazy,” I mumbled in envy. 

“Yeah, he was the school’s bad boy. They all wanted to date him,” Yuuji explained. 

I could imagine him arriving at high school on a motorcycle like a rebel, leather jacket and dark glasses. Posing like a real unattainable hunk out of a chick lit movie. The girls surrounding him as he walked through the halls, not paying attention to any of them. 

“But he was once a horny teenager, he must have liked someone,” I commented. 

“I don't remember any girls at our school that he liked, but he would blush every time Megan Fox was on screen when we watched Transformers. I'm sure it made him feel that way,” Yuuji said, trying not to laugh at the memory. 

“I don't blame him. Megan Fox made all of us feel a type of way.”

We both started laughing and then said goodbye. The drive home was quicker than I thought it would be. I started mentalizing everything I needed to do when I got to my apartment. Doing my laundry, planning this week's workout, prepping my lunches, doing the dishes… So my mind was entertained until I got to my building. 

I walked up the stairs slowly, tired from today's workout, until I reached the fifth floor. I walked through the halls to the rhythm of the song playing in my headphones. I was almost there. I was so happy to finally rest for a while, until I saw an obstacle in front of the door.

Naoya was standing in front of my apartment dressed in a suit and a small bouquet of my favorite flowers. “What the fuck is he doing here? How does he know I live here?” I wondered as I stopped in my tracks to remove my headphones. He quickly noticed my presence and smiled at me like the cynical fucker he is. 

“You're finally here, I still haven't learned your work schedule,” he said while scratching the back of his neck. 

“Have you been following me again?” I asked, upset as I approached him. 

“I just want to make sure you're okay, that's all,” he answered. “Look, I even brought you your favorite flowers.” 

Our fingers brushed as I took the bouquet. That simple touch made me remember moments that I wanted to bury in the graveyard of my memories. When we were a happy, loving, healthy couple, before he became an obsessed maniac. I threw the bouquet roughly at his feet in total rejection and slapped him across the face. 

“I don't want anything from you. Get the fuck out of here before I punch you for real,” I ordered him. 

“Why are you playing hard to get and cold?” He asked as if he really didn't know why. 

“Because when I was easy, you almost raped me!” I exclaimed without shame that someone else heard our argument, if this could be called one. Talking to Naoya was like talking to a wall. 

“It doesn't count as rape, you were my girlfriend,” he spat.

“You drugged me, asshole!” 

“Whatever, I already apologized for that a long time ago,” he said, downplaying the issue. 

“I don't care about your apology, why can't you understand that? It's one syllable, no, no, no! Shall I tell you in Spanish? ‘No!’” I shouted in annoyance. 

“I will do my best to make you forgive me and get back with me,” Naoya said as he came closer to me. I walked away at his pace. 

“And I will do everything I can to get you to stop bothering me,” I answered. 

“Oh yeah?” He challenged me. “Why don't we bet on it? Since we want different things.”

“I'd rather make a deal with the devil than with you,” I snorted. 

“If Sukuna wins, I'll stop bothering you forever and admit that I wanted to rape you,” he offered without hesitation. “Is he really so confident that he would win?” I was intrigued. 

“What if you win?” 

“You'll have to leave Team Black and join the Zen’in Clan again.” Well that was less bad than I thought, knowing his twisted mind. 

“Why do you want me to join the Zen’in Clan?” I was confused. 

“I know I can't force you to fall in love with me again, for God's sake I'm not a monster.” Cynical bastard. “So I thought that if we spend a lot of time together, as we used to do, you will want to come back to my arms,” he explained. 

“You're crazy,” I said. 

“It's a great deal,” he said. I just shook my head to ignore his proposal, waiting for him to just walk away before entering my apartment. “Or don't you have faith in Sukuna?” I hate to admit that felt like a slap across the face. 

“Sukuna is going to kick your ass,” I barked.

“Then let's bet if you're so sure,” Naoya offered me his hand to agree to enter the bet. 

“You better hold up your end of it,” I said as I accepted his handshake. 

“May the best man win,” he said before squeezing my hand to place a kiss on my knuckles. I pulled it away from him and wiped it on my sweatshirt. He picked up the bouquet from the floor and handed it to me. I reluctantly took it so he would get the hell out of here. 

“Go away,” I ordered. Naoya smiled at me and left the way he came. I followed him with my eyes until he was out of my sight. As he was about to take the stairs, he turned around. 

“Remember that luck is always on my side, beautiful,” he said with a wink. 

I used not to believe any of that before. I was sure that luck didn't exist and that the only thing that existed was unique opportunities. Believing in luck is for weaklings like Naoya who don't trust their body and abilities. That's what I thought until I met Sukuna. 

“Luck may not be on my side, but it is on Sukuna's,” I said, imitating his cynical smile. Naoya reciprocated and walked out of my sight. 

