#Not realizing the only time they win is when they remember to feint to land the hit

[desertdragon]

LRB make no mistake I will cause that little red bitch's funeral BUT that moment in Trail and his moment keeping people together during Radz a Han getting attacked, are genuine examples of profound moments that rarely surface in this writing from the sea of banal nothing they do with these characters otherwise- that was one of the only scenes in Trail that felt like an actual writer did writing instead of phoning it in, and not only was it not built up to within that red cunt's character prior in the expac (as in showing from the start that he's still looking at you as if you were dead and this is still worrying him then BUILD IT to this gondola conversation) and then nothing further is done with the idea after the scene. These kinds of profound scenes are always stuffed in to only last a single moment at a single zone before never being questions expanded on in character behavior again or if so in watered down versions that play into the otherwise one note aspect of characters, and this is consistently a problem that occurs. It's pure disservice to both story and character writing because what you get feels so haphazard and incomplete, which is what contributes to the writing majority of the time being lackluster to outright bad. It's these occasions of genuinely decent to good writing that give me the delusion anything more can happen in it.

[amynchan]

“i said i love you.” Deku/Ochako

I hope you’re proud of what you’ve begun.  XD  This behemoth decided it wanted to be 3823 words long and who was I to deny it?  X’D

I’ll also post to AO3

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The two of them did this a lot.  It was part of their routine; kinda theirthing.  It was something they’d chosen todo together, and they both relished and enjoyed it.

“Get back here!” laughed Ochako between breaths.  She kept herself light on her feet as shewent forward with another jab.  “Youcan’t run away from this forever!”

“Who says I’m running?” returned Deku-kun as he slipped pasther fist and towards her exposed face. He propelled his body towards hers and she jumped out of his space,careful of the headbutt he had been about to dish out.  His grin was competitive.  “I’m just getting warmed up!”

Ochako couldn’t help her answering grin even as she dartedjust a hair’s breadth out of his reach. “Oh, so you were just playing before now?  I’m wounded. Truly.  And here I thought youwere gonna fight me seriously.”

She couldn’t tell if Deku-kun scoffed or laughed with whatlittle breath he had.  Either way, heshook his head in disbelief while keeping his eyes on her.  She had to give him props for that;Aizawa-sensei always said to never take your eyes off your opponent.  “You didn’t even try to hit me withyour last jab!”

“Only because your kick was weak!”

“You’re just used to me using my quirk all the time!  That’s my normal kick without it!”

“What do you say we make things interesting, then?” askedOchako, an idea slipping into her mind. It was half-formed and reckless and if her guard were even halfway upagainst such thoughts, she would have shut it down immediately.

But he was giving her that look of his that lit a fire inher and told her anything was possible.  Whilethey had their sparring sessions, just the two of them, it did always feelas though anything were possible.  Asthough this—just the two of them working together, pushing each other, helpingeach other forward in life—was just right.

Like they were always meant to be on this equal playingfield.

Deku-kun raised an eyebrow, a grin on his face despite hisearlier petulance.  As shy as she knew hecould be, she also knew he couldn’t really back down from a challenge.  Especially not one thrown in the middle of asparring session.

“Interesting how?”

Bingo.

“We can use our quirks. First one to throw the other halfway across the gym gets a prize.”  She smiled and tilted her head innocentlydespite knowing that he wouldn’t even try to back down from a challenge.  She knew he enjoyed it when they mixed uptheir hand-to-hand combat training sessions a little bit.  Sometimes they used quirks, sometimes they addedtime limits, sometimes they even tried to fight without a certain limb.  Those were interesting sessions.  However…

“What’s the prize?” asked Deku-kun.  Ochako smiled, her almost fully-formed ideamaking her equal parts nervous and excited. That was the new element. The fun.  The surprise.

“I’ll tell you my wish when I win, okay?”

A strange look passed over his face briefly before the farmore familiar expression of a challenge accepted took hold.  He immediately held out his hand, his eyesset.  “I want to hear it even if youdon’t.”

Ochako pursed her lips and looked down at his hand.  Would she tell him if she lost?  She didn’t know.  She hadn’t exactly thought that far…

Still, she thought as she turned herattention back to his face before her. His eyes were tight and she could tell he was waiting on her answer.  She grinned and slapped her hand in his,being sure not to activate her quirk.

“It’s not like I’m going out to lose,” laughed the girl asshe shook his hand, being sure to make her expression as free and lightheartedas possible to avoid suspicion.

If she had kept her eyes open, she might have noticed theexpression that passed over his face at her evasive action.  But by the time she met his gaze head-on, itwas almost gone.

Warmed up from their earlier set, the two released oneanother and backed up, each settling into a stance where they could breathe andobserve the other.  The plan began tofade into the obscurity of her mind, her nerves slowly being steeled by her now-years’worth of training.  Like the steadytrickle of a creek, the fundamentals of fighting eased to the forefront of hermind.

‘Wait,’ she could remember Gunhead say duringher first internship.  ‘Let youropponent make the first move, but never let them make the last.’

So she did.  And sheknew he knew she would.  It was part ofhow these matches began.  She knew thatwhenever she made the first move, he almost always won.  So she would wait.  For as long as she needed to.  She would let Deku-kun’s own training kickin.  Let him make the first move.

And, after a few moments more, he didn’t disappoint.

A crackle of green energy ran through his legs, and she knewshe only had a moment to gauge and react. While her friend had almost too many strategies to count, she had a fewof his moves down to a science.

Sometimes he went straight for the kick.  He often did this when he was overconfident,cocky, stressed, or tired.  It happenedless often than one would think, especially as the years went along and hebecame a more balanced person and hero.

Sometimes he would go for a feint and duck around her toslip past her guard.  This was usuallypart of some bigger strategy that involved too many steps for her to decentlyplan for and reserved for fights he intended to draw out for as long aspossible.

This time, he jumped. Her brow furrowed as she ran to thespot he had just occupied, knowing that he almost never came down to exactlywhere he’d jumped from.  Sure enough, histrajectory had him zipping all over the place, just like he’d learned during hisfirst internship.  His first true movewith Full Cowling.

And the most predictable.

Deku often went for his opponent’s back with this move, soher own personal counter was to expose it for a moment.  Oftentimes he caught onto her ruse, leavingher to try it a couple times more in a few different ways before he tried adifferent strategy or, seldomly, took the bait.

The instant her shoulders were squared against his position,however, he leapt at her.

Ochako had but a moment to pivot on her foot, her fingerspoised and at the ready.  She grabbed ontohis outstretched arms and activated her quirk instantly.  Leaving no time for him to gain his bearings,she continued her swing until she had enough momentum to throw him into therafters of the gym.  The sound of hiscrash would have sounded like victory in her ears on any other day.  Any other day, she would have released herquirk’s effects as soon as she’d confirmed her win.

But not today.  Todayshe was confused.

She rested on her haunches for a moment before jumping ashigh as she could, resting her five fingers on her stomach to help her reachthe ceiling where he lay midair, waiting for her to let him down.  She saw his eyes widen for a moment beforeunderstanding and then reaching out to grab one of the nearby rafters.  Once he had it, he reached his other arm outfor her to take.  She clasped onto itwith ease and he pulled her to the wooden beam in the air, where she releasedthe both of them, and they both landed squarely on the rafter.

“I have to say, Deku-kun,” stated Ochako, stubbornly facingaway from him.  “I did not expectyou to throw that match so quickly.  Orat all.”

She could feel her friend wince beside her, and she knewthat she’d hit the mark on the head.  He’dthrown the fight.  It happened too quickly,and his moves had been too obvious to her when he usually planned for herfamiliarity with his tactics.  

The real question, though, was why.

She sighed.  Herresolve not to look at him and his big eyes was crumbling.  She needed to know what he was thinking—becauseshe knew that he wouldn’t ever disrespect her like that onpurpose—and one of the best ways to know anything that was going on in thatmind of his was to look at him.

She just…also didn’t want to see if those eyes were holdingany sadness or guilt.  He sometimes gotlike that when he got caught trying to do something nice in the wrong way.  And if this were like any of those othertimes, then his mind was already going at a kilometer a moment trying to thinkof how to make everything better.

And that…that was something he’d struggle with if he didn’tget a helping hand.

She gently swayed to the side, her shoulder knocking againsthis bicep. Where the height difference came from, she had no idea, but it wastempting her to just lean over that much further and rest her head on his arm.

Instead, she took a deep breath and focused on the matter athand.  “Talk to me,” she whispered, stillforcing herself to not look at his eyes lest she be trapped there for a while.  “What happened?”

It took him a moment to catch up to her words, but theinstant he did was obvious.  His armunderneath hers stiffened and then relaxed. He began to fidget, but the words followed pretty soon after.

“I’m sorry, Uraraka-san, I didn’t mean to even though thatdoesn’t excuse the fact that I did.  Igot distracted and the next thing I knew I wasn’t thinking even though I shouldhave been because one moment of distraction and I end up in the rafters andhonestly that could have ended up a lot worse if you didn’t realize that I wasout of it—but I really should have been paying attention anyways because you’rehard to beat even when I do pay attention.  I just didn’t know there was anything you’dwant bad enough to actually say that you wanted it because you don’treally say that you want anything very often even though I kind of wishyou did because it’s really hard to get you anything when I want to and thathappens a lot and I guess I just got carried away by thinking of what you couldpossibly wish for and now I think I ruined it because I didn’t give it my allso it might feel a bit shallow to you to get a prize that you didn’t earnbecause you can be stubborn that way, not that it’s a bad thing! I mean, we canprobably have a rematch if you want and I promise I’ll be serious this timeand—”

“Deku-kun.  Breathe.”

The boy beside her stuttered to a stop, and while she felt alittle bad for interrupting him, she felt like he’d said enough for her to getthe picture.  “You got distracted becauseI said I had a wish?”

“Um, yes?”

She chanced a look at him and—oh crap, the boy was trying tokill her.  Actively trying to killher.

Mom, dad, you raised a good daughter.  A strong daughter.  A daughter that has lasted eighteen years ofher life as a strong, independent individual with wonderful prospects ofbecoming a successful hero!  Alas, shehas been slain by the far-too-earnest, heartfelt, and guilty look of MidoriyaIzuku.  I love you very much, remember meas I was.

Ochako allowed herself a brief moment of dramatics before anchoringherself back to the present.  When theplan had first entered her mind in its half-formed glory, she hadn’t imagined thisto be the result.  Still, everythingabout his reaction was just so sweet and unexpected that she couldn’t help butsmile and shake her head.

“I didn’t think anything could distract you from achallenge, Deku-kun,” she admitted freely. From their place up in the rafters, she could see the empty gym beforethem.  The floor looked so far away, yetshe felt safe.  She felt a burden liftfrom her chest knowing that her best friend hadn’t intentionally thrown thefight, and she began to swing her legs back and forth, suddenly feeling playful.  “You’re usually so focused.  Maybe I should tell you more of my wishes ifit’ll mean more wins.  Or what if we gotthe whole class to talk about what they wished for?  How distracted would you be then?”

She grinned in his direction, a signal from her to him thatshe was only joking.  Against villains,she would use whatever weapon she had in her arsenal to take them down.  Brawling, underhanded techniques, quirks,distractions, you name it.  Against herbest friend, though, there were boundaries. Limits.  A code of honor.  She would never use that kind of weaknessagainst him in battle.

Deku-kun’s answering chuckle was an analytical one.  That had started coming out of him intheir second year.  She always thought itwas such an interesting sound, and she liked hearing it whenever he soundedthat particular laugh.  She hadn’tever thought that it was possible to be both amused and honestly analytical,but he always seemed to surprise her in the best of ways.

“I don’t think that would work as well as you’re thinking,”admitted he.

“Why not?” asked Ochako, painting a mental picture beforeher eyes.  She could already see thebanner and their classmates talking, laughing, and arguing beneath it about allthe things they could possibly wish for. “‘The Wishes of Class 3-A!’  Has anice ring to it, right?  Tsu-chan wouldprobably wish for a waterside agency, Momo-chan might want a more practicalhero outfit, oh-what do you think Iida-kun would want?  I can’t tell with him sometimes…”

Their best friend really was an enigma at times.  He was very honest and gave great respect to therules, but she wondered if he had any wishes for himself.  Upgraded rockets, he could take care of.  Well, being the class mom he was, she figuredhe might just wish for everyone to settle—

A soft, feather-light touch brushed the top of herhand.  Blinking, Ochako looked down tosee that Deku-kun had moved his calloused pinkie to the top of her hand, noteven putting any pressure behind the digit. The rest of his hand hovered hesitantly, looking as though it couldn’tdecide whether to move away or lay atop her own.

The gesture, simple as it was and subtle as it was, pinkedher cheeks.  She didn’t know why.  It wasn’t like they hadn’t touchedbefore.  Heck, her arm was against his atthat moment!  But…  but he reached out to her.

Despite herself, the gesture made her feel special.  Warm.

It’s probably nothing, she attempted to tell herselfin an effort to keep her heart rate level. It’s probably nothing.  Don’tmake it weird.

“I can understand if you don’t want to tell me since Ididn’t give you a proper fight,” said Deku-kun, unintentionally slicingstraight through her momentary lapse of rationality.  “But I really do want to hear what you werewishing for as a prize.”

Ah.

The crux of the issue.

There it was.

The impromptu, half-baked, completely reckless,wholeheartedly foolhardy plan of all plans to confess to Deku-kun if she couldbeat him in a match.  To put her nose tothe grindstone and work even harder to become a Pro-Hero if she couldn’t.  A coin flip of fate that would have taken thehard part of actually deciding to tell him out of her hands that hadsomehow landed on both heads and tails at once.

A half-and-half decision?

An all-and-nothing-at-once result?

Schrödinger’s coin?

Ah.

She was stalling.

And he was sitting beside her, waiting.  Politely and patiently giving her back theopportunity to decide on her own.

She looked upwards at his face and just knew that ifshe decided to demand a real fight, he would respect it by fighting her witheverything he had.  She would fight backwith all her strength.  The decision wouldreturn to the hands of fate.  She knewthat if she made up a wish right then and there, he would respect whateverflimsy excuse of a wish she came up with. He wouldn’t pressure her at all to tell him what was on her heart; itwas well and truly her decision.

And… looking at his face, knowing how good he was andhow kind he was… made her decision much easier.

“I wished to have the courage to tell you that I loveyou.”  

Ochako didn’t look away from him as her words washed overhim, turning him stiff as a board.  Coldtendrils of fear slowly crept up the back of her neck, whispering stingingthoughts of icy rejection in her ear. “Y-you don’t have to answer r-ight away, I just wanted the chance totell you—you don’t have to like me back romantically, I just—”

“Wh—at?”

“I mean, like I said, you don’t have to feel pressured oneway or the other—I mean, I’d like an answer before we graduate, but youdon’t have to give one right now I just wanted to tell you and—Deku-kun!”

Ochako slapped her hand across her friend’s leg, activatingher quirk before gravity could claim him. Her stomach lurched, but she could contain the queasy feeling.  Especially when she knew her friend was safeon the rafter once more.  She releasedhim swiftly and turned away to take a few steadying breaths.

Who knew confessing could be so stressful?

“S-sorry!”

Ochako shook her head as she continued to just breathe,attempting to get her nerves and her quirk’s reaction back under control.  She had built up a tolerance to herquirk’s effects on her body over the years, but apparently emotional stresshelped knock her threshold back down to what she might have been able toaccomplish when she was five.

Who knew?

She felt his approach a moment before she felt hishand.  He hesitated only a moment beforehe rested his calloused fingers on top of her back and began rubbing circlesinto it.  He always did this for her whenhe thought she was overworked or overstressed or had used her quirk toomuch.  She’d told him once that it helpedher and reminded her of home.  Shesmiled.  Even though he was probablyfeeling really embarrassed right now, he was still reaching out to help her.

He really was a wonderful person.

“I’m not sorry for telling you, but I am sorry it almostknocked you out of the rafters.”  Ochakoshot a weak grin at him, trying to assure him that all was well despite theunease in her gut.  But…she did feellighter.  Like she hadn’t been aware of aburden that she’d been carrying for a while before now.  She couldn’t bring herself to regret finallysaying it.  Still…  “Probably should have waited until we wereboth safely on the ground to say anything.”

“I…” Deku-kun seemed, for once, to flounder for words.  His face was red—and why wouldn’t it be?  He’d just been confessed to, forcrying out loud!—but his eyes wouldn’t leave her.  As though she were some sort of figment ofhis imagination that would be spirited away should he even blink.  He gulped. Made a cute squeaking sound.  “Idon’t mind.”

Her thoughts froze. He…didn’t?  But…  “You nearly fell off the rafters in shock!”

“You surprised me!”

“You almost died!”

“I could have caught myself!”

“You looked like a deer in the headlights!”

“I would have!”

“I don’t think so!”

“Say it again, I’ll prove it!”

“B-but—” Ochako floundered for an excuse to not have to sayit again.  The tendrils of rejection had loosenedtheir hold, but she didn’t want to give them any room to come back.  “You wouldn’t be surprised this time!”

“Pretty sure I would be.”

“Why?”

“Cause I’m pretty sure I’m still dreaming,” stated Deku-kunconfidently.  Ochako’s eyebrows rose andshe lost her breath.  “And I’m alwayssurprised every time when I’m dreaming.”

Always surprised…

Every time…

Dreaming…

The pieces floated before Ochako’s eyes, but her shockedmind couldn’t fit the pieces together.  Desperately,she grabbed onto the pieces that did make sense.

“I just threw you into the rafters.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve got splinters from it.”

“Not really.”

“Bruises?”

Deku-kun shrugged in a way that seemed almost toowhat-can-you-do for the topic at hand, in Ochako’s opinion.  “I almost always have bruises.”

“Even when you dream?”

“Probably.”

“What do you mean ‘probably’?”

“I mean, I usually don’t remember the parts of my dreamsthat hurt.”

“Oh, so you’ll just forget this entire thing ever happened,then?”

“Nope.  I just tend toforget the parts that hurt,” said Deku-kun, his confidence somehow neverwavering.  His eyes held that convictionthat she knew so well, and she could feel herself beginning to believe thatmaybe this wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever had after all.  Somehow, her heart fluttered with hope.  “I love hearing you say that.  I love being able to tell you that I loveyou, too.  Even if it makes it a littlehard to say hello to you in the morning.”

Nope.  Her heartwasn’t just fluttering anymore.  It was thundering.  It was a loud, vibrant, jig in herchest that beat the black tendrils away from her neck and ears.  She was sure he could somehow feel the sheer strengthof her joyful heart through the fingers he had replaced on her back after hisnear-fall.

“C-can you say that again?” she asked.

Bemused and yet somehow so affectionate that she thought shemight be able to actually internally combust and die right thereon the spot, he obliged her.

“I said I love you, Ochako.”

Eventually, she would have to convince him that he wasn’t dreaming.  Eventually, they would both be blushing,stuttering messes filled with apologies and reassurances from both sides aboutoverstepping boundaries and seeking permission for names and telling each otherthose three beautiful words.  Eventually,they would both decide together that they could date each other while preparingfor their respective futures.  Eventually,life would move forward for the two of them.

