Toga strikes with an Uppercut!

DING… DING… DING! The bell slices through the arena noise, commanding silence for a heartbeat before the crowd swells even louder. “Round three!” Midnight’s voice rings out, amplified, sultry yet razor-sharp, the perfect blend of referee and ringmistress. She beckons them both to the center with a flick of her wrist. Ochaco’s chest heaves as she steps forward, gloves tucked high against her bruised breasts. Sweat drips down her temple and into her eyes, burning. Her bruises ache slightly with each step. She forces herself upright, swallowing the pain, her eyes fixed on the blonde across from her. Himiko Toga is already grinning, bouncing lightly on her toes, gloves hanging loose like she’s dancing at a festival instead of fighting in a ring. The crowd chants her name—To-ga! To-ga! To-ga!—stomping feet against the stands in a tribal rhythm. Ochaco’s name is drowned out by the overwhelming number of fans. Midnight steps between them, sharp eyes flicking from one fighter to the other. Her tone leaves plenty of room for sensual undertones. “Keep it rough and sexy ladies! Protect yourself at all times, unless you’re into being hit. Listen for my break… –BOX!” Toga instantly took a peekaboo stance having her gloves close and her guard up, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet. The blood stained gloves felt so light in her hands all of a sudden. The mat is hot and humming beneath her, every grain of sweat clinging to her skin alive with static. She’s circling, weaving, waiting for that crack in rhythm. A chance opens itself up, Ochaco’s glove extends—a jab, cautious, almost careful. Toga’s lips curl against her mouthpiece, a little bit of drool seeping out of the corners. “Slow. You’re too slow!” She drops low. The whole ring tilts, canvas and ropes spinning around her like water circling a drain. Tendons coil, lungs compress, and then she unspools like a spring snapping free. Her uppercut rips upward, fist tearing through the space between them. For an instant, it’s like she’s lifted by the punch itself, her body surging on pure momentum. She feels the air break, tastes the copper tang of adrenaline on her tongue. Her body pushing against her opponent as she unleashes her weight behind the blow. Nothing was held back. “She looks so pretty, I’m starting to feel a little tingly right now. Is IT happening again?” For a split second she relishes the beauty in the face Ochaco makes as her face recoils from the punch…Ochaco’s eyes crossed, her mouth gaped, and she nearly coughed up her mouthguard. The force lifted her a hand’s breadth off the mat; for a moment, gravity forgot her name. Her gasp carried all the way to the cheap seats, where even the female audience looked away in secondhand shame. Toga was relishing it. A soft warm pulse started beating in between her legs. Her jab extends, but before she can draw it back, suddenly Toga disappears ducking under her sight below her large slippery breasts. Something moves—blindingly fast—beneath her guard. She sees a blur of pale shoulders ducking low, then the sudden crack of movement rising like a wave beneath her. “She’s about to punch me, can I block her?! I’m about to be knocked out, what do I—” WHAM! Her chin explodes with light. White flares sear across her vision, like someone smashed a bulb inside her skull. Her jaw rattles, teeth grinding against the mouthpiece, ears ringing in a hollow hum. The canvas beneath her feet shifts, feels like it’s sliding away, and she stumbles back a half-step as her legs scream to steady her. Sweat bursts off her skin, spit sprays between her lips and out of her mouth. The world doesn’t fall apart—but it quakes, shivering with every heartbeat. She blinks, desperate to refocus, to see, but the afterimage of that uppercut still hangs in her eyes, buzzing like neon. And through it all—she swears she can hear Toga breathe, sharp and eager, as if the strike itself was something she’d been starving for.