Quickly, I entered my apartment and closed the door behind me. I dropped my gym bag by the entrance to go to the window. “No way was I going to keep this,” I thought. I opened the kitchen window and threw out the bouquet of flowers as far as I could like a football. I slammed the window shut and leaned against it to take a deep breath. 

My pulse was racing. I felt anxiety invading my chest and my memories were rushing through my mind. I removed the scrunchie that held my hair in a ponytail to run my fingers through it in an attempt to calm myself. 

I sat down at my small dining room table and pulled out my notebook to begin planning this week's training. I pushed out the tip of the pen with a “click”. I tried to write the first day's name and it wouldn't release ink. I scratched the entire sheet, but the ink just wouldn't come out. 

“Fucking hell! I exclaimed in annoyance as I threw the pen across the apartment. 

Tears filled with anger and frustration began to roll down my cheeks. I pulled my hair as I cried over the notebook. I was sick of living in fear, of Naoya always knowing where I was, of him not understanding that I didn't want to go back to him. These false memories bombarding my mind every time I saw him made me mad. I had to end this. I had to finish him off no matter what. Yes, he would fight against Sukuna, but I must pull some strings behind the scenes to ensure our victory. 

Next →

Masterlist.

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Taglist: @maskedpacific @thepurpleempath @mazzd4 @charlie-xo

(Let me know if you want to get tagged on the next chapter! :)

[lady-feral]

Hi, Im a visibly queer person who likes doing MMA as a hobby. I go to a local gym it’s generally a great time, but I’m nearing the end of my time in that city and know many gyms are very unfriendly to queer people. I guess I have two questions. 1. Do you have any tips for picking and surviving MMA gyms as a queer person. 2. What do you think about getting more queer people involved in fight sports as a hobby and what can be done to make that more common. Thanks so much I hope you have a lovely day.

Best case scenario is finding a queer or liberatory gym, but that's a tall order considering how much the space is dominated by right wing politics and authoritarian styles of instruction. If you're stuck with the latter, just do your best to keep yourself safe, not only physically but mentally and emotionally. Remember that in those spaces your training partners aren't necessarily looking out for you.

[thefortressofscience]

Random tips for writing a martial artist!

The ruleset for the competitive form of their style (ie Tae Kwon Do, Judo, Wrestling, etc...) will inform how that character approaches fighting. For example, Karate where points are awarded based on how many hits you land means that fighter might prioritize keeping someone at a distance, whereas in Knockdown Karate where victory is achieved through a KO that fighter may prioritize trying to pummel someone with close range attacks

A mixed martial artist will often have a "base" style. This is usually their first style and then they build around it by taking techniques from other styles in hopes of creating their own effective blend. Common base styles in MMA include Boxing, Wrestling, Brazilian Jiujitsu, and Muay Thai. In the last decade there's also been a wave of Karate practitioners joining MMA as well.

Related to the first two points, no two styles are fully comparable and no style is better than another. However, styles that pressure test their practitioners with a healthy dose of sparring and competitions will generally produce more competent fighters. After all, you don't get good at what you don't practice! So if you're writing a fight, the fighter with a more pressure tested background will probably come out on top more often than not.

Disabled martial artists exist, and also compete in tournaments. For example, in Paralympic Judo, the only difference is the fighters start off grabbing each other's uniform and the referee saying certain commands outloud so the fighters know to return to the center or avoid the edge of the arena.

In real life, fights between two experienced fighters are less like in movies where two characters are constantly rushing each other with few pauses. Generally, two fighters will try to feel each other out, making on the fly risk assessments with periodic high intensity exchanges. This is generally known as "explosiveness" in martial arts. Those on the higher end of explosiveness tend to resemble all out brawls more but the characters are still doing risk assessment with periodic lulls in the action. That said, this is a stylistic choice for the author, so you don't really need to consider this one if you're more interested in Rule of Cool.

A blackbelt in Japan typically does not mean the same thing it means in the West. In Japan, the first degree blackbelt is usually just a sign that you are now competent (and thus tourney-ready). It is not uncommon for a Japanese martial artist to get their shodan (first degree blackbelt) at an early age based on how many training hours they clock. Furthermore, most Japanese martial arts only have white and black belts. The colored grading system is largely a western invention to serve as a motivational tool.

Size matters. You might hear a lot about how size doesn't matter but that's just not true. A larger person has an advantage that can't be ignored. However, there are ways around this and a smaller fighter can still win. Typically, this requires the smaller fighter to keep larger foes in mind when they're training. It also requires them to strategize around their larger opponent's advantage. This applies specifically to two trained fighters. A smaller well trained person is still much more likely to defeat a larger, untrained enemy.

I want to stress these aren't rules or a do's and don't list, it's just tips for writing martial artists. You can also just disregard everything here because you're free to go hog wild. That said, I hope this can be useful to people wanting to write fights.