However, in that moment, all Ochako could do was enjoy thewarmth that blossomed in her chest and express the overwhelming feeling in asmile that she might later recall as completely dopey and yet one hundredpercent worth it.

So, so worth it.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Tear Into Your Soul - Chapter 6 (ao3 link)

For @blackberreh-art, who wanted some Madara focus and Hashirama/Madara

There comes a time in a man's life when he has to think about the choices.

About what it was that led him to where he is now.

For Madara, where he is now happens to be hiding behind a dango stall so that Izuna doesn’t find him.

So, really, what even is his life right now?

He feels like he knew, once, but then things just sort of happened.

First there was war, then there wasn’t, and then rhere was all of the negotiations to start the village and spending every minute feeling like the elders were going to stab him in the back for it, followed shortly by the even greater stresses of actually setting up a cohesive ninja village, and then all of a sudden there was Hashirama coming up behind him, darkness, confusion, kidnapping – and then Tobirama, beautiful earnest Tobirama who still didn’t know about the kidnapping portion of their first real encounter and never would as far as Madara was concerned, and, fuck, he can barely even think the man’s name without a frisson running up his spine, which he supposes is what happens after several weeks of, just, constant sex.

And Hashirama –

Madara very carefully does not think about how he feels about his lifelong best friend and former enemy right now. If he does, he might think about the curl of heat in his belly and shaking cold in his fingertips; think of how terribly he loves him – has always loved him – and how he’s afraid of him, too; think how somehow in his mind all of those battles that never went anywhere meant that he categorized Hashirama as something safe and now even with proof that he’s incredibly not he still can’t quite break that habit; and think, too, of that overwhelming feeling of debt, of course, always debt and gratitude for saving Madara’s heart and mind from turning to ash and all Hashirama ever asked in return was to make all Madara’s dreams come true –

That’s why Izuna can’t find him.

There is no way Madara is explaining what’s going on between him and the Senju brothers to Izuna.

Izuna, who Tobirama so very nearly killed –

Izuna, who Hashirama saved.

The curse of the Sharingan: Madara remembers the exact moment when he heard the shout and saw Izuna fall, stricken, Tobirama finally coming out the victor of what he had always privately and irrationally thought would be an eternal stalemate.

He remembers abandoning everything – the mission, the battlefield, even whatever members of his clan that could not keep up – to get Izuna back home and into the care of the medics.

He remembers how sick he felt when the medics told him there was nothing they could do to save Izuna from Tobirama’s well-aimed strike and how Izuna’s attempt to dodge had earned him nothing more than a slower death.

He remembers the black rage that consumed him when the sentry ran in, shouting that the Senju had taken the almost unimaginable step of attacking the Uchiha compound itself.

He remembers the way that rage had turned him almost rabid, feral as a wild dog, when he’d run outside and seen Tobirama standing there – distant, cold, merciless as he always is on the battlefield – with what appeared to be a masked army at his back, saying that he’d heard that the job he’d done was incomplete and that he’d come to finish it.

A lie, of course.

A good lie, though; it’d done the job: Madara, maddened, had bellowed in his rage, ordering every able-bodied Uchiha to attack, all at once. And Tobirama was so incredibly fast that it’d taken a good ten minutes before their strikes actually started landing and they’re realized that the whole army, Tobirama and the masked men all, were nothing more than those damnable shadow clones because apparently he’d figured out a new twist to the technique that let him make incredibly large numbers of them.

They’d rushed back to the compound the second they’d realized that the ‘attack’ was a feint, but by then Hashirama and Tobirama (the real one) had infiltrated to Izuna’s sickbed, Hashirama healing him and Tobirama keeping watch, and Madara had barely burst into the room when Tobirama had used his hiraishin to spirit the two of them away to safety, leaving behind a healed Izuna and a single kunai piercing their wall, holding up a scroll reading “We trust we’ve made our point” and listing a date and time for peace talks.

Madara really should have realized that Hashirama must be insane back then.

(Before, he’d imagined that Hashirama reacted to Tobirama’s near-kill with anger and grief, shouting that Tobirama robbed him of his best hope of peace with Madara, killing once and for all that dream born by the riverbank, and demanded that Tobirama accompany him to the Uchiha compound to help fix what he had wrought. Now that he knows Hashirama a little better, he thinks it went differently: Hashirama pulling his brother into his arms, whispering praise, and saying, “I’m glad you didn’t kill him immediately. I know just how we’re going to use this.”

And if, sometimes, Madara wonders whether Tobirama’s deadly strike landed true on his brother’s orders…well, Izuna still lives, even if his lungs are a little weaker than they once were, and now they have peace, so surely the ends justify the means and it would be wrong of him to question how it was all achieved. Right?)

In short, there is no fucking way he’s telling Izuna about the exact nature of his current relationship with the Senju brothers, no matter how many times Izuna bothers him about how “altered” his behavior has been since that week he went on that so-called mission with the two of them.

Besides, multiple other people in the clan have told Madara that the entire clan finds him infinitely more tolerable now that he's happier and more relaxed, and if they'd realized that getting laid by a Senju on a regular basis was what it took they would have kidnapped one ages ago.

So Izuna can’t really be concerned. He’s probably just fishing for details to help him win that damnable betting pool regarding which Senju, exactly, Madara is banging, and in what configuration.

Not that anyone in the betting pool has actually guessed right.

Madara doesn’t blame them. He and Hashirama mutually thought of each other as best friends throughout all these long years of war, and they met on a regular basis on the battlefield – if he hadn’t been able to figure out that Hashirama, in addition to being the extremely cheerful, emotional, childish, optimistic, and endlessly hopeful man that he is, is also a sadistic psychopath with a matchless ruthless streak, well, what hope did everyone else have?

Even Izuna thinks of Hashirama as “the nice one”, and he’s in line to be named co-head of the village’s new merged T&I division alongside the head of the Yamanaka clan once the negotiations of their assimilation in to the village is complete.

(To be perfectly honest, Madara’s own greatest contribution to village unity may very well have been recommending that Hashirama take Izuna instead of Tobirama as his aide for some of the peace talks with clans they’d determined would be necessary to be part of the village. Izuna’s most staunch protests against the creation of Konoha has always concerned leaving the defense of the Uchiha clan in the hands of people he didn’t consider adequate, and while Madara’s not actually sure what happened during those peace talks, Izuna did come back with a slight green tinge to his face and significantly fewer concerns about Hashirama’s willingness to do what must be done if necessary.

And with even Izuna now firmly on the side of integration, the remaining dissenting voices were quickly silenced – thought whether Izuna's good faith in the village will survive finding out the exact details of what his beloved older brother has gotten himself into...

Well, probably best not to test it.)

On the other hand, there’s missing Hashirama’s well-hidden madness, which Madara can’t blame anyone for, and then there’s just being stupid. Madara’s heard what ridiculous rumors are going around about him and Hashirama – all gooey romance and hand-holding, childhood romance divided by family strife and reunited at last through Hashirama’s perseverance and hope – and he knows it’s not his public demeanor that invites such speculation.  How shinobi who have been on the same battlefield as the Senju, sometimes in opposition to them, forget that their precious God of Shinobi is in fact a shinobi, Madara’s not sure, but they definitely have.

Still, it's better than what they say about Tobirama.

(cold, harsh, soulless, disdainful and jealous of his brother’s affection for Madara, untrusting of the Uchiha, full of bitterness and hatred, intent on poisoning their precious peace from within)

Tobirama: beautiful, earnest, well-meaning, broken Tobirama, whose mind Hashirama has so thoroughly molded to his own purposes that Madara despairs of ever being able to explain even something so simple as how unusual (wrong) their relationship with Hashirama is.

Tobirama, who tries so hard and does so much that no one sees, who is more or less single-handly building the foundation for Madara and Hashirama's dream village, who can perfectly read a person's body for the purposes of battle but fails to even start to understand their minds for the purposes of peace. Whose inability to speak in anything but the sternest tones makes people overlook him as heartless and cruel, when in truth he is anything but.

(Tobirama loves as deeply as any Uchiha, with all the pain that comes with it, but whom everyone treats as if he is too strong to feel such things – Madara, whose clan should really know better than to misjudge him but still does it, understands being in that position better than anyone.)

Sure, Madara has only had his own eyes opened about Tobirama recently – he’d been as vile as the rest of them before, blaming Tobirama for what Hashirama did, for what he didn’t do, for everything, making him the village scapegoat just because he didn’t smile – but now that he’s aware, he's determined to put a stop to it. He never could stand people who failed to appreciate what they had by holding them to impossible standards; he’d put a stop to any comparisons between himself and Izuna at once, harshly, and to see Tobirama retreating further and further into himself, languishing in Hashirama’s shadow, causes him an almost physical pain.

Now that he sees it, and now that he does he sees it everywhere, he's decided that he will burn anyone who dares think of Tobirama as the lesser just because he's not Hashirama, even when - especially when - Tobirama would never think to question it.

...Hashirama probably factored that into his plans, too.

Damn strategists. People in the village joke about Tobirama being part Nara, all quiet reserve and brilliant mind and concern for the troublesome, but it took discovering that Hashirama also has that clan’s notorious ability to see all the steps necessary to reach their goals, as famous if not more so than their shadows, to convince Madara that there might be some truth to the rumor.

After all, look at where they are now.

Everything Hashirama wants, he has: a village of peace, a ban on military action by children, power enough to protect his last living brother –

Even Madara.

(Madara's hardly the only Uchiha to be attracted to the Senju brothers - there's been an active black market in suggestive pictures made of convincing henges more or less ever since the day they came of age - but his position as Hashirama's (former) best friend had given him particular reason to daydream. But none of his much-exercised fantasies had prepared him for the reality that Hashirama would not just want him, which he'd barely dare hope, but would want to own him, a greedy and possessive and all-encompassing love that Madara really, truly shouldn't find nearly as hot as he does.)

Almost as if summoned by his thoughts, Madara feels the tightening around his throat that means that Hashirama wants him to come home.

He reaches up and tugs at his neck, scowling.

Damn collar.

Damn Hashirama, too, for using a promise made in a moment of weakness to convince Madara to put the collar on without clarifying that it then wouldn't come off.

Woven with the most precise use of the Mokuton Madara has ever seen Hashirama use, the collar is a gorgeous swirl of brown roots and branches, green vines, red and yellow leaves, so fine and delicate that it looks like embroidery.

Madara knows it does, because after two of the village's leading shinobi simultaneously began wearing them, disguised as adornment sewn into their outfits (and the fact that Tobirama was similarly collared was not as comforting as Hashirama might think, given that Madara knows perfectly well that Tobirama would do anything Hashirama wanted no matter how foolish), the whole damn village picked up the trend.

The Konoha collar, they're calling it. Ridiculous.

Hashirama probably planned that, too, or maybe it’s just the universe loving him so much that it gives him unlooked-for gifts in the form of good luck. Now his entire village has unknowingly adopted the symbol of Hashirama's dominion, and all because they think it’s fashionable. 

As Madara said: ridiculous.

And given how ridiculous it is, Madara really shouldn’t find the memory of Hashirama, eyes dark with lust and possessiveness and no small amount of madness, murmuring as he fixed the collar into place that it would help him make sure that nothing would ever part them again as damnably hot as he does. It’s a wound that’s lingered in Madara’s heart, too, ever since that day by the river, and knowing that Hashirama feels as strongly as he does, however he expresses it, soothes something in him that he didn’t even know needed soothing.

(He’s still not sure about how he feels about the idea of being owned, though somehow it’s only taken Hashirama a month of repeated positive reinforcement to convince Madara’s cock that the idea’s not half bad and definitely not worth objecting to. Not that Madara would let himself be ruled by his sexual desires, of course, but given the near-celibate state that his high rank and the respect of his clan has boxed him into for years on end, they are rather persuasive…)

Maybe he would object more if Tobirama hadn’t been collared at the same time – collared like an animal by his own damn brother, on his knees with the ecstasy of the converted in his eyes like a painting that Madara has seared forever into his brain with his Sharingan, and no matter how much he knows better, Madara still somehow expects every time he sees Tobirama wearing the collar that Tobirama will suddenly realize that this is all twisted and wrong, that no matter how beautiful the two Senju look together there is a power imbalance between them that will never be fixed. But that will never happen: the depth of the brainwashing involved here will take years to fix, if fixing it is even possible.

(If Madara could only think about the collaring logically, he might be able to convince himself that it’s unacceptable, but thinking about the collar makes him think of Hashirama and Tobirama and things that mean that he’s basically ended up jerking off at least once a day to those thoughts for the last month and clearly thinking logically just isn’t going to happen until he gets this whole thing out of his system and his libido under control again. He’s sure that’ll happen. At some point. Surely…)

The only good thing that had come out of the stupid collars, in Madara’s opinion, was how the fashionable popularity of the collars in Konoha ended up sparking the idea for one of Tobirama’s most brilliant ideas to date, and given that Tobirama and brilliance are practically synonymous, that was really saying something.

Using Hashirama’s usual inattention to detail as cover, Tobirama snuck through a law allowing certain Hokage-approved products to be sold without any tax burden on either seller or buyer, thus significantly reducing the price and increasing the profit, and worked with the village merchants to encourage the sale of Konoha ‘souvenirs’ to civilians from across the land. Once the Council – Tobirama had insisted on their having one, represented by elders from each clan that joined, and while Madara had originally doubted that democracy was really applicable to shinobi, the existence of the Council had turned out to be a major selling point in convincing more clans to join the village now that they knew their opinions would be heard – found out about it, mostly when their budget for new works had decreased due to receiving less tax, they protested it as foolish and self-indulgent waste.

Well, they’d protested right up until Tobirama explained that each necklace or keychain or pacifier or whatever had been stamped, among other decorative features, with one of his Hiraishin marks, thereby giving him - and whatever listening devices or bombs he carried with him – immediate access to villages and clan compounds across the land that he would never have been able to access otherwise.

(Madara is so very, very glad that they’re no longer at war with the Senju, especially since by the time Tobirama got around to explaining his plan several dozen of the stupid things had already gotten lost somewhere inside the new Uchiha compound. Izuna had been incredibly pissed off at the unfathomable breach in security.)

The collar gives another squeeze, harder this time, and that cuts off Madara’s daydreaming.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Madara grumbles – and given what a summons by collar like this usually means, he has reason to expect that he will very soon be coming in a different sort of way – and peeks around the side of the stall to confirm that he’s lost Izuna.

With that confirmed, he nods at the highly amused stall owner – a civilian, though one who managed to keep such a straight face that Madara thinks he might be a spy – and dashes up the side of the nearest building to make a beeline towards Hashirama's house.

Their house, he supposes, given that he shares it with the two Senju brothers with the official reason being that it’s more convenient for them to be near the village’s administrative center, but really, it’s Hashirama’s house.

Everything in that house belongs to Hashirama, but most especially its other two residents.

(Madara wishes he wasn’t the sort of person who was turned on by the methods Hashirama considered appropriate in disciplining his younger brother, particularly after that research spree of his, but, unfortunately, he really, really is. If only Tobirama wasn't so beautiful and so broken, so lovely in his obedience, in his need, in his pleas for mercy, then maybe Madara wouldn't want him so badly that he'd agree to anything if only to get more of him –)

The second Madara passes the threshold, his collar tightens pointedly in a way that he’s learned means that no one else is home that Hashirama's got something planned.

Which means wearing clothing is not allowed.

Madara licks his suddenly dry lips - why does he like this? - and gets himself undressed, leaving only the collar in place.

He heads first to the bedroom, his cock already hard in anticipation, but oddly enough, Hashirama’s not there.

He’s in the office. Actually working, no less.

“Tobirama, there’s no need to wear a henge when we’re at home,” Madara drawls, even those his sensor abilities make it clear that it is, in fact, Hashirama sitting there – even if the fact that he’s sitting at the ridiculous ‘walking’ desk no one else can use wasn’t enough to give him away.

Hashirama looks up at him with a blinding smile, waving the desk away so he can rise to his feet.

“Good, you’re here,” he says, coming over. “I got you a present.”

Madara has exactly one second to feel a distinct sense of foreboding – even without the Sharingan, one learns to get a feel for these sorts of things – and then Hashirama plops something on top of his head.

“…are those cat ears?!”

“They are! I saw them in the marketplace today and thought of you,” Hashirama says, apparently oblivious to Madara’s growing incredulousness. “Just like that prickly stray that hangs around the fish shop –”

“Hashirama. I am not a cat.”

“Of course you are,” Hashirama says, settling his hands on Madara’s shoulders. He’s still smiling. “You’re anything I say you are.”

And then something burns on the back of Madara’s neck, snapping his chakra shut so quickly that he can’t breathe for a moment and the pressure of Hashirama’s hands grows and he falls to his knees –

Right onto a pillow.

“See?” Hashirama says, sounding smug. “My good little kitty.”

“Since when,” Madara wheezes, ignoring how nice it feels when Hashirama’s fingers gently knead his shoulders and ignoring even harder how hard his cock still is, “can you attach chakra suppression seals to the Mokuton?”

“Tobirama –”

“Say no more.” Madara’s not even surprised. Hashirama probably hadn’t even needed to ask, he could have just smiled faintly at the thought of surprising Madara like this and Tobirama would have set to work immediately. Hashirama has Tobirama remarkably well –

Madara swallows.

Trained.

That's different, though, he argues to himself. Tobirama doesn’t know what freedom is, while Madara has not only been free but clan head, commander of dozens of soldiers, for years; he’s agreeing to Hashirama’s nonsense because it apparently appeals to some sort of bizarre sexual urges that he was previously unaware of. He might be submitting, but he’s still in control.

He can walk away any time.

“Oh, Madara, look! I also found this.”

Madara stares.

Right before his eyes, Hashirama is dangling what appears to be a small plush mouse.

“No,” Madara says flatly.

“You should play with it. It’s a present.”

Madara sees red. What the hell is Hashirama up to? Humiliation games are what he plays with Tobirama, not with Madara; those games have certainly been enjoyable to watch (and experience) but Madara definitely isn’t into that sort of thing –

Hashirama’s hand moves to his hair and pulls, yanking Madara’s head backwards to look up at him.

Madara’s cock gives a traitorous twitch. None of his other lovers have ever been brave enough to play with his hair, even though it’s right there and somewhat unavoidable; thus far all of his exploration in that direction has happened, by necessity, on his own.

This is different from those little games he designed for himself: more unpredictable, more dangerous. Hashirama’s strong, physically as well as in terms of pure power, and there’s a certain thrill in knowing that the fingers tangled through his hair could probably pick him up and throw him if they so wished. A thrill in being helpless, on his knees, and yet knowing that his life is in no real danger – Hashirama loves him, madly and desperately, and he’s not going to kill him, though he might be willing to hurt him, as evidenced by the further little tug on Madara’s hair.

…it's much better than doing it to himself.

“You’re being ungrateful, kitty,” Hashirama murmurs. “And here I go to all this trouble to get you a nice present, and you won’t even try it out? That’s not very nice.”

Madara shouldn’t find this hot. He’s not a child, he’s not Tobirama; he’s never enjoyed being disciplined. If anything, it always drove him mad when his father or the elders meted it out; he hated it with an unruly passion that he never failed to express. He should jump to his feet right now and storm out of the room in an angry huff, that’s what he should do.

And then –

And then Hashirama might never do this again.

Might never look at him with those eyes gone dark, that little hint of a smile hiding behind his best attempt at a stern expression (it’s not very convincing); might never put his hands in Madara’s hair and pull just the way Madara’s always secretly hoped that someone would –

…Madara maintains that this is a very stupid game that Hashirama’s playing, but maybe it’s worth giving it a shot.

But on his own terms, to remind Hashirama that Madara’s here of his own free will and not by coercion, that no matter what they play at when it comes to games of ownership, at the end of the day they’re still best friends and equals.

Madara looks up at Hashirama from his position on his knees and smirks, ignoring how dry his lips are. “And what’re you going to do about that?”

Hashirama’s face breaks out in a giant grins in response.

Next thing Madara knows – what is with these Senju, do they ever stop training their speed? – Hashirama’s sitting on the floor and Madara’s lying over his lap.

Madara has that second of foreboding again, except this time he knows exactly what’s going to happen and he’s not okay with it. Hashirama couldn’t seriously expect him to agree to be –

Hashirama’s hand comes down right on Madara’s ass.

“What the fuck, Hashirama –”

Hashirama hits him again, and Madara yelps in surprise. This isn’t the piddling little impact play he’s managed to talk at least one particularly brave lover into, where every strike is half-hearted at best – Hashirama’s really putting his back into it. And given that Hashirama is built like the trees he can summon with a thought, with thighs and arms as massive as oaks, with all the power that suggests behind his blows even before he adds chakra, that’s really saying something.

It makes Madara think of the battlefield: the way his blood is on fire, adrenaline pumping through his heart when he sees Hashirama across a field, knowing that in only a moment they would clash with an impact so powerful it would rattle his teeth, matching that terrible strength with his own. The way they would be abandoned by their clans, all wise enough to know to get out of the way when titans walked the earth and gods met in the fury of war; the way it sometimes felt, through the fog of smoke and fog, as if they were alone together, caught in an endless battle that went on forever.

Makes him think, guiltily, of those secret dreams he sometimes had that twisted the Sharingan-clear memories of those battles into something else, something darker. Some where he finally took advantage of Hashirama’s hesitancy to gain the upper hand, forcing his friend to his knees – and of other dreams, even more secret, where it was Hashirama who won, unleashed at last, and forced him down in turn, right there in the battlefield with all of his clan around, their Sharingan-red eyes glowing through the fog, watching, searing the sight of their defeated leader into their memories forever –

Madara whimpers and thrashes without actually trying to escape, his cock rutting against Hashirama’s thick thigh as the other man strikes again, setting up an unpredictable rhythm that is occasionally broken up by reaching out to give Madara’s hair another purposeful tug.

It’s so good.

No one else would ever dare do anything like this. No one would even dare think of it – to put the fearsome leader of the Uchiha over their knee and spank him like he’s a disobedient child? It’s unthinkable.

“You really should be more open-minded,” Hashirama says. His tone is as mild and unaffected as if he were remarking on a new restaurant opening in the village, albeit one that he’s looking forward to trying out, like Madara isn’t rutting against his lap and can’t feel how hard Hashirama is. “I’m your Hokage, now. You should trust me to make good decisions for you.”

“Hashirama –”

“Shh. Good kitties don’t talk, not if they’re going to say mean things. They’re only allowed to say good things. You can be a good kitty for me, right?”

Hashirama’s free hand settles in Madara’s hair, right next to those ridiculous ears, and starts very purposefully stroking, sometimes with a fierce tug interspersed.

At no point does his other hand stop coming down, even though Madara’s ass has got to be bright red by now.

Madara groans and grinds down, seeking more pressure. This position isn’t good enough.

“Well? Are you?”

Madara grinds down some more.

Hashirama stops moving.

Someone makes an absolutely pathetic, wretched whining sound, full of denied need.

Madara has the sinking feeling that it was him.

“Well, Madara? Tell me you’re a good little kitty for me and I’ll give you a reward.”

No way. Absolutely no way. Hashirama might be very good at figuring out Madara’s most secret desires, but there is absolutely no way that Madara would ever –

Hashirama’s fingers trace, very lightly, over Madara’s ass.

Madara shivers.

The fingers dip lower, still gentle, still delicate, not enough pressure to actually do anything other than tease, and there’s the slightest little pressure against Madara’s hole, but then they’re pulling away and Hashirama is sighing and unfolding his legs like he’s actually thinking of getting up and going back to work and –

“I can be a good kitty,” Madara blurts out, and he feels his face go scarlet. He didn’t actually just say that. He didn’t. It’s some sort of genjutsu, clearly, to make him think he’s said that, meant to torture him.

“What’s that?” Hashirama says, the kindness in his voice only a mask for his cruelty. “A good little kitty, you say? For who?”

“For – for you,” Madara manages to spit out, twisting to hide his face in Hashirama’s belly because he can’t bear himself right now, horribly shamed but perversely grateful that Hashirama isn’t making him say that again. “Hashirama, please –”

Hashirama’s fingers come back, this time pressing in confidently, slicked up and stretching him and Madara starts wiggling again, hoping that this time he’ll get enough stimulation to actually come –

Something presses into him, and it’s not fingers.

Hashirama laughs, a little chuckle that Madara only ever hears from him in the bedroom – satisfied and pleased and more than a little turned on.

Madara twists to look and then he can feel his face go red again.

It’s a tail.

Well, on the outside, anyway; the inside is wood carved into a familiar shape (very familiar, actually – Tobirama? Seriously? If Hashirama wasn’t able to create his own sex toys by waving his hands, Madara wouldn’t be able to go anywhere near the woodcarvers ever again lest he die of embarrassment), pressing into him in all the best ways, but the outside is long and soft, silk threads meant to mimic fur wrapped around a thin wooden core so that Hashirama can make the tail move through the air before wrapping around Madara’s thigh and giving a little squeeze.

“What a good kitty I have,” Hashirama coos. “What a sight you make. Look at yourself, Madara.”

He pulls Madara’s hair again, purposefully this time, dragging Madara out of his lap and back to a kneeling position on that cushion from earlier and crap, there’s a mirror there, since when is there a mirror there?

A mirror showing Madara in all his shame, no less: naked but for the cat ears and matching tail, the collar around his neck, and the hard cock that shows anyone looking how much he’s enjoying his own degradation.

“If only the rest of your clan could see you now,” Hashirama says, and Madara shudders, shutting his eyes but unable to blot out the sight of himself. “Their Madara-sama, fearsome and mighty, able to match anyone in the battlefield – what would they think of you now, on your knees for me? A good little kitty for me?”

Madara would like to say he recoils from the thought, humiliating to the extreme, but he doesn’t; he just wants to come. He could, too: Hashirama hasn’t bound his cock in any way, for once, and that means he could just reach over and –

Hashirama catches his hands and wraps something around them, winding it around his fingers and up to his forearms. Something thin and weak, nothing that would actually keep Madara back if he wasn’t willing – another way to show him that this is happening with his compliance, no matter how much he wishes he could blame coercion for his participation in this – and Madara doesn’t look but he has the distinct suspicion that it’s yarn.

“Now, kitty, you’re going to be good for me,” Hashirama says, and he really does stand up, pulling Madara’s head in until his face is pressed up against Hashirama’s still-clothed cock, rubbing against it like he really is some sort of obscene parody of a cat. “You’re going to be very good.”

Madara hates how much he likes it when Hashirama compliments him. No one ever did, not like this; he had to fight and sweat and bleed for any praise he ever managed to get from his clan elders or, worse, his father, and Hashirama hands it out like it’s nothing, sweet loving words falling from his lips at the slightest sign of obedience.

(Sometimes Madara thinks he can see why Tobirama bends so quickly to Hashirama’s will. It’s terribly seductive, that praise, the warmth of approval in Hashirama’s eyes.)

That’s probably what makes him agree without words, letting Hashirama settle in one of those stupid chairs he’s always making (the one he was using when Madara first came in is right there) and opening his mouth to take Hashirama’s cock, letting it sit heavy on his tongue, a now-familiar taste of heat and flesh.

He thinks he knows what Hashirama wants – imagines himself licking at Hashirama’s cock and mewling like a kitten, and feels the flush rise in his cheeks – but when he starts to suck Hashirama weaves a hand into his hair and gives him a little tug, making him stop.

“That’s very nice of you to offer, Madara,” Hashirama says. “But I really need to get some work done, or Tobirama will kill me. Just hold on a little and I’ll get right back to you.”

And somehow that’s even more humiliating: he’s just sitting there, kneeling on a cushion with his still-stinging ass on his ankles, tail curled up around him and pressing inside of him, with his mouth around Hashirama’s cock and not even doing anything.

Hashirama’s stupid walking desk comes over and stops right over his head, like Hashirama really is planning on doing paperwork while using Madara as – as some sort of cock warmer, a toy for his pleasure, and the very thought makes Madara burn.

Not, as much as he would like, in a bad way.

“Shh,” Hashirama says, and the hand in Madara’s hair starts carding through it. “I’ll be right with you. Just a little patience. You can be patient, can’t you?”

That hits right in an old, sore spot: Madara’s never been patient, never, and the elders of his clan are always lecturing him about it. Too brash, too impulsive, not thoughtful enough – they don’t believe him when he tells them that he knows how to lie in wait, how to hold his strike until the right moment, and no matter how many infiltration or assassination missions he takes, they never change in that belief.

He knows he’s playing right into Hashirama’s hands by not fighting him, not demanding that they do more right now, but this position feels strangely good – hand in his hair, cock warm in mouth and cool in his ass, the comedown from the adrenaline of a strike – and anyway, there’s no way Hashirama can possibly make him wait that long.

So he sits there, waiting, and things start to – drift, almost.

His mind goes quiet, almost peaceful, and it’s almost like the feeling of waiting for an assassination target to get into place, anticipation but somehow muted. There’s nothing for him to think about right now: no clan business to attend to, no irritating questions about his stability from the Council, no missions to plan or shinobi to worry about, no politics…nothing.

Nothing but the warmth between his lips and the hand in his hair.

“I knew you’d make a good kitty, Madara,” Hashirama is saying somewhere very far away. “Isn’t it nice? Cats don’t worry about anything. You don’t need to worry about anything. It’s all being taken care of. Everything’s in good hands: your village, your clan, your family. Everything’s fine. Everything’s good. You don’t need to think about it. You can just be. Just lie in the sun, warm and happy and mine. Isn’t that good?”

Madara lazily hums in agreement, barely aware that he’s doing it.

He’s not sure how much time passes and he finds he doesn’t really care. He’s always thought he wasn’t made for peace, no matter how much he longed for it; always suspected, in the dark hours of the night before the dawn, that even if he one day built the village of his dreams that it would never be enough for him. That he’d always be restless, unsatisfied; that a man built to the specifications of endless war would never be able to learn what it means to be at peace, not really, not in his heart – that he’d end up a relic, a warmonger among those too tired for war, paranoid and alone and watching everyone around him settle into peace in a way he could never hope to match.

But those fears are gone, now: he’s as peaceful as the heart of a banked fire, his overactive mind finally at ease. No worries, no fears, nothing to do but be – knowing in his heart that everything is fine, that even if anything happens Hashirama will deal with it, and able to just rest. At last.

He can finally release the burdens that have rested on his shoulders since that terrible day by the riverside when the weight of his duty crashed down upon him, since even before then, since the day he first understood what it meant that he was the heir. To be an older brother, in a clan at war.

(He wonders for a moment if Hashirama has trapped him in some sort of genjutsu, since he can’t use his chakra right now to dispel or even check, but surely no one would use one for such a pointless little game as this.)

“You’re doing so well,” Hashirama tells him, even as he keeps working, the soft sound of brush on paper on the table above Madara’s head just barely audible, lulling Madara further into the hazy doze he’s in. “So good. I knew you’d be good, but you’re doing even better than I dreamed you would. Such a good kitty. Good little kitty –”

He says more in that vein, lots more, and Madara just lets it drift over him, the words soothing and his mind blank, ignoring the minor physical discomforts of the position – his ass still sore, the collar pressing around his throat, his jaw going stiff even as he drools all over Hashirama’s cock, unable to wipe it away, his own cock heavy and hard between his legs – in favor of that wonderful feeling of floating.

It’s so very hard to disagree with Hashirama when he feels this good. Feels this free.

It’s really not that bad, being a cat.

Being Hashirama’s cat.

Not if that means he can let go of all his troubles and sit here, listening to whispers of praise, and know that for once in his life he’s fulfilling and even exceeding every expectation of him.

“Very good,” Hashirama says. “You did such a good job, Madara; I’m all done with the paperwork now. You can have your reward now.”

When Madara doesn’t respond, still distant as though everything is happening through a pane of glass, Hashirama puts his hands in Madara’s hair and starts to move his head for him, fucking his mouth in little gentle gestures that slowly, ever so slowly, bring Madara back down to earth.

He comes, eventually, and Madara swallows it all down, obediently using his tongue to clean Hashirama’s cock after, licking him up just like a good kitty should. When Hashirama gives him his foot and leg to use to get off, not even bothering to use his hands or his mouth or even his Mokuton to get Madara off but just leaving Madara to rut against him like an animal, Madara is appropriately grateful.

“You’re so good,” Hashirama tells him, again and again, his fingers still warm in Madara’s hair. “Being so good, all for me. This is what you get when you let me take care of you. Isn’t it better like this? Such a good kitty.”

Madara comes, awash in sensation and pleasure, and doesn’t even think to complain when Hashirama’s next orders are for him to take a nap in the bed in the corner, the one that’s right under the high window that’s only small enough to let in light and not visitors, that lets him soak up the warm afternoon light as Hashirama takes care of all the necessary business, cleaning him up with a nice warm cloth before settling back in at the desk to continue the important work of caring for the village they’ve made together.

It doesn’t even occur to Madara to remove the ears or the tail.

He’s a good kitty.

(He wakes up four hours later, realizes he’s late for dinner with Izuna and the Uchiha elders and trips over himself three times while getting ready even as Hashirama laughs at him, but something of that peace remains with him even later that night, lets him smile at Izuna and laugh at his leading questions and tell him without explaining anything that everything is just fine, Izuna, don’t worry so much, nothing has changed.

Everything is just fine.)

[ship-ambrosia]

Silverlight - Chapter 3

I’m sorry about the wait guys, life has certainly been getting in the way lol

But I guess random update on my life, I’m now a research assistant in a lab on campus studying pesticide metabolism in a few different kinds of worms and Puerto Rican moths!

Please, please, please... if you’ve never commented on a fanfic before, here is your chance! Please critique this chapter... please let me know what you like and what you don’t! Fight scenes are something I am working very hard on getting better at writing, especially for any professional book I publish in the future, much of my original stories are very action-orientated.