[supersecretmetalocalypseblog]

Wondering what you guys think about this, but like... is the Metal Masked Assassin like... a real assassin? He's shown torturing people and stuff, so I guess he could've been paid/told to do that, but it sorta seems like he's fucking around for the most part. And, when General Crozier approaches him, he doesn't offer compensation, he offers revenge. And as far as I can tell that's the closest thing we're ever shown as like a transaction or whatever. So is he really an assassin or just a serial killer who just so happened to be called an assassin? Cause I don't even know if it's implied he does any of this as "work". Even if he did it for free, even if he just liked killing people or whatever, he would still have to do it for someone else for him to be an assassin right? In Doomstar Requim or whatever, it's just him and his brother trained to kill like literally anyone so were they just "training" on their own? just killing people? or did they like... apprentice under another assassin? Is that a thing? Like I have so many MMA lore questions that are just NEVER gonna get answered, this one is just the tip of the iceberg for me.

or wait like..... do they ever call him metal masked assassin in the show? Or is that just an us thing? like us the viewers get to call him that, because right now all I can think of is "man with the silver face" like IS HE REALLY AN ASSASSIN??????

[garrettandoscargirlsblog]

Here is a preview of the next chapter of my mini series, never letting you go.

Some say leave the past in the past. Some just moved past it. Some just can't. When it comes to seeing the very person that brings so much pain. Pain that won't heal. To this person she is a  bringer of pain. Gemma. The very person who brings so much pain. She doesn't care who she hurts. Even her own daughter. Only thing on her mind were drugs, sex,and motorcycles. Now she is returning to the town that she once called home. Goal? No goal. Maybe to stir up trouble, or to make amends. 

Gemma arrived into town. Hasn't changed much. Same small town vibe. Same people doing the same thing when she left. Parking at the very diner she loved so much. Thinking about the happy times with her family.Until things start to unravel. Her being drinking so much a neighbor had to take her young daughter home. Diane Miller. Person who always took care of Sunshine. She loves her as if she were her own. Sunshine. How she missed you. Wonder if you are happy. Prayers were answered when she see Diane Miller with her husband Jack leaving the diner laughing ,and eating an ice cream cone. Taking a breath she gets out," Hello love birds. See both of you are still so hung up on each other. So fucking sweet." Remark like that would rile anyone up. Diane rolls her eyes," See you never lost sense of humor,and your sense of fashion. Tats ,and tight clothes that would tip if you breath." Gemma wasn't having that. Got in her face. After blowing smoke in her face," Oh really? Says who? By looks of you? Still dressed like a fruppy lady. Least I have any man. Hi Jack." Jack rolls his eyes . Stepped between the ladies," Now see here ! There will be no fighting near my diner! One more remark against my wife. I'll make a call to the sheriff. Gemma, I don't know why you are here. So God help me.." After lighting a cigarette," I'm looking for Sunshine. By the look on your faces. You know where she is. " 

Sounds of punching bags ,and gloves hitting other gloves filled the Miller/Garcia gym. Business is booming. Fighters new ,and old training. On certain days MMA fights were held here. Upstairs you are busy with massages. Nothing erotic. Mainly helping others who suffer from pains,and others need to relax. That feeling made you feel good. To help people. Resting on the office couch. Exhausted from being on your feet for the last few hours. Eyes started to close till a famiar voice filled the room," Care for a nice snack little one?" William. Your big brother to the rescue. One person other than Benny who was always there growing up. Took good care of you when things got tough. Since your father passed away in a young age. Mother who left you alone most of the time. Till one day she left,and never came back. Diane and Jack took you in. Gave you a safe place to stay,and feel loved. For the first time.You felt like you belong in a loving family. Now you are officially married to your soulmates. Never thought you ever be well protected like you are now. 

Taking a bite of your blackberry muffin smiling," Thanks big brother. Always know what I need. How is it going downstairs? Hope the boys aren't getting hurt." Will smiles as he sits next to you. Arm around your shoulder," Oh the usual. Lots of instructions being yelled across the room. Benny is trying to impress the young teenagers. Pope sits him straight." That made you laugh. Knocks at the door filled the room. Will looks up to see his beautiful wife, Sam . Gets up to hug her husband," See you missed me handsome. " Rubbing her lower back as he continues to kiss her," Oh I missed you lady bug. Missed you when you left this morning. Miss you when you leave again." Giggling at this lovely display. Newlyweds. Oh how it brought back memories. Thoughts were distracted by the sounds of your phone. Looking at the phone caused you to scream! Will rushes over to see what happened. Shacking like a leaf. Hand him your phone. Will runs downstairs to fetch the boys. Sam pulls you close," What's wrong. Tell me." Chocking back a sob," My.. mom.. she is looking for me!"