Again, you can also read this story on AO3: Chapter 1

He hadn’t changed a bit since the last time she had seen him.  Silver hair, steely gray eyes that glittered like cruel gemstones to a thief. He was taunting her, daring her to make a move. So she did.  “Whoa, there!” Mercury laughed out as he dodged her fist coming at his head. “Not the face, please.”  While her intense, blinding fury had dissipated upon seeing it was him being harassed by a group of street thugs, a new, calm anger, a familiar feeling since Beacon Academy fell, washed over Yang. She did not lose herself, like she had done in the past. She was focused, smart, and she knew how to fight him and win.  Mercury responded to her stoicism by fighting back, snapping like a bullet being fired from the barrel of a gun. His boot struck her with the deadly ferocity of a Deathstalker’s stinger, however Yang caught the motion and blocked the strike with her gauntlet. She pushed back against his boot but he answered with his own pressure, their strength nearly match for match.   “You were following me,” she accused as she narrowed her eyes at him. When she had heard people mumbling around her earlier about a boy acting strange she’d honestly assumed that some weirdo or drunk from the tavern had been leering at her. It occurred to her now that it had been him. He had been surprised when she appeared to help, but he hadn’t been surprised to see her.  “Maybe I was,” Mercury’s answer was smug, just as he always had been. Even before she knew who he truly was, when he was masquerading as a student, he’d always been that way. “You aren’t really sure, are you?”  He kicked off to break their stalemate, launching himself into the air and causing her to stumble backwards from the recoil. Yang looked up and followed his arc, jerking her elbow back to get the ammo in her Ember Celica ready before throwing two shadow punches, firing glittering shells at where he was going to land. Mercury threw his arms up in front of his face to take the brunt of the shot, but the explosive shells made contact and knocked him back into the wall of one of the buildings surrounding the alley.  Another gunshot went off suddenly and Yang gasped when a bullet hit her shoulder, her Aura protecting her from any injury but she still felt the damage reverberate through her body. She whipped around as her eyes switched to crimson, intense fury returning as she knew where the bullet had come from.  “Bitch! We saw him first!” Yelled the thug who she’d sent flying, holding the smoking gun toward her. The group had reformed and surrounded once more, and their focus had now switched to her.  Before she could even act, she noticed just as the woman flipped her curved sword around, the blade breaking up into the shape of a whip.  “C’mere, sweetheart!” With an excited yell, the woman lashed out with her weapon. She caught Yang around the leg when she tried to dodge out of the way, pulling her balance out from underneath her. Yang landed hard on her ass as the small blades that made up the whip dug in, and she let out a cry as they dragged her closer. Though no cuts actually appeared, no blood spilled, she felt the sting of the blades slicing through her Aura. But Yang saw her opportunity and seized it.  Bringing her arms around in front of her, she fired off two shots from both weapons to boost herself into the air. With all the strength and momentum she could muster, she brought her body into a backflip while at the same time kicking her leg back in a violent arc. The other woman let out a scream as she was pulled into the air, up and above Yang, before being thrown harshly back into the ground. Utilizing the extra damage done by doing that all with a bladed whip cutting into her, when Yang landed her hair ignited into flames.  “Get out of here!” She yelled, slamming her fist into the man who’d shot her. The shockwave was so great that it caught up the rest of his thugs and knocked them all back several feet.  Yang watched them all run with their tails between their legs the moment any of them recovered, turning back to the one she actually needed to fight when she heard his voice.  “Always a pleasure with you,” Mercury spoke with his same cruel smirk, tipping his head to her. “That’ll be all.”  She shot two more firecrackers at him, but Mercury anticipated the move and catapulted himself out of the way. He landed on the other side of the alley and instantly broke into a run. Yang’s eyes widened when she realized he was just trying to escape like that.  Escape? That was the last thing the Mercury she had known, both the fake one and the one who worked for Salem, would do. He didn’t just run. Something was going on, and Yang only hesitated for a moment before chasing after him. She was going to make him talk.  Mercury ducked back into the crowd, disregarding every person he shoved and even jumping over some to get away. Yang ran after him with a similar intensity, but instead of a shit-eating grin she wore an intense glare. She spun to avoid colliding with people in her way, attempting to not bowl anyone over but not being shy. She couldn’t lose sight him.  She pushed herself to her limits to get after him, despite every muscle screaming in protest already. The fire that he ignited in her was more volatile and dangerous than anyone else, but it also made her feel stronger, an almost addicting high. She knew it was dangerous, but the adrenaline rush always reminded her of when she was learning to be a Huntress. She had to remember that every match against him was wagering life and death from now on. In another world, she and Mercury could’ve just been simple rivals, pushing each other further, perhaps even friends. And that only made her anger toward him burn even brighter.  Yang saw Mercury make another attempt to fake her out by slipping into a smaller alleyway just as Yang slammed into a dense crowd of people. She gritted her teeth and roughly pushed past the few more people before following him.  “Mercury!” She shouted at him, and emptied her weapons of spent shells in a defiant show of intent.  He slowed to a stop, shoulders moving as he gave a very heavy sigh. “You just can’t get enough of me, can you Blondie?” He turned around to face her, and Yang was taken aback for a moment by how guarded his expression appeared now. That was also very uncharacteristic of the Mercury she had known, but she didn’t get a chance to inspect it any longer as the look in his eyes disappeared when his smirk returned. “Play your cards right and I might just give you what you want.”  Yang rolled her eyes, but continued to try and read his intentions as she spoke. “What I want is information. Why were you following me? What are you trying to do? What is Salem planning?”  “Ohhhh...” He tapped his chin, glancing at her casually. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t actually give you any of that.”  “Oh, but I think you will.”  Mercury looked thoroughly entertained by their banter. “Then you’re going to have to take it from me.”  He stepped back into a fighting stance, holding his fists up in front of the smirk that had haunted her since their fight at Haven Academy, the first time she had truly seen him and confirmed he was on Salem’s side. Yang slowed her breathing - this was it, this was why she kept training harder and harder, why she had to keep getting stronger. To beat people like him, to prevent people like him from ever hurting her family again.  And why she was going to uncontestedly beat him this time without her Semblance.  Yang made the first move, propelling herself at him with her arm winding back for a very obvious punch. His response was exactly what she expected, and Yang caught the movement in her eyes an instant before Mercury’s boot would have collided with her head. He stopped her fist but the punch itself had been a feint, a point of rotation so she could throw her entire body at him.  He gave a short gasp of surprise when her shoulder hit him square in the chest, knocking him back. Mercury recovered much faster than she would’ve liked, launching off while she steadied herself back to her feet. Yang threw her arms up to block his attack, fast and powerful enough to push her backwards a bit though her defense held strong. When he shifted back to his other foot she lashed out with her fist just as fast as him, striking him in the nose. Though she felt the pushback from his Aura, the attack was enough to throw him off balance and suddenly Yang had the advantage.  She dodged his fists and got in close, quickly controlling the situation by separating his hands and exposing his body. That was the number one rule of their fighting styles, though hers were primarily her fists and his were his legs, they were both brawlers. You never let the enemy get inside your space, and you certainly never let them have control over it. As long as she had it she was going to make it work for her, because she was sure he’d figure out a counter soon.  Yang threw one punch, two, three - getting in a total of five solid hits before Mercury interrupted her rhythm, pushing himself into an acrobatic spin and bringing his kick down on her from above. Finally getting a strike in that actually knocked his opponent off balance, Mercury was relentless in his assault. He was always like that, and once her defense was down against him she knew it was always hard getting it back up.  Even in the relatively short time it had been since they fought at Haven Academy, he’d grown exponentially stronger. She felt it behind every strike, every movement he made had even more deadly accuracy than before. Sometimes she wondered if he had only thrown their match during the Vytal Festival. It was a strong possibility. In the beginning, Mercury had surely been leagues better. Yes, even with that, he’d become an even bigger threat.  “But so have I!” Yang exclaimed, as she brought up her own side kick to block his strike with her own leg.  There was a moment of shock that registered on his face before Mercury’s grin reappeared. “Well,” he said as he winked at her. “I can always appreciate a girl with a good set of legs.”  Yang’s answer was to simply hold out her arm and fire off another round of bullets at him.  Though he got her in the hip when he fired off his own shell to get away, Yang hit him several times in the shoulder. She felt her cold anger building up again as she pursued him, and as they clashed once more. Empty bullet casings littered the alley around them, wooden structures crumbling from missed shots. Was that a crowd forming? It wasn’t all that surprising, but Yang couldn’t divert her attention for one moment or else he’d get the advantage over her. Both parties deviated from their usual styles, Yang hitting him with everything she had in a blur of fists and kicks while Mercury ditched his speed for slower, stronger punches and a more defensive stance as each tried to beat the one person who matched them, who pushed them further past their limits than anyone else could.  Their clash culminated into one big burst of energy when their weapons collided, just as they had at the tournament. The force pushed both fighters away from one another, and Yang took the opportunity to catch her breath. While she hadn’t expected her trip to Mistral to be quiet, she certainly couldn’t have imagined it would turn into a punch-out with a member of Salem’s followers, let alone the one who had come to blows with her more often than not. He had humiliated her over and over again, but aside from that he had hurt so many people that she cared about. Messing with her family... for that, she had resolved to make him, and all of Salem’s faction, pay. They’d all be history, starting with Mercury.  She yelled as she ran at him again, moving first before he could. She went for the feint punch again, but Mercury wasn’t about to fall for that twice. When he caught her shoulder in his other hand, Yang adjusted and aimed her elbow up into his chin as hard as she could. He grunted and she took the opening to fire off a shell from Ember Celica at point blank. This time, there wasn’t an ounce of guilt; the jerk still had his Aura, after all.  She was surprised, however, when this didn’t stop him. Suddenly Mercury had her grappled, one arm twisted behind her back and Yang cried out a bit. Her Aura couldn’t protect her from the pain that action had caused.  “Are you still sure about this, Blondie?” He was almost purring the words out, right in her ear. Yang could hear the grin on his face. Cocky bastard. “I’m gonna make you regret this little fight.”  Without giving her a chance to respond - though her response would’ve been to spit on him, as she was trying to figure out how to do so with how he was restraining her - Mercury shoved her forward. He didn’t let go of her arm though, and as quickly as he did, he pulled her back toward him. She saw that grin for just a moment before he landed a solid punch to her cheek, then slammed his knee into her stomach. He was completely merciless and in control as she doubled over, his boot coming up to strike her in the head several times.  Yang felt a rage return to her, fury as she realized that Mercury was beating her with her own damn technique. He spun her around to keep her from steadying herself and form a counter, before letting go of her suddenly and sent her stumbling. More movement caught her eye, and Yang looked up just in time for Mercury to finish another acrobatic, and watched his leg sweep in a wide arc. Before she even recognized where he was aiming, a burst of yellow flashed in front of her eyes, followed by the feeling of horrible pain that spread across her lower back. Someone screamed. She realized it was herself.  Yang fell forward onto her hands and knees, heaving. She couldn’t believe her Aura hadn’t fizzled out at that attack, though she knew it was very low. The burst of yellow had indicated she’d taken a lot of damage from that one strike. Yang realized that meant if she kicked out her Semblance right now, she could end it.  Fury suddenly bubbles up inside her, but not towards Mercury; towards herself. She had sworn she wasn’t going to use her Semblance. Mercury still hadn’t brought out his, so she refused to also. This was going to be a brawl. She just had to win, there was no other choice.  Yang got up to one knee and immediately blocked two kicks close to her face, one on the left and one on the right. He was driven, she had to at least give him that, refusing to give her any room to breathe. Then again, that was how she fought too when she had the upper hand. She got into her own spin and threw a kick at him. Though she missed, she was able to get back to her feet with a renewed vigor, hands in front of her face to show him she was ready to go again.  Mercury had completely switched over now to his style of overwhelming, relentless attacks that were almost completely unpredictable, flowing more like he was dancing than fighting. She saw him wind back to take another shot and she threw another feint punch, this time instead firing off a round into the ground to launch into a corkscrew over him and leaping to his other side. Just as she’d done when fighting her mother’s goons, she figured on using her predictably full-on attacking approach to her advantage.  Yang landed behind him and went for her best move, dropping quickly to sweep his leg out from underneath him. When Mercury tripped she twisted back up and threw a punch to slam him into the ground. Before she had even finished pulling her arm back she took another strike to the head, and then another before she finally got out of the way.  Mercury had caught himself, legs flying in a deadly, sporadic arc of airflares that she remembered vividly but hadn’t seen since the Vytal tournament. A sizable amount of Dust bullets were already amassing around him like a cyclone, preventing Yang from going in to stop him without taking a heavy amount of damage. Damage that her Aura wasn’t going to be able to take. She was low, she could feel it, but Yang was pretty damn sure he was too. That had to be why he was going for such a trump card, because he needed to make sure he finished this now if he wanted to win.  But she had to think of something fast, or else he would. She had never had the time to figure out how his cyclone worked before, and she wasn’t quite sure she could now. All she had to do was dodge it, which was a hell of a lot easier said than done. The Dust swirled around in tandem with his legs, going at about the same rate. Yang noticed a faint purple glow in his boots, and a smile widened on her face. Gravity Dust, of course. She didn’t have to watch his bullets, she had to watch his legs.  When he swung and fired the dust at her, she was ready. Yang took a deep breath, and fired off several rounds from her gauntlets. A huge cloud of white Dust erupted around her. He probably thought she was out, but all it really did was conceal her.  “YEAAAAAAAHHHH!” With a fierce, unyielding cry Yang rocketed out of the smoke, flying toward him loud and brilliant just like the firecracker she was. Mercury had his back to her as if he had just started walking away, and she saw him turn slightly, saw his eyes grow wide.  She couldn’t believe she’d gotten him.  She brought her leg down in a swinging arc, simultaneously knocking him down and paying him back for every kick to the head she’d had to take. As she landed directly on top of him, Yang anchored her knee into the middle of his back. As soon as he hit the ground, she grabbed his arm and pulled it back towards her. She then pushed her other hand into the back of head, holding him in place.  “Stay down!” She barked at him. But as Yang watched, his silver Aura crackled, then faded, right underneath her fingertips.  A new wave of high jolted through her body. Her heart was pounding, chest heaving as she was finally able to fully catch her breath. She could hardly believe it. I won. I beat Mercury!  She heard Mercury groan with annoyance, and pressed her knee a little bit harder into his back. “I said-“  “I know what you said,” he sighed, turning his head a bit so he could look at her. “Well Blondie, what do you want to know?”

[surrounded-by-superheroes]

Queen Chapter Two

CLICK HERE FOR CHAPTER ONE.

Summary;  A shape-shifting girl with a bad past is recruited by Nic Fury into the Avengers. It’s there that she finally starts learning to let people in again and she’s especially intrigued by a blond haired and blue eyed Captain America. Will she learn to let him in? Will her past actually stay in the past?

Author’s Note; I really like writing this, so I really hope you all like reading it. My little sister is graduating, (yay!), so to everyone else graduating; CONGRATS.

Warnings; Language, violence, hot characters.

Words; 4,021 (This is going to have long chapters)

Chapter Two

Training                        

I sleep a few hours, but then I’m up and ready to work. I sprint down to the training rooms and into the sparring room. Surprisingly, Cap has beaten me here and is hitting a punching bag with a vengeance. He sees me and I see surprise on his face.

“Who are you?” He asks. I look down at myself and remember he doesn’t know that this is me. It takes me seconds to change back into the raven-haired beauty, and I see recognition appear in in his eyes. Steve shakes his head, then gestures for me to come over. I jog over, noticing Stark sitting in the corner of the room. He shrugs at me and I find myself fighting a smile. I like that Tony challenges me, not many people do. I guess I’m here to find out if Cap can do the same. Physically, anyway. I reach the punching bag and look up at Cap.

“Alright. We’ll wrap your hands, then you’ll show me what you can do.” He steadies the bag for me, then steps away towards a bag with white bandages in it.

“Captain, how old do you think I am?” I ask him impatiently. He pauses and turns back towards me as he unwraps his hands. He stops and his eyebrows go up. After glancing at Tony he sizes me up and shrugs slightly.

“Eighteen?” Cap says with trepidation. I roll my eyes and hear a slight chuckle from Tony.

“I’m twenty, Captain. Let me assure you that wrapping my knuckles isn’t necessary.” I assure Steve. He makes no move to indicate that he heard me. I shake my head and take my stance in front of the punching bag. I raise my arms and flex my muscles before punching the bag. I see Steve’s surprised face, but he makes no move to stop me. He seems to be surprised easily. After a couple punches the bag flies off its hanger and falls to the ground. I relax my stance and look at Steve. “Next.” I say, itching for something else. He looks from me to the bag with a slightly impressed face. Tony, however, giggles gleefully in the corner.

“Okay. Now let’s see your knuckles.” He asks. I hold out my hands and peel my gloves off. My knuckles are raw, but not bleeding. As Steve watches I heal myself. The zebrafish has the ability to grow cells on command, so that’s the ability I’m utilizing. Skin stretches over the wounds and soon my hands are perfect, except for the faint glimmer that always happens after healing. I look at Steve when I’m done to gauge his reaction.

“I’m not a rookie, Captain. I’ve seen some major bullshit,”

“Language!” Tony yells and earns an eyeroll from Cap and a glare from me. I continue,

“and been through worse bullshit. I’m not some clueless teen you need to guide, that you need to supervise. I’ve been on the streets since I was eighteen. I’ve been able to shift since I was five. I ask that you treat me like the adult that I am and not like a kid. My age is the least important thing about me, Captain.” I end my small speech and put my gloves back on, waiting for his retort. His shock seems to keep him frozen for a bit, but he eventually recovers. And I think I may see a bit of admiration in his eyes now.

“While all of that may be true, you’re the newest member of the team. Meaning; if we get a mission you stay here until we all know we can trust you, you go through the drills I set up for you,” I open my mouth to protest everything he just said, but he stops me. “And, you follow my orders.” My mouth shuts and I huff. I think for a moment and purse my lips in thought.

“How about a deal, Cap?” I ask and he looks at me with disdain, but I can see the spark of interest in his eyes. “I’ll agree to everything you just said if you can beat me in a weaponless fight.” I back up so I’m on the sparring platform and wait for his answer. Steve looks down, then smiles at the floor. A smile tugs on my lips at the sight. He walks up on the platform with me and we both crouch into a fighting stance.

“My money is on Shifty!” Tony shouts and I roll my eyes. Steve chooses that moment to swing his fist towards my stomach. He’d rather knock the wind out of me than knock my teeth out. Sweet. I jump back and slap the back of his head as I move out of the way. He spins to face me and readies himself again. I swing first this time, but feint and feel my open palm connect with Steve’s face. The minute it does I grab onto his head and flip so that I’m perched on top of him. I put a hand on his jaw and the other on his shoulder and turn his head slightly, as if I’m cracking his neck. He stills and I jump off. I put my hands on my hips and sigh in front of him.

“Your neck has been snapped. Chances of survival are zero.” I say in a monotone. “Now, Captain. I am not a cheater. Now you know what I can do. I want you to put in all you can and so will I.” I get into my fighting stance again and watch Cap to see what he’ll do. Out of the corner of my eye I see Tony stand and appear to my right, standing right on the edge of the fighting arena. I look back at Cap and grin when I see he’s resumed his fighting stance. This time, I strike first.

I do a windmill punch, but Cap stops every attempted hit. I smile and keep going. I fire punch after punch, then add kicks into the mix, but each one is blocked by Captain America. Eventually, he starts doing some offense of his own, but he doesn’t land a single blow. The times I look at his face, I see that he’s smiling too. Enjoying it just as much as I am. We’re almost evenly matched, Captain America and I, but the balance of power changes when a flaming red head comes to the doorway. She pauses when she sees us and steps inside. Both of the men’s eyes shift to her and I seize my chance. I hit the floor and swipe Cap’s legs out from under him. After that, I elbow him in the stomach to knock the air out of him, elbow him in the shoulder to prevent retaliation, then mount him like a bull and pretend to snap his neck like I did before. I’m grinning wildly as I release Cap.

“I win.” I announce and hear Steve groan in response. Without realizing, Steve puts his hands on my thighs and continues to grunt in pain. As Steve squeezes I feel my heart jump into my throat and something flutter in my stomach. My blood feels like it boils, but not the way it does when I’m changing. My blood feels more like lightning. My smile disappears and I stand immediately, stepping away from Steve in the process. Those feelings have no place in my body, in my heart. I shake my head. It’s natural to grab onto something when people are in pain. It allows them to feel as if they’re transferring the pain to something else rather than themselves. I explain it away. I look to the red-head at the door and I recognize her as the Black Widow. I walk over to her and hold out a hand. “Shifter, nice to meet you. You’re my favorite Avenger.” I introduce myself and flatter her, but I mean every word. She looks surprised at the compliment, but takes my hand anyway.

“Natasha Romanoff. Thanks. Glad I can finally prove to the guys that that does happen.” She sends both men behind me pointed looks. Steve is still lying on the floor, staring at us, and Tony is staring between Steve and me like a kid at Christmas. Although I see a gleam in his eyes that shouldn’t be there, like he’s seen something he shouldn’t. Which he might have.

“I’m the newest member of the Avengers.” I tell her. Once again, she looks at me in surprise, but there’s also a glimmer of impressed. After glancing at the two boys, she nods.

“Well, if you beat Steve, I guess you’ve earned a front seat.” She says. “You met the rest of the team?” Natasha asks in an interested voice. I shake my head and she turns and starts walking down the hallway. I keep up with her easily as she walks at a brisk pace. Just as we’re about to round the corner I hear Tony yelling.

“Dude! You just got your ass whooped by a twenty-year old girl!” I fight a smile and follow Natasha as we head up a couple floors. We arrive in a large room filled with floating screens and the rest of the Avengers. Natasha immediately heads to Hawkeye’s side while I stand in front of the only other person in that room that I’d already met.

“Hey, Nick.” I greet the director. He smiles smugly.

“Good to see you here, Shifter.” Is all he says, but I know everything he means behind them. I look to the woman who is semi behind Nick and hold out my hand.

“Ms. Maximoff. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She takes my hand and shakes it.

“Hi.” She responds in her still thick accent. “Shifter, right?” She asks. I nod.

“That’s right. I love your accent, by the way.” I compliment her, wanting to get her to smile. She smiles only a little, but I take it as a win. I move beside her to a well-dressed, but red skinned man. I hold out my hand to him and he takes it, although slower than Wanda did. His skin feels like skin, but is colder and does feel slightly off.

“Hello, Shifter. I must admit I have no knowledge of you. That’s rare. What has inspired you to join the Avengers?” He asks me intelligently. I shrug, releasing his hand.

“Nick can be persuasive when he wants to be. And I’d like to make a difference. This is the best chance I have for doing that.” I tell him. He nods once, and looks at me thoughtfully. I nod at him once then walk over to Falcon.

“Shifter.” He says shaking my outstretched hand with a smile. “Not too horrible of a name.” He says playfully and almost gets me to smile.

“Yeah, well, all the really good bird names were taken.” I tease right back. His grin widens and he nods.

“Of course, you’re sarcastic. Why can’t a genuinely nice person join the Avengers? All ya’ll are sassy as shit.” He quips and gets a small laugh out of me, despite me trying to hold it in. I like the Falcon. “Anyways, I’m Sam.” He introduces himself formally and I nod, still smiling. I walk over to Hawkeye and Natasha. Before I introduce myself, Hawkeye speaks first.

“So you really think you’re ready to deal with all this? I mean, the things we fight, they’re monsters. Literally.” Clint asks me straight away. I don’t take a second to think about my answer.

“Good thing I’m a monster too, then.” I tell him. I am gifted with a grin and finally, Tony and Cap show up. Both of them survey the faces until they find me. They both head over to me immediately. Natasha and Clint quickly make room for them on this side of the limited space. Tony throws an arm around my shoulders without even thinking about it and whispers in my ear.

“You are my own personal hero. I like you kid.” I push down a laugh at his words and he seems to notice. “And I will eventually, get a smile and a laugh out of you. By the way, enough of this Stark stuff. Call me Tony.” He moves his head away, but keeps a lazy arm around me. I lean into him slightly without thinking about it, but instantly pull away when I realize what I’m doing. I shrug his arm off, but know he caught me leaning into him. His smirk tells me everything. Steve nods to Fury as a greeting, but leans over to talk to me.

“That doesn’t count.” He says. The corner of my mouth lifts and I glance at him. He’s half smiling as well, but we both snap to attention when Fury begins speaking.

“Alright, ladies and gents. First, I’m glad to see Shifter getting along with everyone. Make sure it stays that way.” I roll my eyes as he basically threatens the Avengers. Dramatic old man. “I just wanted to stop by and see how the team was faring with its new addition and to make sure no one had killed each other yet.” I feel Tony’s breath on the back of my neck as he chuckles quietly and I resist reaching back and hitting him on the back of the head.

“Well, Shifter did just beat Cap in hand to hand combat. Does that count?” Tony jokes and I shut my eyes in annoyance. Sam laughs loudly and my mouth twitches as I fight back a smile. I open my eyes and look up at Nick. His face is disapproving, but I don’t miss the slight twitch of his mouth and the way his eyes are on Cap and not me. Steve grumbles beside me and clasps his hands in front of him. As I glance at his hands I think back to how tightly they squeezed my thighs and how I could feel his strength in that small gesture. I look at Steve’s face and find that he’s already staring at me. I read his expression instantly. He’s intrigued, I suppose he hasn’t been beaten by many people. Much less a young woman. There’s something else behind his eyes though, a burning that he doesn’t let people see. I stop myself from leaning closer to see if I can unlock the secrets there and look back at Fury. A knowing smile is on his face, but I’m sure there are books of things that Nick knows and I don’t. Nick nods to all of us after a moment and begins speaking again.

“No, it doesn’t count because she didn’t actually kill him. My point is, everyone, get to know your new teammate. Clint, if you’re retired, you’ve got to stop being here.” Clint shrugs and chuckles. Nick turns and focuses his eye on me and I stare at him, bored. “And Shifter, make an effort to get to know your teammates.” He pushes and I nod, waving at him so he knows I get it. He fixes me with a look that I know says, ‘I mean it.’ “Good luck everyone.” He bids us all a good day and walks out with his coat billowing out behind him. I look around at everyone and sigh. Awkward.

“So,” Clint breaks the silence by talking to me. “what is your ability that makes you Avenger material?” He asks. I half smile and breathe in deeply.

“Natasha, what’s your favorite animal?” I ask her directly. One of her eyebrows goes up and she answers.

“Siberian tiger.” I nod. It’s fitting. I look at Natasha and morph my skin into that of a tiger, thick, beautiful fur sprouting out of it. My nails turn black and sharpen until I feel them click on the tile floor. I walk to Natasha when I’m done and she crouches, so she can look into my now feline eyes. She holds her hand out and I push my head against it. Happily, I watch her smile a small smile that only I can see. It feels nice to use my abilities to make someone smile. She pulls away and stands, nodding.

“Useful.” Is all she says. I turn around in a circle and look at everyone. Tony reaches out a hand to touch me, but an ear-splitting growl stops him dead in his tracks. Everyone else laughs as he pouts slightly. I change back into raven hair and shiver a bit in the new skin. I smirk at Tony, then look around at everyone else. I feel a thump on my back and almost jump into a new skin. I spin around and find Sam grinning from ear to ear.

“Not too shabby.” He pats my shoulder, then turns and walks out. He shakes Cap’s hand and they share a look full of unspoken words, but then he’s gone. Apparently, that was all he had to say about it. I look at everyone else who had decided to stay, but find Vision to be missing. He must have slunk off without me noticing, surprisingly. Clint, Natasha, Tony, Wanda, and Steve stay. All eyes are on me, but I don’t know why. I obviously don’t know what to do right now. Tony steps forward and rubs his hands together.

“Well, it looks like it’s time for some team building activities.” He says eagerly. I grimace, but everyone else looks normal. I suppose this has happened at least once before. I watch Tony, ready for him to tell us his plan to ‘team build’. As Tony explains, I feel another pair of eyes watching me. I don’t have to look to know that it’s Steve Rogers. The way his eyes gently scan my body, no menace, no suspicion, just interest and that burning fire, no one else’s eyes feel that way. I can feel his hands on me even from across the room. I look up at him and I’m graced with a small smile, one I can’t help but return. At least until someone snaps and interrupts my concentration. My eyes return to Tony and watch as he keeps on snapping beside his ear, presumably hoping he’ll snap some sort of brain up there. I can’t help but march up there and grab his hand.

“Stop. Snapping.” I say, annoyed. He gives me a grin and turns our hands so that he’s holding mine. The sudden friendly contact has me wary, I’m not used to this.

“I didn’t know you felt this way, Shifty.” Tony says with fake emotion. The room chuckles and I fight to keep a smile from my face. He’s funny, every once and a while anyway. I try to gently slip my hand away, but Tony doesn’t let me. “Why are you fighting what’s between us?” He mocks again, but I can hear the slight truth tinting his words and see it shining in his eyes. And he isn’t hinting to some romantic shit that doesn’t exist. He sees me swallow every laugh and stop every smile. Stark wants to know why I’m hiding from happiness, from his friendship. I narrow my eyes, he sees more than I give him credit for.

“Tony, I can rip your hand off with a flick of my wrist. Let go.” I growl, but a radiant smile appears on his face and frustrates me further. He brings my hand to his mouth and automatically, I freeze, my whole body going rigid. Gently, he brushes his lips across it before finally letting go.

“You finally called me Tony.” He whispers quietly and that stirs me back to life. His brief show of affection has shaken me. Maybe even shaking something I wanted to remain rooted to the spot. I shake my head and walk out, storming up all the stairs at a sprint. When I finally reach the roof, I can breathe. I walk to the edge and look down making my instincts light up within me and blaze to life. I smile and take a deep breath. Out here, alone, I’m strong. Out here, alone, I’m free. Tears that had previously threatened to spill over my cheeks are now gone, replaced with an empty hole where my heart should be. I put my head in my hands and sigh. I should know better than that by now, letting little touches get to me. It’s just hard to resist when he does it so naturally, without any thought. I can’t ever have that. Not in friendship, and certainly not in any romantic entanglement. My mind flicks to Steve, but I push the thought away. I find rest in my solitude, trying to build up walls that are slowly being torn down. Sadly, I’m not alone for long. I hear the metal door to the roof open and shut, then hear boots walking towards me. I recognize the gait immediately.

“Stark. What are you doing here?” I say in a tone of disgust, desperately trying to hide my fragile heart. The shoes pause for a beat, then continue. They appear beside me, then Tony sits down on the ledge with me.

“Shifty, what’s going on?” Tony uses his silly nickname and I find my spirits lifting just at the sight of his joking smile and dark eyes. Vulnerability rises up in my throat and threatens to choke me. I glance at him, then look back out at the city. It’s easier if I don’t look at him. I give him no answer, if I open my mouth the truth may spring free like a bird, so I feel better leaving the jail cell shut. I feel Tony’s eyes on me, but it doesn’t faze me. I’m used to being glared at from behind a glass, in person it’s no different. “Kiddo, come on. I know you like me. At least a little bit.” He jokes. Always the joker. “Talk to me.” I turn towards him abruptly and stare at him. I scan every inch of him, looking for something to tell me he’s untrustworthy, that he isn’t everything I know him to be after a day and a morning. Anything for me to hold against him, but come up with nothing. Irritated, I stand and walk away, pacing. Every time I turn towards Tony I glance at him and it becomes even harder to hold it together. Finally, I fall to my knees and let angry tears slip from my eyes. I feel Tony’s hands appear on my shoulders and hear him ask what’s going on, but it’s muffled through the sound of my own sobs. I’m tired, no, exhausted, of keeping people at arms-length while pining away for relationships. Any relationship. Tony sits down next to me and pulls me close to him. My forehead is pressed against his neck as his hands gently stroke my hair and back. I let him do it. I’m starved for human touch, for affection, for feeling. I wrap my arms around him as well, horrified he’ll leave me in my own mess. But he doesn’t. Tony stays there for what feels like forever, holding me, whispering comforting words to me, and consoling me. After a while of sobbing, I’m exhausted and feel like dirt. I try to pull away from Tony in embarrassment, but his hold stands firm.

“Tony, I’m done. You can let go.” I whisper quietly in my spent voice. I feel his head shake.

“You might be, but I’m not.” He says quietly and I notice that his voice is rough. It takes me a moment, but I relax against him once again and shut my eyes. While I’m screaming at myself for being such an idiot, for handing over the key to what could destroy me, my body snuggles closer to Tony. I take fistfuls of his shirt in my hands and breathe him in. Tony doesn’t let go and eventually I fall asleep there in his arms, feeling safe for maybe the first time in my life.

Chapter Three found HERE.

[mpischasingstories]

Bike Accident

Fandom:  Pokemon, Hoenn Region

Rating: E

Word Count: 2,474

Triggers: None that I know of.  Let me know if there is something!

~*~*~*~*~

No no no no no no NO!

Amber dug furiously through her bag, but she couldn't find the stone.

“Ok Amber, deep breaths.” she muttered to herself. She forced herself to lean back in her chair and close her eyes for a moment. It was possible that the stone had fallen to the bottom of her extremely full bag.  Or perhaps she had placed it in a different pocket by accident?

Other people in the Mauville food court gave her strange looks as Amber started laying out her items very methodically, one by one, murmuring mental notes to herself.  Once her bag was empty, she stood back from the table and huffed. The thunderstone she had found wasn’t anywhere in her belongings.

Then she remembered: on the bike trail, a triathlete had slammed into her. Perhaps it had fallen out of her bag there! And, hopefully, it would still be there.

Amber checked her watch. She still had ten minutes before Jason would be there. She could cycle there and back in time. Hopefully.

As quickly as she could, she placed her items back in her bag and rushed outside to her bike, neatly chained up against the otherwise haphazard pile of bikes crowded around a rack. She carefully pulled it out, doing her best to not disturb the rest of the pile, then hopped on and raced to the bike route just south of Mauville.

Her bike wasn't fast. But it was a relief to know that she had time to calculate her turns so that she didn't waste time pulling a crashed bike out of bushes.  She cycled as quickly as she dared, rounding a white picket fence that marked the beginning of the bridge that composed the bike route.  A few minutes later she arrived to the crash scene. She looked across the steel bridge, but the thunder stone was nowhere in sight. She circled around the area a couple of times. Still no glint of stone. Frustrated, she cycled over to the ledge where the triathlete had slammed into her and got off her bike, leaning over the edge.  Sighing loudly, she could taste the salty breeze of the ocean.  It was only momentarily distracting though.

Where could it possibly have gone?

“Excuse me! You cannot be off your bike on the bike route!” a voice hollered.  Amber’s eyes went wide and she turned around. But before she could respond, the person said “Oh, it's you. The girl from the bike accident.”

Amber nodded, recognizing the bike officer from earlier. “Yes, I seemed to have lost my thunderstone from the accident earlier today. Did you find one by chance?”

The officer frowned. “No, I don't remember seeing one.” His eyebrows furrowed in thought for a moment. “The triathlete slammed you into the railing, right? In fact, wasn't it this railing here?”

Amber sourly replied, “I hate to state the obvious, but that's why I'm here as opposed to somewhere else on the bike route.”

The officer looked over the railing. “Is it possible that it fell onto the route below?”

Oh no.

Amber looked over the railing herself. Directly twenty feet below her was the walking path for route 110. And Edwin was known to claim Route 110 as his turf. Anything on the ground belonged to him.

“Officer… I gotta go.” She stammered, reaching for her bike and hopping back on. As she raced back down, she could hear the officer yell something back at her; but it didn't matter. She just had to find that thunderstone before Edwin did.

One she reached the spot underneath her bike accident she abandoned her bike and fell immediately to her hands and knees. “Come on, it's gotta be here….” She muttered to herself.

“If you're looking for something, Edwin might have already found it.”

Amber looked up. Edward, a local psychic, was looking down at her. He had refused to battle her because he sensed she would always beat him, but they had become good acquaintances over the last couple of years.

This can't be good.

Amber took a deep breath and stood up. “Edward, has Edwin been bragging about finding a stone?”

Edward smiled a bit.  “Ah, so you did find a thunderstone. And promptly lost it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, just like you said I would.” With that, she fished out some coins and placed them in his hand. “You forgot to warn me that it would land in Edwin’s hands.”

“I don't choose the visions, the visions choose me.  Also, I don’t know why you bother to place bets with me.” he responded. He shrugged and put his new coins away. “Anyways, if you want to find Edwin, he's heading towards Slateport to make plans on what he's going to do with the stone.”

Amber was up and running before Edward had finished. “I'll talk to you later!”

Grass rustled under her feet as she ran; her breath was in rhythm to her steps.  She had to stop Edwin at all costs.  She could not lose that stone.

As the path cleared for the Tricksters Home, there was Edwin, talking to a middle aged lady, a green object in hand. “STOP!” Amber yelled, sliding to a halt on a dirt path.

They both stopped talking and stared at her. It took a moment, but Edwin’s confused face soon twisted into recognition. “Well, Amber. What item of mine do you want to claim today?”

Amber couldn't help but snarl “Again, an item that is actually mine.”

Edwin hid the item in his hand behind his back, straightening up. The sunlight hit his glasses lens, making it hard to keep eye contact with him.  However, Amber refused to look away. Perhaps her squinted eyes from the bright light would make her look a little bit more intimidating.  “I know you have my thunderstone.”

He laughed. “Your thunderstone? Why, I do have a thunderstone, but it was a gift from the thunder storm a half an hour ago, and certainly did not belong to you.” He chuckled, running his free hand through his black violet hair.

“You and your damn stories. The sky was as blue as it is now and it fell out of my bag when I got in a bike accident on the cycling road above.” She responded, straightening her back.  Be confident.  Just like Jason.  That’s how he gets what he needs.

The middle aged lady eyed Edwin. “You know, she's right about the blue sky part.”

Edwin made a sound of frustration. Unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, he muttered “Well, do you want the stone that bad? Fine. How about we battle for it then, hm? We'll have Isabell here be our ref.”

Amber looked down at her belt. Only one pokeball hung from it at the moment. The rest had been damaged in the accident and were currently being pried open by Nurse Joy. And she wasn't sure if she wanted to battle with this Pokémon yet.

“Um…. Anything else I can do to get my stone back? Like, you know, just giving it back to me like a nice human being?”

“If you really did lose this and I found it, you're gonna have to fight to get it back.”  With that, he tossed a pokeball up, releasing a Nuzleaf. “One Pokémon, one shot. You lose, you give up on the stone.”

Amber groaned. She had no choice. She reached for her own pokeball and tossed it. Out came Mistreavus. Brand new, and had no opportunity to bond with yet. This was going to go bad.

“Nuzleaf, use thief!”  Edwin barked.  He was smiling, arms across his chest.  He had this battle won already.  He knew it.

Nuzleaf slammed into Mistreavus, tackling her to the ground.

Come on.  Think quickly!  Jason told you you’re a quick thinker!

“Mistreavus, use astonish!” Amber commanded.

Mistreavus screamed back at the Nuzleaf, which startled him enough that he backed off her.

“Nuzleaf, Feint attack!”

Nuzleaf started running around in a zig zag pattern. He first ran to Edwin, then circled around him and started running towards Mistreavus. A dark aura started surrounding him.

“Careful…." Amber murmured. She watched Nuzleaf, trying to predict what side he would hit on. “Left!”

Amber had meant look left. Mistreavus moved left and was slammed by Nuzleaf back into the ground.

Already, Mistreavus was looking rough. The moment Nuzleaf let her up, she flew behind Amber, not willing to continue.

Edwin laughed. “Well, it seems to me that Mistreavus doesn't want to continue. Perhaps that thunderstone will be mine all along.”

“How about you give her one more shot of winning it?” A voice hollered out.

Amber turned around. There stood Jason, hands on his hips and smiling, daring Edwin to follow through with his dare.

It was so much easier to be confident when the strong, capable, and handsome Jason was there.

Edwin gawked. “And you are?...”

Jason, continuing to smile, walked over and held his hand out.  “Jason. I'm the friend that Amber was delivering the thunderstone to.” Edwin continued to stare at the athletic Jason, refusing to shake his hand. “I hope you realize you challenged Amber when she only had one Pokémon. The rest were at the pokecenter. Not very good battling etiquette.”

“She agreed to it.” Edwin snapped back. “And a deals a deal, Mr. Ace trainer. Even you should understand that with your thick skull.”

Jason let out an audible sigh, still smiling. Most likely for spite’s sake. “Are your treasures so important to you that you would honestly fight a clearly unfair battle? Even I can tell that Mistreavus is new to battling with a trainer. And pitting a new Pokémon against its weakness its first trainer battle? If you’re going to give someone a chance, you should actually give that someone a chance.”

“Well fine then! If it's you that wants the stone so bad, then battle me with your Pokémon! Don't make someone else do it for you!” Edwin hollered.

Jason’s smile flattened, and he took on a deadly tone. “If I had known earlier that this is what she would have to go through, I would have been here earlier to avoid that.” Finally dropping his hand, he walked over to stand by Amber. “Also, Amber dear, here's Zeus.” he said, handing her a pokeball. “Nurse Joy explained the accident to me, and I sort of figured out what happened from there when you weren't at the food court.”

“Am I really that predictable?”

Jason’s smile came back. “Always dear. Now, if you’ll excuse me….” Poised as always, he tossed a ball up and down in his hand as he turned back to Edwin.  “Are you ready to battle for the thunderstone?”

Edwin’s mouth twitched.  “Ready as I'll ever be. Let's destroy this brat Nuzleaf!”

Jason chuckled. “Interesting nickname for me. Well, here goes nothing!”

Jason threw a curveball with the pokeball, and a Swallow flew out, carrying its pokeball back to Jason before landing on the ground. “Swellow, use double team!” Jason commanded.  

Swellow started circling around the Nuzleaf slowly. But it quickly picked up speed to the point that it looked like there were about six Swellows instead of just one, vibrating in the air.

“Feint attack to your left!” Edwin yelled.

Nuzleaf followed through with the order, only to fall through an image of Swellow.

“Swellow, Arial Ace!”

Suddenly, the circle of Swellows disappeard. Something hit the back of Nuzleaf with a loud thunk! Nuzleaf fell.  Swellow had swooped up behind him, knocked him over, and then flew up into the sky.

Edwin growled. “Razor leaf, now!”

Nuzleaf stood in pain before whipping his head around. Leaves sliced through the air, heading towards Swellow.  Swellow tried her best to weave in and out, but was clipped on the wing.

It didn’t matter.  She was in the perfect position.  Less than three feet over Nuzleaf.

“Wing attack!” Jason ordered.

Swellow dive-bombed Nuzleaf.  There was no time for him to react as Swellow slightly turned left, catching Nuzleaf with his good wing, and tossing Nuzleaf back to his owner.

Nuzleaf didn’t stir.  The battle was won.

Edwin’s chest puffed up, stone clutched in his hand. “This.  Was.  MINE. It was mine from the beginning!” He yelled.

Jason’s mouth twitched into a smile for a moment. It faded just as quickly.  “I don’t care if it was yours or not.  You agreed to give it up if I won.  And I did.”

“You asked me to judge the battle.  And you changed the rules so that he could battle. And he did win.” Isabelle pointed out. Amber had nearly forgotten the lady was even there.

Edwin’s teeth grinded together, his breath heavy. With an anguished “RAUUGH!” he threw the stone to the ground, where it skittered further away from him.  He returned his Nuzleaf to his pokeball before looking at Jason again.  “I won’t forget you.  Next time we battle, I.  Will. Win.”

“Quite frankly my acquaintance, I hope to never see your face again.”  While he said that jokingly, Amber could see his face darken.  “But if you ever mess with Amber again, know that you will see me again.  And you will regret it.”

The two men stared at each other for several moments.  After what seemed like a half an hour to Amber, Edwin let out a huff and headed towards Slateport City.

Jason sighed, and walked over to the thunderstone, picking it up.  “I’m sorry I put you through all of that.”  He turned back around, shining the stone up a bit on his red jacket.

“Well, it’s not like either of us expected it, right?” Amber laughed, nervously.

Jason laughed as well, running his free hand through his thick brown hair.  “I suppose so.  I’m still sorry though dear.”

“What for?”

He sighed.  “Simply because it doesn’t sound like it was the best day for you.  Bike accident, smashed pokeballs, lost thunderstone, arrogant trainers…”

Amber couldn’t help but laugh at the last one, and it made her happy to see that he smiled when she laughed.

His smile relaxed, but his eyebrows scrunched together a little bit.  “Really though.  Can I make your day a little better?  By treating you out to lunch?”

“Like a date?”  Amber asked, a little too hopefully.

He gave a chuckle.  “Like a date.”

Well, I suppose that would make my day better…

She nodded, and he walked back towards her, offered his arm, and they headed back together to Mauville.  As they walked, she carefully leaned closer, eventually resting her head on his shoulder.  And he didn’t shrug it off.  Maybe this meant that she was more than a delivery girl to him.  Maybe he really was a friend.  

And maybe, just maybe, one day they would be dating.

[little-lottie]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @frostbitebakery <333 Here’s a birthday fic for the Steve x Bucky coffee shop meet cute prompt. Hope you enjoy it!

Also based on Seb’s look here

Steve doesn’t need to check his phone to know he’s late, probably even later than he thinks, and he’s decaffeinated, trying to outrun an apocalyptic black cloud that’s hot on his heels and threatening storms.

Rain isn’t the only thing breathing down his neck today either. It’s Tuesday morning, which means his Tuesday morning deadline has tiptoed past the point of pressing and has bolted headlong into the realms of urgency.

Steve’s grumpy, that’s for sure, but he’s not stressed as such. He’ll meet the deadline, because if nothing else, he gets shit done. He knows he’s good at his job, it’s just that some people would like him to be good at it a hell of a lot quicker, and right now his inspiration is running dry. The current job, a concept illustration for a children’s story that’s heavy on both space adventure and morals, is almost complete — there are just a couple of elements that still niggle. Steve takes the last two steps to his favorite coffee shop at a run and reaches the door just as the water hits, a torrential downpour that catches his heels and the back of his jacket as he crosses the threshold. When the door clicks shut behind him, muting the drum roll of rain, it brings other sounds into focus.

Steve thrives on this, the background noise as he works; the hiss of steam, the mechanical grind of coffee beans, the clunk of the group heads slotting into place in the machine. It’s like a soundtrack humming in the back of his mind like white noise. His brain just works better this way, and it’s not like Maria cares where he works, as long as he gets the job done. Wanda waves to him from behind the counter before pulling a face which is probably aimed at the man bumbling for change at the till, but could in all likeliness be directed at Steve. He feels the corners of his lips tug upwards either way.

The smile lands oddly, feels strange on his face like the requisite muscles are only just waking up, resisting as they get to grips with the gesture after hours of frowning. Steve groans because it’s 11am and it’s pretty fucking depressing that this is his first smile of the day.

It’s with a sense of unearned triumph that he settles into the last available window booth and reluctantly puts his laptop bag on the table in front of him. He glares at it, knowing what’s waiting for him when he sets it up and opens the file he needs.

The colors weren’t right the last time he looked, and they still won’t be right when he looks again. Burnt orange isn’t alluring enough for the protagonist’s home planet, a kind of siren-song Saturn that draws passing starships into its orbit. Unless Steve gets a timely hit of inspiration, it will stay that way, hostile and fierce, and not at all what the author intended. Steve rubs his forehead. He really needs a coffee.

That’s when he notices a waiter hovering around the table like an answer; Steve’s very own planetary alignment. He all-too-briefly wonders when the cafe started offering table service, but he shrugs it off. Anything that saves him jockeying for position in line is a win as far as Steve’s concerned.

The guy takes the last step to Steve’s table and starts to speak. “Can I get—?”

“Yes!” Steve cuts in gratefully, the word a relieved rush of breath. “God, yes. Double shot Americano, please.”

It’s at that point Steve looks up properly, takes in bright eyes, long dark hair, broad chest, bite-swollen lips, and everything else beautiful that he can’t fully comprehend all at once.

The waiter blinks slowly, and Steve is just starting to think he’s accidentally asked for the guy’s phone number instead of his coffee when the man’s face lights up in a slow grin.

Steve fidgets in his seat, a hot, fat raindrop of lust falling low in his belly. He tries to keep his composure but a blush sells him out.

The guy purses his lips as though he’s trying to tame a smile and says, “Sure.” His voice is husky and rough, yet it somehow soothes all the spiky edges of Steve’s morning personality. “You want milk?” A simple yes or no would do it, but Steve hasn’t found his voice just yet. He knows it won’t be hiding in the depths of sparkling gray-blue eyes, but at least now he knows exactly what color that planet should be. The guy waits patiently, completely unaware that Steve’s an idiot who thinks that maybe he’s just found his muse.

“No, thank you,” Steve answers eventually, too late to be considered normal, and pulls his laptop out with renewed enthusiasm. If he doesn’t, he’ll watch the guy’s ass all the way back to the counter. To the backdrop of chinking crockery and chatter, Steve opens his file and starts coloring. He tries to focus on the job and not the gorgeous new waiter — he must be new because Steve comes in every week, and let’s face it, Steve would definitely remember seeing him.

On his left, a mug is placed on the table. There are words of gratitude on his tongue, but he stumbles in confusion when a plate slides down alongside it. He looks between the man and the plate, where a tempting apple turnover is sitting pretty and begging to be devoured. “Umm…” Steve glances up to find the waiter standing there with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, looking expectant and arguably more delicious than the pastry. “I didn’t order this.” “No,” the man says through a huff of laughter. “But technically, you didn’t order the coffee either.” “Huh?” Opposite him, the man slides into the booth, light bouncing off his shirt and drenching his eyes with even more blue.

Steve’s eyes dart left and right, looking for whatever it is he’s missed. The guy waits, nips the side of his bottom lip, and says, “So… can I get my jacket now?” “Your what? Wait—what?” Then Steve realizes he’s leaning against something. Something leather, with zippers. Something that looks very much like a jacket. Finally it clicks. “You don’t have a name badge.” The man’s grin widens. “Oh shit. You don’t work here do you?” “Nope.” The guy looks so smugly amused as it is, he doesn’t even bother to pop the p.

Steve should apologize, grovel, accept this moment of mortification, but this is the exact situation that forces that chip on his shoulder. He’s annoyed with himself, and this guy, with his unaccountably hot hair and breathtaking jaw line that Steve wants to trace with his thumb, and his teeth, and maybe also…

This is definitely a problem. Steve decides to throw some sarcasm at it. “Make yourself comfortable.” The guy’s grin doesn’t waver, but he does throw a look of disbelief Steve’s way. “Wait, are you actually pissed because I brought you breakfast?” It seems unreasonable now, but Steve’s sticking with it for the time being. It’s probably petulant to come right out and say yes, so Steve ends up huffing through his nose like one of the indignant purple space dragons on his screen.

The guy laughs on a gulp of coffee and Steve wistfully hopes he might do something embarrassing like splutter, if only to break Steve out of the infatuation he seems to be developing.

Steve waits, then sighs as the man recovers with his dignity still intact. Figures.

“You always this much of an asshole when someone does something nice for you?”

Steve meets his eyes when he says, “Yeah,” and hopes his face says what of it. “But, I genuinely thought… I wasn’t trying to get you to pay for me.”

“Too late,” he replies firmly. “Drink your coffee.”

Steve watches the man lick across his bottom lip, a path he’d like to trace for himself, eyes lingering when he knows they shouldn’t. He hasn’t felt like drawing for himself for months. Now he’s opening a new canvas and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“I’m Bucky, by the way.”

Blinking stupidly, Steve drags his eyes up from the screen. “Steve,” he offers stiffly in return.

The smile he receives in response is quite possibly the most stunning he’s ever seen. ~ They don’t talk for a full fifteen minutes, but Bucky doesn’t leave either. Every now and then, Steve steals a surreptitious little glance and adjusts the sketch, and his pants, accordingly.

Steve’s squinting at the screen when Bucky shifts, clearing his throat quietly. “What are you doing?”

“Work,” he mumbles, glaring at the turnover which isn’t really fair because it’s not the pastry’s fault that Steve’s obsessing over the perfect lines of Bucky’s hair, the way the strands should curl just a little around his ears.

Bucky makes a noise around his mug. “Wow, don’t hold back,” he snarks, but he doesn’t look pissed at all.

Steve’s eyes flick up. He’s just as startled this time around as the first time he set eyes on him, and every reference check in between. “I’m not telling you my life story. You could be anyone.” Bucky narrows his eyes and tips his head in consideration. “Alright, first off, if work is your life, that sucks. Second, how do you make friends if you never speak to strangers? ‘Anyone’ has to become someone somehow.” Steve thinks of a few quick fire comebacks, but they’ll lack the required punch if he can’t look this guy in the eye when he delivers them. Which he can’t, because Bucky’s too damn beautiful. He sits in silence instead. “Forget I asked,” says Bucky, shaking out a sugar packet and ripping the end with his teeth. He doesn’t put his hands up in surrender, but Steve gets the idea all the same. “I’m an illustrator,” Steve concedes, more willingly than his tone lets on. “Fiction books mainly.” “Really?” Bucky’s face suddenly becomes animated as he leans forward on his elbows, voice excited and Brooklyn heavy. “What’s that one about?” “A cute kids book about aliens. It sounds trite, but it’s actually really good. I’ve worked out one of the issues, but there’s still something missing.” He inclines his head to the window where droplets chase each other down the pane; feinting, sliding, mapping paths in a stop-go pattern of rainy day gloom. “I’m not feeling landscapes today.” Bucky sits there for a while and Steve wonders if he’s zoned out, uninterested.

“Well,” Bucky says after another beat, “it rains on Venus.” He offers the information with a tiny shrug, almost like he’s embarrassed, but he expands anyway. “It’s sulfuric acid and mostly it evaporates before it hits the ground, but something like that could maybe look good.” Steve pauses as a little spark ignites and catches. “That’s perfect,” he mutters, sliding his glasses back on. He’s so focused he almost misses the delighted flush on Bucky’s cheeks. ~ Steve gets absorbed in beguiling blue planets and portrait sketches alike, darting from one file to the other with a twitch of the mouse when he panics that Bucky might be able to see through the back of the monitor and catch him out. When he next looks up, the rain has lightened to a steady pitter patter, and Bucky is watching the world outside with a dedicated fascination. Steve follows his line of sight, wants to see what he sees, but his eyes are only focused on the short range, the boundaries of which seem to encompass a half meter radius around Bucky. On the glass, the raindrops join together, slide faster. “So you’re not a barista?” Steve asks, if only to get Bucky talking again. “Actually, yes,” the guy smiles, turning to Steve as though he wasn’t as lost to the view as Steve thought. “Not here though. I’ve just moved back into the neighborhood.” He shrugs. “I’m avoiding unpacking, but don’t tell my conscience — it thinks I’m here because I don’t know where I packed the coffee.” Steve grins. “Your conscience is gullible. Everyone knows you should always label the kitchen box.” “Well, exactly.” Steve’s brain skitters and he wonders if it’s possible to absorb Bucky’s laugh into his skin. Like lifting a stuck stereo needle, he shakes his head and goes to ask Bucky where he’s moved from, but his phone interrupts.

“My boss,” Steve says off-hand, flicking the phone an inch to the right where it proves to be just as irritating. “She probably wants to know what my status is on this job.” “What is your status?” “Annoyed.”

Bucky laughs in surprise, fizzing Steve’s blood like a caffeine hit.

“She can wait. The client doesn’t want to see the first concept until tomorrow anyway.” “I can leave,” Bucky suggests. His tone is light but Steve can tell he’s sincere. “If I’m, you know, intruding.” Steve laughs. He can’t help it, because technically Bucky is intruding. But so is Steve — this was Bucky’s table before it was his.

Steve’s still chuckling, and Bucky is narrowing his eyes on a smile as though he doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

“No,” Steve assures him, maintaining eye contact. “You’re alright there.”

They hold each other’s gaze, unclear if they’re flirting or just engaging in a standoff, until the spell breaks when Steve misjudges the distance to the table and puts his cup down a little too forcefully.

Bucky grins. “I’m distracting you though, right?”

Keeping his smile under wraps, Steve reaches for the sugar, wondering if his back and bicep are flexing in the same way Bucky’s did earlier. Steve can feel Bucky staring, and takes a little while longer finding the right sachet.

When he turns back around, he catches Bucky in the process of pretending he’s been reading his book all along. The last bitter edges of Steve’s bad mood evaporate like acid rain. ~ At some point during the last third of his coffee, he leans back, looks at the art as a whole and nods with satisfaction. He’s not too proud to admit that the sci-fi rain is the detail that really makes it. Bucky looks absorbed again, this time in his book, and the truth is, Steve wants him back.

“So, you live…?” He trails off, unsure where he wants to take the sentence now Bucky’s eyes are on him again. “Nearby?” Bucky offers when Steve fails to finish. “Alone?” he adds as an alternative in a low, teasing voice. Steve ducks his head. He knows he’s blushing a little under the attention. He’s waiting for the guy to notice, to drop the flirty banter and the punch line, and leave with the half eaten pastry. Instead Bucky is tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and he almost looks a bit charmed. Steve watches Bucky’s fingers run through his hair again, then follows the sweep of his cheek back to his eyes. They’re bluer now. It could be the bright beam of sun cracking through the clouds, but it could equally be mischief. Steve finds himself moving to adjust the gray-blue orb on his screen; he’s going to need a shade from somewhere amongst the palettes he’s previously used for Mediterranean seas and butterfly wings.

Meanwhile, he still hasn’t finished that damn sentence. “Whatever you want to tell me,” he shrugs with a crooked smile to match, “I could be anyone.”

“Or someone,” Bucky says, flicking his eyes up to meet Steve’s with an air of punctuation. Bucky closes his teeth down on his lip, and Steve feels the sharp pinch as he mirrors the action. “I live two blocks from here.” “Cool.” Bucky grins through a squint, playfully mocking. “Very cool.”

Steve rolls his eyes, for lack of something smoother to do, and Bucky laughs.

“It’s really nothing,” Bucky continues, rubbing his knuckles along the scruff of his jaw. “An empty shell and a pretty shitty one at that. I need to get furniture. I don’t even think I actually packed coffee so my conscience can rest easy.” Steve feels himself staring, watching the way Bucky smiles, devil may care, and how he stretches his arm over the back of the chair, shirt fabric stretching even more. He wants to kiss him, wonders what it would feel like to help that shirt out a little. Thinks that maybe the daydream of holding Bucky’s weight to a wall with his hips as they moan into each others’ mouths is the hottest thought he’s ever had. Opposite him, Bucky remains unkissed, picking up stray sugar crystals from the rim of his mug with a tongue moistened fingertip and delivering them into his mouth. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it. Steve gapes while a whole new daydream gatecrashes his mind. Steve needs to occupy himself before he loses it completely. As he slides across the bench, Bucky startles.

“Cutting out on our date?” “Call me old school, but this isn’t what I’d call a date.” Bucky leans back, all broad shoulders and sunshine smiles. “What would you call it?” “An embarrassing misunderstanding.” “The start of every good rom-com,” Bucky intones. Steve sucks on his cheeks to keep his lips from curling with amusement, and pulls his face into an expression of disagreement. “You witnessed it too, right?” He bends to grab his wallet and hide his smile. “I’m getting another drink.” “Cappuccino, please,” Bucky orders casually. Steve looks at him incredulously. “I’ll take a muffin with that.” “Will you?” Steve challenges. Part of him is tempted to tell Bucky to get his own coffee just to be a jerk, but he genuinely likes the guy. “Eat in or takeout?” He tries to hide any inflection that might expose his preference either way. “Well your stuff’s still on my jacket so I guess it depends on what you’re doing,” Bucky smirks, shameless about his lack of subtlety.

Steve turns to the counter with a smirk of his own. The queue is clear when he gets to the till. Wanda is leaning on the worktop, chin in hand, following Steve’s progress as if she’s been watching their table for far too long. Her knowing smile says it all.

Steve sighs. “He told you didn’t he?”

Her lips turn down in a parody of sympathy for approximately two seconds before they curl back up again. “Seriously, Steve. Since when do we offer table service?”

“I know, I know,” he groans. He feels like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Wanda.

Her low giggle follows her as she moves to start the drinks, but she still glances over her shoulder especially to tell him, “We could have a lot of fun with this.”

He tries for his best deadpan tone when he says, “We could, but let’s not.”

She turns her delighted grin back to the milk.

With Wanda busy, Steve finds his gaze pulled back towards the window, drawn by the gravity of one particular booth where a shock of morning sun has barged through the storm clouds to frame Bucky’s shoulders and spill in his hair.

Steve sucks in a breath. There’s an easy way out if he wants it, but he’s not really one for easy.

~

Steve returns to the table with fire in his belly and a decision made.

As he approaches, Bucky looks up and around quickly, hair flicking away from his face with a little whoosh. Steve can’t help wondering what it would look like fanned out on his pillow.

Steve puts a takeout cappuccino in front of him with one hand and holds out his leather jacket with the other.

Bucky’s brow flickers into a frown, eyebrows drawing in because he thinks this is his cue to leave. He blinks like he’s startled and disappointed and trying not to show it. It’s obvious he’s wondering whether he’s misread this entire encounter. Steve doesn’t like being on the instigating end of that look. “Figured if you wanted some help unpacking those boxes, we better get the drinks to go,” he says, lifting his own takeout cup. Bucky’s frown wavers, transforms into another full beam smile; the best yet. “You can help?” “I think I can lift a few boxes,” Steve says, tilting his head and his smile. Bucky skips the obvious joke about Steve’s bulk, doesn’t even look him up and down, and Steve’s impressed. “Nah, I meant because of your deadline.” “I, uh, actually finished the job,” and yeah, Steve’s a little bit shocked himself. He opens his mouth to speak again, words ready and willing to help him dig his grave, possibly force a foot in there too. “You umm, helped. You know… inspiration.” He pauses, can’t look in Bucky’s direction because nothing good will come of him seeing Steve blush. “Or something,” he adds, before clearing his throat. Bucky doesn’t laugh like Steve thought he might. His voice is still playful, but softer, when he says, “Does that make me your muse?” Steve groans, follows the grooves of his cardboard cup with a finger to stop himself reaching over the table. “Thanks for making this infinitely worse. Do you want my help or not? I’ll unpack anything but your underwear,” he jokes. “I don’t wanna sort through that box.” “You might when you see what’s in it,” Bucky purrs with a filthy grin.

Mind tripping happily, Steve finds he doesn’t actually want to argue with that.

“Sorry, should strangers not say things like that?” Bucky teases.

Steve’s lips are happy to play out a responding grin. “Shut up, Bucky, we’re going.”

The way Bucky rushes to his feet makes Steve laugh all the way out the door.

[silverbulletkun-blog]

Haikyuu! S1 Episode 24.

Well, here goes. The intense episode where @mugirara did not manage to catch with me.  

Kageyama flies in the air. Time seems to stand as both oikawa and Tobio reaches... inches to get to the ball.

One hand toss! - says Oikawa

Kageyama moves away and reveals Hinata approaching fast -WHOOSH! BAM! He spikes the ball in. Another point for Karasuno!    

~Episode 24: Removing The "Solitary King”~

The score is tied at 24 even, 3rd set. Deuce. It's proving to be a hell of a battle to move to the next round.

Seijoh’s cheering squad are going all out in cheering. We see both teams on time out and assuring each other before getting back on court again. Hinata tells Kageyama that he is going to go for as many broad attacks as possible until he makes one. Kageyama nods in determination as if to say yes, I will make sure you succeed in that attack.

The attacks get furious with each team blocking nicely and connecting their plays well. Hinata runs all over the court. And when I mean all over - I do mean all over. He is going as broad as possible. So from one end to another, he sprints across and jumps. But his jumps are losing power and Kageyama panics as he realizes that the ball he sets is a little off.

However Hinata stretches his hand a bit more and hits it. The ball passes over the blocker and Karasuno gets the first point after the deuce.

The game is just starting to heat up. Aoba Johsai calms down and sets their focus once more. One point. Back to another deuce. Oikawa prepares to serve again. He is more determined than ever. One more point and that’s it. He runs and gives a jump serve. It's fast. It's strong. GOOOO NISHINOYA.

OUT!

I thought that would be it for Karasuno but it looks like Oikawa is panicking too. Oikawa's teammates stand strong together. They scored one point thanks to Iwai during Karasuno's serve and it nullifies the mistake Oikawa made. 

Yes, IWAI!!! You are sooo cool! >< He just saved his team from breaking down.

The game goes on. Each team scoring one point after the other and nobody is backing down.

My reaction on the flight. GAHHHH! When is it going to end!?

Current score; 31:31. Both teams are still at it. The Karasuno's volleyball seniors are anxious, looking at the match. Karasuno is barely keeping it together and their attacks are getting simpler and similarly Seijoh is putting a strong front both mentally and physically.

The next thing we know, it has gone one full rotation and we are back to Oikawa serving the next play.

The nerves are really getting to Oikawa and his best friend must have noticed it. He advices Oikawa and reminds him of his true opponents. It looks like it works. Oikawa seems to be remember every small detail of him playing volleyball and he hits a strong one.

Reliable Daichi catches the ball with an underhand and the play continues. Karasuno brings the ball to the other side of the court. While Seijoh are setting up their play, Karasuno thinks hard about their next move. Don’t fall for their decoy. Quick? or is It the Ace? 

However, the ball heads to the left and Kumini jumps in the air. Flashback to Junior high. Kageyama is frustrated at Kumini who refuses to exert extra effort in the game. Why run for the ball if he knows it’s not going to work or will go to him?

Flashback to another training session; Oikawa lectures Kumini. Only this time it's different. He understands why Kumini doesn't want to go for all the jumps and even goes so far to say that it is his strength. But then, he retorts. However, of the team is down, he will make sure Kumini will work double the effort to make up for it all. (Why isn't he this kind to TOBIO?! WHY OIKAWA WHYYYYY?)

Oikawa sets the ball again and it goes to Kumini once more. Karasuno’s blockers jump and Kumini pulls a lethal move. A Feint.

Seijoh leads by one point.

Oh my baby!!!! My poor confused Kageyama.

Oh yes Hinata, THANK YOU! He tries to snap Kageyama out of his thoughts - even to the point of saying that it is obvious that Oikawa is better than him. He is THE GRAT KING. The name itself warrants it. What do you expect? LMAOOOOOO. WAY TO GO HINATA. #Friendshipgoals

Karasuno members support Kageyamaby shouting words of encouragement. Even Suga who plays the same position. Oh, did I mention - I love SUGA as well?

My dear king coolly sheds off the king’s garment and walks proudly to his team.  GO TOBIO! GO KAGEYAMA!  

Ok, back to seriousness. The game continues. It goes from one court to another. It’s One Touch after one touch and chance ball after chance ball. 

Turnip head vs Hinata.

Nishinoya saves the ball.

Three blockers  on standby. Hinata eyes after the ball.

Kageyama sets the ball.

Hinata Spikes it.

......

And I think he just spiked it to my heart.

What? Did they just lose?  NO WAY. NOT TODAY.

.....

Karasuno team is still shocked over what had happened. Suga takes the lead. (thank you Suga T.T ). Apparently, Oikawa knows tobio inside out and predicted his move. Daichi regains his composure and lead the team in thanking all the supporters. Oh, the tears are so real. Why aren’t my boys crying or angry?

Oikawa and Iwai both realizes how much Kagemaya had grown. I don’ t know if they are proud or are more shocked at it.

Meanwhile Karasuno prepares for their debrief of the match. Hinata calls for Kageyama as the latter doesn't look like he will move. Kageyama moves slowly, apologizing for making the last move. He should have known better that they would have read him and that move to Hinata is the most obvious.

Hinata flared and jumped on Kageyama. A brawl almost breaks out but thank goodness, sensei came just in time to break them apart. He explains a very important point to the pair - about how it was a worthwhile match and only the strong gets off their hands and kness to fight once more after they lost.

Coach brings the whole team to eat and everyone watches in confusion. They didn’t even win - a fully paid meal is just not right, you know?

Slowly, one by one they thank for their food and eats. OH MY HEART BREAKS EVEN MORE. IT’S SO SAD.

Eat... Eat... A little at a time. But, be sure...

...to grow stronger

OK, you have to understand. I was on a flight and when this episode was playing, the flight was reaching Singapore and it was going to land. I was praying for this episode to finish before I had to keep my phone away. And I think the air stewardess looked at me weirdly for having tears in my eyes, sobbing.

Oh, all the feels. I love sooo many characters in this episode and season. I even came to like Oikawa. He is just someone who works damn hard, does not discredit his team mates. He listens to his friends... oh, and yes, the occasional stuck up attitude, and the watchful (mean) attitude to opponents taking over his positions, which I have to say is a beautiful flaw of his. It just makes his efforts more precious. Overcompensation in every way possible cause that’s is his strength.

Let’s not go to Kageyama - I love him to bits. All that talent but doesn’t know how to harness it. Learning to work together. Finding a camaraderie who now is his best friend (I hope).   

When they lost, story plot wise; it should be obvious right? I mean the first official team match heading to the finals. All the other sports / competitive shows has the same formulae. But this anime is different. From the music used, the characters, the pauses, the silence. It just brings you in and you still want to root for Karasuno.

When they lost, I could feel the third year’s anguish. When Suga took the lead, asking the team to line up. It was just surreal. He knew damn well that it was the end but he is still the big brother of the team. Daichi after leading the team in thanking the spectators. His disappointed look...

I knew it affected everyone but I feel that the first and second years still can make up for it. I trust that they are strong, determined and will make me proud. The third years... I want to see them making it to Nationals.

The next episode covers how they overcome the loss. Their previous official match loss shook the team so bad that Akashi hid in fear. We all saw how Kageyama and Hinata went for each other at the end. I hope their relationship gets stronger.

Well, you wanted to know my reaction of episode 24. Here it is.

I had to calm myself down before I got to the gates.

[thefoxholecourtgames-blog]

CHAMPIONSHIPS GAME 03: PALMETTO STATE FOXES vs. NEVADA TORNADOES

PRE-GAME

A Championships game means a Friday of missed classes. The Foxes head to Upstate Regional Airport in the morning to make the nearly eight-hour journey to Vegas, which includes an hour-long layover in Houston. The team splits up upon landing and retrieving their gear from baggage claim, onto one bus driven by Wymack and another driven by Abby, while the Vixens, who had been on the same flight, pile into yet another rented van. The University of Nevada stadium is only a few short miles from the airport, but they head to their hotel first: to drop off their things, eat dinner in the hotel restaurant and, if possible, nap. With the three-hour time difference, first serve is effectively at ten-thirty for the Foxes, and the game will only go further into the night. 

An hour before first serve, they drive over to the Tornadoes’ stadium, donning their orange-on-white away uniforms and then gathering in the lounge for a pep talk from Wymack. After their defeat against the Ravens, it has more effort in it than usual—and an uncharacteristic amount of positivity that suggests that Abby might have had a hand in writing it. You know how to win, so go out there and do it. Get on the court and put it all on the line, play like you know you can, and you won’t lose.  

Meanwhile, spectators file in to fill the stadium. This far away from Palmetto, there isn’t a lot of orange in the packed stands, and the Vixens don’t find a warm welcome as they attempt to rile up the crowd. Everyone seems to be cheering for Nevada—but it’s more than that, they’re rooting against the Foxes, hoping that this is the game that will send them back to South Carolina and out of the Championships. 

Half an hour before first serve, the Foxes are allowed onto the court for a brief warm-up. They line up in order of position—Strikers, then Dealers, then Backliners, then Goalkeepers, with Grant and Claudia in the front as Captain and Vice-Captain—and enter the stadium. After the warm-up, Grant meets the Tornadoes’ captain at center court for the coin toss that will determine who gets first serve. The Foxes win the toss, and the starting players take their positions for the start of play, while the rest take their spots on the bench—including Logan, sitting out of the most critical game of the Championships so far due to a red card in the Foxes’ last game against the Ravens. 

FIRST HALF

STARTING LINEUP:

Goalkeeper: Cameron Trask (Sub: Cecil James)

Dealer: Marley Reid (Subs: River Tate, Goodday Jones)

Strikers: Joel Carlyle, Arlo Booth 

Backliners: Zia Mendez, Colin Jessup (Sub: Justin Acevedo)

Wymack sends his starting players onto the court with clear instructions: play hard, and create a point gap in the first half so they aren’t left trying to play catch-up in the second. 

Marley serves up the court to Joel to start the half, and the Foxes play hard right out of the gate, clashing with the Tornadoes defense from the outset, pushing towards the home goal. 

Lacking a clear shot on goal, Joel manages to get a pass off to Arlo, who uses nine steps to carry him closer to the Tornadoes goal and the tenth to send himself into the air, firing a shot over the head of the other Tornadoes backliner, the goal lighting up red before he even hits the ground—taking the Tornadoes backliner with him, in a hard collision that seems worth it for the first point of the night.

Marley serves again to start play, but the Tornadoes are better prepared this time and able to stop the Foxes from advancing up the court, turning over possession and putting pressure on the Fox defense. 

All of Zia and Colin’s well-honed chemistry on the court is on full display tonight, holding the Tornadoes strikers back behind the far-court line. But what starts off as fun quickly sours when a frustrated Tornadoes striker decides that baiting Zia might be more effective than trying to get around her—and, with the Winter Banquet video and the Penn State scandal back in the news, he has the perfect ammunition. 

There’s only so much of it Zia can tolerate. When she snaps, it’s in the blink of an eye, the ball forgotten between them as Zia takes the first swing. At first, Colin is preoccupied with his own striker mark, but once he realizes what’s happening he’s dropping his racquet and joining the fray, the other Tornadoes’ striker right behind him. 

The other closest Foxes, Cameron in the goal and Marley near center court, try to urge the Fox backliners to stop before the referees throw them both out of the game, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect. It takes the referees streaming onto the court to break it up and, when they do, Zia is given an uncharacteristic red card, Colin is given a yellow, and the Tornadoes are awarded a penalty shot. 

Zia walks off the court with her head held high, despite the boos from the overwhelmingly pro-Nevada crowd, passing Justin on his way in to take her place. On the Fox bench, Wymack doesn’t bother chastising her—he can already guess what had happened on the court. 

The Tornadoes striker that Zia had hit steps up to take the penalty shot for the Tornadoes against Cameron. Determined not to let in more shots this season than she has already, she steels herself in goal. When the striker shoots, she blocks the shot, and blocks it hard, satisfied at the way it seems to rattle the court when it rebounds harmlessly off one of the walls. 

The Tornadoes dealer serves to restart play and when the ball lands in a Tornadoes striker’s racquet, Justin is there to intercept. He’s rattled from having received a letter from his biological parents, but it doesn’t seem to show until the Tornadoes striker checks him into the wall and he freezes instead of shaking it off as he usually does. 

Justin’s hesitation allows the Tornadoes striker to take a shot in on goal—which Cameron luckily blocks—and though he throws himself back into the game, it’s obvious that his head is somewhere else, and every time he’s checked it seems to get worse—a fact which his striker mark seems to seize on, ramping up his aggression.

A dirty stick check—which leaves Justin’s fingers caught in between racquets, only the armor of his gloves protecting him from more serious damage—leads to the Tornadoes striker being given a yellow card and play being reset to the half-court line, with the Foxes serving. During the pause as play restarts, Cameron darts from the goal to talk to Justin, and when they part and take their places for the restart of play, Justin’s stance is far more determined. 

Marley’s serve is huge, forcing both of the Fox strikers to sprint off of their marks to get to it. Joel gets there first, bowling over a Tornadoes backliner on the way to the ball—and does it again when his first shot is blocked by the Tornadoes goalkeeper, sending the other backliner to the ground in a skirmish for the ball that ends with Joel stealing possession and another shot on goal—one that lights the goal up red, earning the Foxes their second point. 

Wymack uses the pause in play to send in his subs: River for Marley, and Cecil for Cameron. They take their positions, and River serves up the court to the Fox strikers. It isn’t until later, when the Tornadoes steal possession and River runs up toward the half court line to try and intercept their dealer that they realize that the face behind the visor is a familiar one—and one that isn’t welcome, a former teammate from Indiana. 

At first, River tries to ignore the feeling of unease in the pit of their stomach, their recognition only serving to put slightly more force behind their check as they steal back possession, sending the Tornadoes dealer to the ground. But it becomes clear that the Tornadoes dealer remembers River, as well, and is more than willing to remind them of a time and a name they’d rather forget. 

They won’t stand for it, and it isn’t long before a fight breaks out, attention swiveling their way when River’s racquet strikes the wooden floor of the court before they’re brawling over the half-court line. Arlo is there as soon as he can be to try and pull River back, but it isn’t enough: when the referees open the court doors it’s to give River a red card and award the Tornadoes a penalty shot. 

Still shaking with anger, River exits the court, not meeting the confused and concerned eyes of their teammates as they silently take their spot on the bench. As a Tornadoes striker steps up for their penalty shot, Goodday is sent onto the court to take River’s place. 

Over halfway through the half, and the Tornadoes have yet to get a point on the board. As Cecil stares at the Tornadoes striker, readying to take the shot, he intends to keep it that way. The striker feints, but Cecil isn’t fooled, managed to put his racquet squarely in the path of the ball, denying the Tornadoes yet another point. 

The Tornadoes dealer serves to restart play—but, the second the ball lands in a Tornadoes striker’s net, Goodday is there with a stick check that pops the ball free. As Goodday keeps the striker at bay, Justin swoops in, scooping up the ball and throwing it up the court with as much force as possible. 

Arlo is there to intercept it, too fast for the Tornadoes backliners to keep up with. A lightning-fast series of passes between him and Joel carry them closer to the Tornadoes goal, and ends with Arlo securing the Foxes yet another point, extending their lead.    

Goodday serves, but this time Arlo’s advance up the court is stopped by a Tornadoes backliner, who checks him to the ground and steals possession. The Tornadoes, still at zero points with the half rapidly winding down, push against the Fox defense. The Tornadoes’ lucky break comes when Colin’s striker mark sends him careening into the court wall, and in the time it takes him to get back to his feet, the Tornadoes have scored against Cecil.

Shaking off the concern of his teammates, Colin takes his place for the Tornadoes’ serve with only two minutes left on the clock. The Tornadoes serve, and this time he and Justin don’t let them get past the far-court line, stealing back possession and getting the ball to Goodday, who heaves it up the court and squarely into Joel’s racquet.  With hardly any time on the clock, Joel sprints for the Tornadoes goal, earning the Foxes one more point moments before the buzzer sounds.

At the end of the first half, the score shows a comfortable lead for the Foxes: 4:1.

HALFTIME

The Foxes retreat to the Away team locker room, slapping each other on the back with tentative elation. It wasn’t a perfect half, but they did what they set out to do: created a point gap that’s in their favor. And now, for the second half, they just have to hold onto it. Wymack congratulates them but, with two red cards in the first half, also gives them a stern warning: they can’t be too reckless, they can’t sacrifice too many players to win, because then they’ll be sabotaging themselves in the death match when they don’t even know who their opponent will be. Back in the stadium, the Vixens take to the court for halftime, keeping smiles on their faces even though the crowd is nearly hostile, overwhelmingly in support of the team that’s currently losing. After fifteen minutes, the Foxes are called back to the court and retake their places for the restart of play. 

SECOND HALF

STARTING LINEUP:

Goalkeeper: Eliana Felix (Sub: Grant Rollins)

Dealer: Claudia Jewell (Sub: Teddy Ryker)

Strikers: Jay Wright, Francesca Salvador (Sub: Akira Sato)

Backliners: Casey Hendrix, Sydney McCray (Sub: Ryuu Stevenson)

They can still lose the game in the second half, it’s true—but the Foxes, after halftime, are in the position they want to be in, and they take the court with palpable confidence, while the Tornadoes are obviously shaken. 

Claudia serves to start the half, and the Foxes press their advantage. Francesca sprints to catch Claudia’s serve, shouldering a Tornadoes backliner into the wall on her way with barely a pause. When her ten steps are up, Jay is right there to catch her pass—and perfectly positioned to turn it into a point for the Foxes, only a few minutes into the half. 

Francesca and Jay don’t bother pretending to be humble as they make their way back to their positions for the Foxes’ serve, clacking sticks and gloating, to the visible frustration of the Tornadoes within earshot. 

Claudia serves again, and this time Jay can’t get very far with the ball before one of the Tornadoes backliners checks him hard to the ground, stealing possession and finding time after he’s passed the ball to do some gloating of his own while Jay’s down. Jay doesn’t let it phase him, getting to his feet an brushing himself off like he’s not in the middle of a critical championship game—and, somehow, managing to get the last word in. 

The Tornadoes seize their momentary advantage, their strikers and dealer pushing their way up the court, a little more reckless with their checks in hopes of getting a chance to score. Sydney grapples for possession with her striker mark, but loses it as her stick is wrenched from her hands, jolting her arms from wrists to elbows and forcing her to let go. 

Casey evades his own striker mark and sprints for the goal and, though his momentum carries them both to the ground, he’s a second too late, and the Tornadoes striker has already taken the shot. 

The Fox goalkeepers have been on fire tonight, and Eliana is no exception: though the shot comes in fast and towards the opposite corner of the goal from her racquet, she dives for it and manages to clear it. 

The ball, however, doesn’t travel far from the Fox goal, and a Tornadoes striker is on it before either Sydney and Casey can react—but Eliana manages to block the second shot from the ground, a save that sends the crowd booing, but makes the Foxes on the bench cheer and pound the wall in approval. 

This time, Casey is there to clear the ball and help Eliana to her feet, but when she puts weight on her ankle her leg threatens to give out, Casey’s presence the only thing that stops her from falling again. On the Fox bench, Sebastian is the first to notice, getting the referees’ attention and making them halt play. 

Casey helps Eliana limp over to the Away doors, but she shakes him off halfway, gritting her teeth and trying to prove that she can stay on the court. It doesn’t fly with Wymack. Over her objections, he sends her right to Abby and Talia to be examined and, though there’s nothing immediately wrong with it despite the dramatic nature of her fall, Wymack sends Grant into the goal in her stead. 

Play is restarted from where it was halted, with the Tornadoes in possession. Sydney quickly changes that, grappling with her striker mark and stealing the ball back, throwing it up the court to Claudia, who is immediately beset by the Tornadoes dealer. 

Claudia holds on, gritting her teeth against the dealer’s attempts to wrest her racquet from her hands and, without the space to make a clear pass, just hurls the ball as far up the court as she can, forcing Jay and Francesca to sprint for it. Jay gets there first while Francesca tangles with the Tornadoes backliners, giving Jay just the diversion he needs for, after passing off the court wall to himself for another ten steps, scoring his second point of the night. 

The score is 6-1 and the crowd is already thinning, Nevada fans giving up on the possibility of their team making a comeback. The Foxes, however, are electric, and ready to play right down to the buzzer, ready to turn a victory into a bloodbath. Wymack uses the halt in play to make some substitutions to his lineup, sending Teddy on for Claudia, Ryuu for Sydney, and Akira for Francesca.   

Remembering his father in the stands during their last game and their conversation afterward, it hardly matters to Teddy that they’re winning. He serves, and he channels his anger into aggravating the other team, keeping up a steady stream of insults and snide remarks, plays that stay just on the right side of legal but are a nuisance nonetheless, tripping his opponents or wrenching their racquets right out of their hands. 

The Tornadoes are frustrated and desperate, and easy prey for Teddy’s baiting. The first time a Tornadoes player scrambles to their feet after Teddy’s tripped them and punches him, Casey is there to put himself in between—but Teddy isn’t even trying to hit back, just grinning behind his helmet as the Tornadoes dealer spits and curses. 

But Teddy gets what he wanted: the referees give the Tornadoes dealer a red card and award the Foxes a penalty shot, which Akira steps up to take. The Tornadoes goalkeeper dives to block his shot, made at the bottom right corner of the goal, but is just a second too slow, earning the Foxes another point. 

The Foxes retake their positions—Casey warning Teddy to be careful before jogging back to the far court line, a warning that Teddy ignores—he serves to restart play and opposite him is a fresh Tornadoes dealer, and a new target. And the second time a fight breaks out between Teddy and a Tornadoes dealer, the referees don’t care that Teddy hadn’t hit back, and give both him and the opposing dealer yellow cards. 

Play is restarted, and the Tornadoes manage to steal possession in a last-ditch effort to put at least one point on the board for the half. But it hardly matters: even when they are able to get around Casey and Ryuu, Grant is formidable in the goal, batting away their increasingly desperate last-minute shots with ease.   

It’s to their credit that they don’t give up, battling down to the last second, but it doesn’t make a difference at all, a fact which Teddy unkindly reminds the opposing Tornadoes dealer of—the same one he’d started a fight with once before. It lands him in yet another fight, dropped racquets and hands digging into his chest and shoving, the skirmish going unnoticed for a few moments as the buzzer sounds and the Foxes turn to each other in celebration. 

It’s Casey who notices first, and he pulls Teddy back again and into the Fox huddle at center court as the rest of the Foxes stream onto the court and join in, leaving the Tornadoes to stew on their own without a convenient outlet for their anger at their dashed hopes.  

In the Fox huddle, Marley jumps into Eliana’s arms and kisses her, to the raucous cheers of their closest teammates—and, with the number of cameras flashing all around, there’s no way that it went unnoticed. 

The Foxes are through to the second round, and the Tornadoes are out of the Championships, and the score wasn’t even close. The Foxes win decisively: 7:1. 

POST-GAME

It takes a long time for the celebration on the court to die down. The Foxes had needed to win tonight and, in a faraway state and in front of a hostile crowd, they had done it. Eventually, they’re able to gather themselves and meet the Tornadoes for the handshake line, but they still can’t quite bring themselves to wipe the elation off their faces when faced with their opponents’ dejection. 

They head into the away locker room, where Wymack puts Casey and Teddy on press duty and, as they take their seats to talk to the gathered reporters—and, after their victory, there are a lot of them—the rest of the team heads into their locker rooms.

The rest of the team showers and changes out, and then gathers in the lounge to wait for Teddy and Casey to join them. Once they do, they all load their gear into their rented vans and head back to the hotel, most of them eager to get their post-game celebration started. Back at the hotel, Wymack and Abby quickly make themselves scarce, locking themselves behind their do not disturb signs with only a few parting warnings: don’t get arrested, and don’t miss your flight tomorrow. 

Though the time difference is substantial, making it feel much later than it actually is, the Foxes have advanced in the Championships and they have the rest of the night and all of Vegas at their disposal. They’re moving on to the second round, they’re going to their first death match. And, while that might be cause for concern, tonight isn’t the time for it—tonight they’re sure as hell going to celebrate. 

ADMIN NOTE: Congratulations, Foxes, you’re through to the second round! As a reminder, you’re welcome to set threads during any of the periods listed above (pre-game, expanding on the events of the game itself, halftime, post-game) and I can’t wait to see what you come up with! As always, please let me know if you have any questions or feedback. 

The next game will be on March 3 and it will be a death match: meaning, the team that loses is immediately out of the Championships. And the Foxes’ opponent will be—a surprise! The information will be revealed in a plot drop/task posted on the main sometime during the week, so keep an eye out for that, and enjoy the suspense in the meantime. For your information, their opponent could be any team in the odds bracket still in the Championships —meaning that it could be any one of the Big Three, or Ohio State, etc., so there’s plenty to be worried about.

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The Tactical Guide to Justin Gaethje vs. Michael Johnson

Lightweight has traditionally been considered the deepest and most talent rich division in mixed martial arts. The UFC can own every heavyweight of even marginal note and even those in the top ten will fail to impress fans, but in even B-level promotions you will be able to see a couple of lightweights who impress you and seem to deserve their chance 'in the mix' of the UFC's most chaotic division. Through his incredible PRIDE Bushido run, Takanori Gomi was considered the lightweight number one but even after PRIDE was dissolved and the UFC was the unrivalled leader in mixed martial arts, most MMA websites' lightweight rankings contained a couple of outsiders. From the WEC graduates (Benson Henderson, Anthony Pettis, Donald Cerrone), to Strikeforce alumni (Gilbert Melendez, Jorge Masvidal, Josh Thompson), to Bellator's 155ers (Michael Chandler, Eddie Alvarez, Will Brooks), there has always been someone fighting their way up outside of the UFC who would make for a great addition to the UFC's shark tank.

When another promotion's lightweight champion gets his shot in the UFC, the hardcore fans shiver with anticipation. For the 'PRIDE never die' crew, there is the chance to hammer home the idea that the UFC is not the be all and end all of MMA. For the 'Zuffa zombies', there is the prospect of laughing at those alternate MMA fanboys when their alternate champion loses his Octagon debut. With World Series of Fighting's lightweight undefeated champion, Justin Gaethje set to make his UFC debut next Friday against Michael Johnson, there are doubtless some hoping that this will be the first step of a destructive run through the division, and others hoping Gaethje's momentum comes to a sudden halt. Of course, when you're talking about the deepest division in MMA, nothing ever works out cleanly. Both the WEC's final lightweight champion, Anthony Pettis, and long-time Bellator champion, Eddie Alvarez lost their first fight in the Octagon—yet both went on to win the UFC belt.

Thriving Amid Chaos

There are fighters who appeal to something primal within the viewer. Think of Matt Brown in the middle of his welterweight tear, ferociously walking down his opponent and hammering them with whichever limb was closest. Justin Gaethje has that magic, and through World Series of Fighting's run he was the main reason to tune in. Entering MMA as an accomplished wrestler, Gaethje found out he has the gift for starching people and hasn't looked back. His style can be ugly, and primitive, and he gets hit way more than a fighter of his talent should, but the results speak for themselves. In his ten fights under World Series of Fighting, only one opponent made it the distance.

What makes fighting so unique is that there is no right or wrong way to fight. You can get hit too much, which Justin Gaethje definitely does, but if you are landing the more telling blows and winning the contests, that method is working. Joe Frazier got hit a lot, but he knocked a lot of men out and won the world heavyweight title in the process. The thing is that those fighters who do get hit a lot in the course of their fights tend to age worse than the less active, defensively savvy types who perhaps pick up less knockout victories. In interviews Gaethje has reflected on the risks of his style and seems to at least play lip service to the 'get in, get rich, get out' philosophy that keeps fighters hungry and prevents them from hanging around into their forties, suffering sadder and sadder defeats.

When you sit down to watch a Gaethje fight is actually quite easy to forget about the human aspect because he seems like a force of nature. Pressure is what creates knockouts for offensive fighters. Sitting back and looking for counters is great, but it is hit and miss once you start meeting men who know that that is your intention. Pressure is a reliable way to create finishes because it forces the opponent to fire back, opening himself up in the process, and simply being on the back foot and rushed at all times is a very effective means of wilting a man. There is scientific pressure—coming forward and looking to avoid most of the damage while countering as the opponent lashes out, think Mike Tyson or Julio Cesar Chavez, or Rafael dos Anjos in mixed martial arts, and there is a more primitive pressure, just coming forward, swinging big, and grinding on your man when he hits a surface: that's Justin Gaethje.

It is rare that you will see someone with as many low kick stoppages, or fights which ended as he swarmed on a limping opponent. Gaethje pounds in the right low kick with reckless abandon, but there is some science there. Gaethje's best kicks are often timed as counters on, or after an opponent's jab. Many fighters will toe their lead foot in on the jab as they blade their stance slightly to reach, without even realizing, this makes it a perfect time to buckle their leg inward.

Gaethje's kicks bring us to the position from which he does much of his best work: along the fence. While Gaethje can hit decently with his left hand, most of the time it serves the job of stiff arming his opponent or holding the collar tie. Stiff arming is almost universally undervalued in martial arts: a straight arm braced on the right part of the body can hinder a great deal of offence. We discussed this ahead of Holm vs Rousey—a great classical (and illegal) way to keep an advancing fighter away from the inside is simply to stiff arm their face to buy time before circling off.

You will notice in the above highlight just how much time Gaethje spends along the fence either pushing his opponent's head as he loads up on his right hand, or holding them in with the collar tie as he digs with uppercuts. It seems primitive, but even Lennox Lewis would do this when he was allowed to—see his fight with Frank Bruno for a good amount of stiff arming before the referee prevents him. Anthony Johnson was also ferocious from this position, I'm sure most readers will remember him stiff arming Little Nog's face and hammering in uppercuts as Nogueira pushed his head back into them.

It is along the fence that Gaethje does some spectacular work with his low kicks. Few fighters have checking low kicks on their mind while fighting in a clinch, and while another man is pushing you around it is hard to get on one leg comfortably anyway. Anderson Silva used to dig in the odd low kick while holding a collar tie, but as a damage dealer the clinch low kick is one of Gaethje's money strikes.

Being a former division 1 wrestler, Gaethje still hits the takedowns but often uses them for damage and style points more than position. Big slams have been a constant feature of Gaethje's career. Gaethje has also shown masterful use of that Chad Mendes principle—setting up the uppercut with the takedown attempt. Mendes will use level change to get his man to throw their hips back and bring their head forward, then pop them in the jaw from underneath. Gaethje often grabs hold of a leg only to release it and bring that same hand up the centre.

An interesting thought which struck this writer while reviewing Gaethje's tape regards Gaethje's defensive porousness out in the open, and his reliance on catch-and-pitch counters. We mentioned Joe Frazier earlier, Frazier fought much of his career half-blind and often couldn't see the punches coming: relying instead on a cross guard and constant head movement. With the thick glasses that Gaethje wears in any media appearance it makes you wonder how much of an effect his vision has on his defensive shortcomings and his decision to go to catch-and-pitch counters. Catch-and-pitch is typically what fighters go to when they aren't able to react to the punches fast enough, or are having trouble distinguishing feints from legitimate punches. When catching and pitching, the fighter feels the strike on his guard and then immediately fires back.

The best slip-and-rip counters I have seen Gaethje hit came as he backed off and invited the opponent to step to him, the majority of Gaethje's best counters have come out of the hands high, eyes down bull guard. Gaethje will take blows on his guard or forehead and try to time his return—often he isn't even looking at his opponent when he launches his counter. Of course, there could be any number of reasons for Gaethje to prefer this style of countering—the important point is only that he does.

This brings us to the man hoping to ruin Gaethje's party, Michael Johnson. Despite his relatively unflashy game, Johnson might be the perfect man to do it. Johnson is fast southpaw whose style largely consists of movement and straight hitting, with the odd snappy low kick thrown in.

If you know anything about Johnson, you will know that he is game. Footage of Johnson's rough sparring sessions with Nieky Holzken and Robin van Roosmalen makes it clear that he isn't one to hold back out of respect for an opponent's credentials. Van Roosmalen might be a smart sparring partner for this fight as his close range low kicks are his best weapon.

Johnson has also shown himself to be adaptable. The tools remain the same—the straight punches, the quick trades, and the skip up right low kick—but he can play the part of the bull or the matador quite comfortably. Johnson floated around the cage against Gleison Tibau, fought out in the open against Dustin Poirier and so many others, but applied pressure beautifully when he needed to against Edson Barboza. Johnson's constant forward motion in that fight kept Barboza from kicking comfortably and exhausted the Brazilian over three rounds.

Hypothetical Gameplans

For Justin Gaethje the gameplan is likely to be the same as it always has been: move forward and hit the opponent as hard as possible, preferably against the fence. It would be good to see him using takedown attempts to accomplish this—not just feinting takedowns to set up his punches, but actually ducking in on Johnson's hips and physically moving him to the fence. Johnson's feet are usually neat and he move laterally after each engagement, he can also stop a takedown decently. Khabib Nurmagomedov got Johnson to the fence by shooting on him, getting sprawl on, and simply bulldozing through until Johnson's feet hit the fence. Using his wrestling chops off the bat might save Gaethje from having to cut the ring on an opponent with neater feet than he is used to.

Gaethje might also want to keep the low kicking conservative—Palomino caught him with a hard right hand during a low kick and other opponents have caught him on one leg too. Gaethje has also thrown himself to the floor with poorly timed knees and flying knees. While it would be a surprise to see Johnson looking for the takedown, fighters at this level won't typically just let Gaethje get away with the kind of errors he could scramble out of in the lower leagues.

The level change uppercut and overhand might well prove themselves Johnson's downfall as he does commit his weight and hands to dealing with shots. Against Gleison Tibau these reactions were very apparent.

For Michael Johnson's part, he seems like the perfect man to show up the defensive shortcomings of Gaethje in terms of style. Lateral movement and straight punches are the skills which typically show up the forward plodding banger. Gaethje's ring cutting hasn't seemed anything too special but it is one of those skills which you only really get to see if the opponent is competent at circling off the fence to begin with.

Johnson's left straight to the body is an understated punch which might make a world of difference in this bout. Gaethje can take a shot but stands square and often raises his forearms high to form a guard, this makes his centre line and particularly his solar plexus more of a target for the left straight. While it is not good to look too much into sparring sessions, Johnson's left straight was one of his most effective strikes against Nieky Holzken, who in turn is a forward moving pressure fighter who covers up with a high guard. While feeding Gaethje straight punches down the pipe seems a sound idea, the left straight to the body is one which will stick with him and wear on him through the rounds of this twenty-five minute fight. Part of the genius of pressure fighting is that the opponent lashes out wildly at the pressure fighter's head, often forgetting the body entirely. Finding effective body shots can make the constant forward movement more exhausting for the pressure fighter than the man being pressured.

Whether Gaethje's first fight in the UFC is a bust, or whether he becomes an overnight sensation as a result of this performance, he has a catalogue of phenomenally entertaining fights behind him already. In an interview with MMA Fighting, Gaethje used the metaphor of a car crash to describe fighting, insisting that he wanted to enter the crash with more force so the other guy came off worse. Watch the glorious pile up and get back here for the breakdown after the fight.

The Tactical Guide to Justin Gaethje vs. Michael Johnson published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv