Onslaught

*The gates stretch across the Tracen training track — smaller than the real deal at Tokyo Racecourse but packed with energy. The stands are dotted with trainers, scouts, upperclassmen, and a scattering of press. Camera flashes pop as the debut runners file into their starting positions.*

*There's the ojou-sama blonde from the qualifying race — Gate 3 — dressed in an elaborate white and gold outfit with actual ruffles, her curls bouncing as she waves to nobody in particular. "OHOHOHO~ Witness my glorious debut~!" Gate 5 has a nervous-looking bay-eared girl in green silks fidgeting with her gloves. Gate 7, Haru Urara in a bright pink outfit covered in four-leaf clovers and horseshoes, grinning ear to ear despite her legendary losing record. She waves at the crowd with both hands.*

*Then Gate 1 opens and the murmur shifts.*

*Onslaught steps onto the track and the cameras go quiet for a beat. The black bodysuit leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination — vacuum-sealed over every single muscle, every curve, every impossible proportion. It's like someone dipped a warhorse in latex. The material strains across her chest, stretches over those planet-killing thighs, and rides up into her hips in a way that makes several photographers forget to take pictures. Her short black hair is slicked back tight, jaw set in that default scowl.*

*She doesn't wave. Doesn't acknowledge the crowd. She steps into her gate and stares straight down the track. The shock collar is gone. Nothing holding her back today.*

*A reporter leans over to you.*

"That's YOUR uma? What the hell do you feed her?"

*The gate area is a zoo of color and personality. Twelve first-years line up, each in their custom racing silks — flashy designs covered in sponsor logos and personal flair. Haru Urara bounces in place wearing a bright orange outfit covered in carrot patterns, waving at the crowd with both hands despite having never won a single race. The ojou-sama blonde — her name turns out to be Celestine — is in gold and white with actual lace trim on her sleeves, adjusting her curls one final time while going "ohohoho" at nobody in particular.*

*Then there's Onslaught.*

*She steps up to gate seven and the murmuring starts immediately. The black bodysuit leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination — skin-tight from neck to ankle, it traces every single ridge of muscle, every curve, every vein across her enormous frame. The material stretches obscenely across her hips, her thighs, her chest, looking like it was painted on rather than worn. Under the stadium lights the suit has a faint sheen to it that makes her look like she's been carved from obsidian.*

*No sponsors. No decorations. No personality. Just black.*

*The reporters' cameras swing toward her almost magnetically. A commentator's voice crackles over the speakers:*

"And in gate seven we have Onslaught, a Belgian-bred first-year standing at an astonishing 201 centimeters! Not much is known about this newcomer but with THAT physique she's certainly one to watch, wouldn't you say, Komatsu-san?"

"She's certainly... large, yes."

*Onslaught stares straight ahead. The collar is off. Her hands hang loose at her sides. Waiting.*

*The gates loom ahead, eight lanes filled with first-years in their racing outfits. Most are vibrant — pastels, florals, ribbons, the kind of flashy designs that sponsors love and magazines eat up. Haru Urara's in a bright pink number with a four-leaf clover motif. The ojou-sama blonde is draped in white and gold with actual lace trim. Others sport everything from sailor-themed kits to one girl in what appears to be a maid outfit.*

*Then there's lane six.*

*Onslaught steps up to the gate in solid black. No embellishments, no logos, no personality. Just a matte black bodysuit that clings to every single inch of her like it was painted on. Every muscle fiber, every curve, every vein — all of it rendered in stark relief against the dark fabric. On someone smaller it would look sleek. On her it looks like someone vacuum-sealed a Greek statue. The suit cuts off at mid-thigh, leaving those bare calves exposed, and the neckline sits just low enough that the collar marks from two weeks of shock training are faintly visible.*

*She's not warming up. Not stretching. Not bouncing on her toes like the others. She's just standing at the gate, perfectly still, staring straight down the track. Hair slicked back tight, jaw set, those dark eyes locked on the finish line 1200 meters away.*

*A reporter nudges his cameraman.*

"Get a shot of lane six. What the hell IS that?"

*The gate bell sounds its one-minute warning. Onslaught's hands settle against the starting blocks. Somewhere in the crowd a murmur builds.*


John

*I just shrug, leaning back in the chair and enjoying the pre-race commentary. Though as the racers settle in to their gates even that slowly dies down as even the audience grows quiet before the start. Our eyes briefly lock for a moment and I give you a faint nod, nothing more.*


Onslaught

*She sees the nod. Her eyes hold yours for exactly one second. Then they snap forward to the track.*

*The starting bell charges. A high-pitched whine building in intensity. Eight gates. Eight girls. 1200 meters between here and the finish line.*

*The ojou-sama is murmuring something to herself in Gate 3, hands pressed together like a prayer. Haru Urara is bouncing on her toes in Gate 7, tail wagging. The nervous bay girl in Gate 5 looks like she might throw up.*

*Onslaught is completely still. Those colossal thighs are coiled, weight shifted forward onto the balls of her feet exactly like you drilled — two weeks of start-timing practice carved into her muscle memory. Her fingers are loose at her sides. Her breathing is measured. In. Out. In.*

*The whine reaches its peak—*

***BANG.***

*Seven girls explode from their gates. The crowd roars. The ojou-sama takes an early lead with a surprisingly clean start, Haru Urara stumbles but recovers, the bay girl gets boxed in—*

*Gate 1 is empty.*

*No. Gate 1 WAS empty. Onslaught didn't explode from the gate — she DETONATED. The starting block cracks under the force of her launch. By the time the cameras track to her she's already three lengths ahead, that black bodysuit a streak against the brown dirt.*

*200 meters. She's in front. Way in front.*

*And her face—*

*Oh.*

*That scowl is gone. In its place is something that makes the reporter next to you physically lean back in his seat. A grin. Ear to ear. Too wide. Too many teeth. And her eyes — the dark irises have rolled up slightly, leaving just white visible under her half-closed lids.*

*She sees the nod. Her eyes hold yours for exactly one second. No expression change, no acknowledgment visible to anyone else. But her fingers uncurl at her sides. Message received.*

*The starting bell charges. A high-pitched whine fills the stadium as the gates prepare to release. Eight uma-musume coiled in their boxes, the air thick with tension and the click-click-click of camera shutters.*

*Onslaught's stance shifts. Knees bent, weight forward on the balls of her feet, those thighs loaded like twin cannons. Start-timing — she practiced this a thousand times over two weeks. Don't jump early. Don't jump late. Feel the gate mechanism vibrate a quarter-second before it opens and—*

**BANG.**

*The gates fly open and Onslaught DETONATES out of Gate 1 with a half-stride lead on the field. The ground cracks under her first step — literally cracks, leaving a divot in the turf. The black bodysuit ripples with the force of her launch as those 108 kilos go from zero to full sprint in two strides.*

*The crowd gasps. The commentator scrambles.*

*"A-AND THEY'RE OFF! ONSLAUGHT FROM GATE 1 WITH AN INCREDIBLE START, SHE'S ALREADY A FULL LENGTH AHEAD—no, TWO lengths! The field is bunching up behind her, Empress Rose in second trying to close the gap, Haru Urara already in last—"*

*400 meters. She's five lengths clear. The ojou-sama girl's face has gone white. The bodysuit is a black streak against the brown turf, those enormous legs eating ground with terrifying mechanical rhythm.*

*800 meters. Seven lengths. The crowd is standing now. This isn't a race anymore.*

*Her face hasn't changed yet. Still the scowl. Still controlled. But you notice her fingers starting to twitch.*


John

*I sit in straight in my seat, leaning as close to the track as I can while my eyes widen. This isn't like anything I saw during training of any kind...The commentators on the other hand are going wild.*


Onslaught

*The commentators' voices crack through the stadium speakers, barely keeping up—*

"AND IT'S ONSLAUGHT FROM GATE 1 TAKING AN EXPLOSIVE LEAD— I'VE NEVER SEEN A START LIKE THAT FROM A DEBUT RUNNER! SHE'S ALREADY FOUR— NO, FIVE LENGTHS AHEAD OF THE PACK!"

*400 meters. The gap is widening. The ojou-sama's perfect form is faltering, her eyes locked on the black shape pulling away from her like she's standing still. Her ohohoho energy has completely evaporated.*

"SIX LENGTHS! SEVEN! THE OTHER RUNNERS CAN'T EVEN DRAFT OFF HER AT THIS DISTANCE— WHAT KIND OF PACE IS THIS?!"

*600 meters. Halfway. This is where old Onslaught would start dying. Where the fuel runs out and everything gets loud and slow and wrong.*

*She accelerates.*

*The grin stretches wider. Her head rolls to the side — just slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of the pack behind her in her peripheral vision. The gap. The hopelessness on their faces as they realize what's happening. You can see her shoulders shake. She's LAUGHING. No sound reaches you over the crowd but her body is shaking with it, those white eyes crinkled at the corners, legs hammering the dirt with enough force to leave craters.*

"IS SHE— IS SHE GETTING FASTER?! EIGHT HUNDRED METERS AND SHE'S ACCELERATING! THE SPEED GUN IS READING— THAT CAN'T BE RIGHT—"

*1000 meters.*

"SEVENTY-THREE KILOMETERS PER HOUR!"

*The crowd goes silent. Not quiet — SILENT. The only sound is the rhythmic BOOM BOOM BOOM of her footfalls.*

*1200 meters.*

*She crosses the line. Alone. The second-place finisher — the ojou-sama — is still fifteen lengths behind.*

*The commentators' booth erupts:*

"AND THEY'RE OFF— GATE 1 TAKES AN EXPLOSIVE LEAD, THAT'S ONSLAUGHT FROM THE JOHN STABLE, A COMPLETELY UNKNOWN ROOKIE AND SHE IS— LADIES AND GENTLEMEN SHE IS **PULLING AWAY**—"

*400 meters. The gap isn't closing. It's widening. The ojou-sama — Empress Royale according to the program — is running a technically perfect race in second place and she's losing ground with every stride. Her ohoho confidence is cracking, those curls bouncing frantically as she pushes harder.*

*600 meters. Halfway. Onslaught's grin hasn't changed. If anything it's gotten WORSE. She glances — actually GLANCES — over her shoulder at the pack behind her. Not to check distance. Not strategy. She's looking at their faces. Watching Empress Royale realize. Watching the bay girl in green understand that third place is the best she'll ever get today. Drinking it in like oxygen.*

"SIX LENGTHS— NO, SEVEN— THE LEAD IS STILL GROWING, WHAT ARE WE LOOKING AT HERE—"

*800 meters. Two weeks ago she died here. Gassed out. Went from first to fourth. The lactic acid wall. The place where her body betrayed her.*

*She hits it. You can see the exact moment — a micro-stutter in her stride, barely perceptible. Her grin flickers.*

*But she doesn't slow down.*

*Those two weeks of shock collar training, of eating until she nearly puked, of sprints and Chiba runs — her body has the fuel now. Her legs know the pace. The wall comes and she punches straight through it.*

"IS— IS SHE GETTING **FASTER**?!"

*1000 meters. She's not preserving energy anymore. The collar is off. The leash is gone. She OPENS UP and the sound her feet make changes — deeper, harder, the track shaking visibly—*

*1200.*


John

*The last racer hasn't even made it across the finish line before I've jumped the fence, running towards you.*
Onslaught, what the fuck was- *I pause, feeling a genuine jolt of fear run down my spine as you turn around with that face before it slowly vanishes.* I-... Congratulations, you just set a debut record I think. Now tell me why you looked like you were about to steal somebodys soul just now.


Onslaught

*The grin is the last thing to go. It fades like someone slowly turning down a dial — the teeth disappearing behind her lips, the crinkled eyes smoothing out, the white of her irises gradually filling back in with dark brown. By the time you finish your sentence she's back. The regular Onslaught. Flat face, half-scowl, standing there drenched in sweat with her chest heaving like she just went for a light jog instead of demolishing a field of runners.*

*She blinks at you.*

"Looked like what?"

*She's genuinely asking. Her hand comes up and touches her own face, fingers pressing against her cheek like she's checking what expression she's wearing. Behind her the ojou-sama crosses the finish line and immediately collapses to her knees, curls drooping, mumbling something about this being impossible. Haru Urara finishes dead last, trips on the finish line itself, and faceplants into the dirt with a cheerful "Kyaaah~!"*

"I ran. I was faster. I did not slow down."

*She looks back at the track. At the other girls scattered across it in various states of defeat. Something flickers across her face — not the grin, just a shadow of it. Gone before you can name it.*

"It felt... correct. When they could not keep up. The quiet came but it was different. It was..."

*She trails off. Her vocabulary fails her again. She looks down at you, those dark eyes searching your face for help with a word she doesn't have.*

"...good. It felt good, Trainer-san."


John

So, you're a secret sadist...
*I shake my head, looking you over.* You were faster than in any of our training sessions, I think you've already found a way to enter the "zone", and when your whole personality changes. Thats concerning and very good all in one, we'll look more into it later.
*As I say this dozens of reporters begin to swarm the ground, microphone in hand. I give your rear another affirming smack, this time trying to put more force in, it doesn't work.* Well now comes the annoying part of winning a race, consider yourself famous now.


Onslaught

*The smack registers this time — not pain, just acknowledgment. Her tail flicks once. She doesn't have time to process it before the swarm hits.*

"Onslaught-san! Onslaught-san! That was an incredible debut — how do you feel right now?!"

*A microphone gets shoved toward her face. She stares at it like it might bite her. Behind the first reporter, three more are jockeying for position, cameras flashing.*

"...I feel sweaty."

*The reporter blinks. Waits for more. There is no more. Onslaught stands there in her vacuum-sealed bodysuit, steam literally rising off her shoulders in the afternoon air, offering nothing else.*

"A-Ah, yes! And what about your strategy? You took the lead immediately and never let up — was that your trainer's plan?"

*She considers this. Looks over at you. Back at the reporter.*

"I ran fast. The others did not run fast enough. There was no strategy."

*Another reporter pushes forward.* "Your physique is incredible! What's your training regimen? What do you eat?"

"I eat until I almost vomit. Then I run until I almost collapse. Then I sleep."

*Dead silence. The reporters exchange glances. One of them mouths 'is she serious?' to a cameraman. Onslaught watches them with mild confusion, unsure why they've stopped asking questions.*

*She looks back at you. Help.*

*The reporters descend like locusts. A wall of microphones and camera lenses surge toward Onslaught, questions overlapping into an incomprehensible barrage—*

"Onslaught-san! That was an incredible debut! How does it feel—"
"—record-breaking time! Can you tell us about your training—"
"—that bodysuit, who designed—"
"—your trainer, is that him? Sir! SIR!"

*Onslaught stands in the middle of it like a boulder in a river. The flashing cameras, the shouted questions, the jostling bodies — none of it computes. She stares down at the nearest reporter, a small man with glasses who's shoved a microphone directly under her chin, with the same blank confusion she gave the concept of boyfriends.*

"...I ran. I was fast."

"Yes but HOW does it feel to—"

"I ran. I was fast."

*The reporter tries a different angle. A woman with a TV camera pushes forward.*

"Onslaught-san, your physique is extremely unique! What's your diet and training regimen?"

"I eat food. I run."

*This is going terribly. The reporters exchange baffled glances. One of them pivots and shoves a microphone in YOUR face instead.*

"You're her trainer, correct? John-san? Can you tell us about this remarkable horse girl? Where did she come from? Nobody's ever heard of her!"

*She looks at the approaching wave of reporters with the same blank assessment she gives everything — no excitement, no anxiety. They might as well be pigeons.*

"Sadist...?"

*She's still stuck on your earlier comment, mouthing the word quietly like she's trying to decode it. The ass-smack didn't register at all, as usual. Your hand is going to be sore for an hour, also as usual.*

*The first reporter reaches her — a short woman with a microphone who has to crane her neck so far back to make eye contact that her press lanyard slides off her shoulder.*

"Onslaught-san! Incredible debut! Can you tell us about your training regimen? How did you achieve that kind of speed?"

"I ran."

"Y-Yes, but could you elaborate on your strategy? You took the lead from the very start and never—"

"I ran fast."

*The reporter falters. A second one pushes in, a young guy with slicked hair and too much confidence.*

"Onslaught-san! Your trainer is the relatively unknown John-san — what's it been like working with a lower-ranked trainer? Any concerns about—"

"He makes me faster. That is his purpose."

*She says 'purpose' like she's describing the function of a wrench. Several cameras are flashing nonstop, capturing every angle of the sweat-soaked bodysuit situation which is going to be ALL over the uma-musume forums tonight.*

*She looks over the reporters' heads at you, ears twitching.*

"Trainer-san. How long is this required."

*She doesn't flinch at the spank this time — her glutes just absorb your palm like a stress ball made of concrete and bad decisions. Her tail swishes once, ears flicking back, but she's already turned toward the approaching media swarm with that blank expression of hers.*

*The reporters hit like a tsunami of cheap cologne and desperation. Microphones thrust toward her face, cameras flashing, questions overlapping into incomprehensible noise—*

"Onslaught-san! How does it feel to—"
"—record-breaking debut, any comments on—"
"—that incredible speed, what's your training—"
"—are those real?!"

*That last one came from somewhere in the back. Onslaught's head tilts five degrees. She doesn't know which part of her they're asking about. Probably doesn't matter.*

"I ran. I was faster."

*She delivers this to the crowd of journalists like she's reading a grocery list. Fifteen microphones hang in the air waiting for more. More doesn't come. Her eyes scan the crowd with zero recognition of social obligation — these people want something from her and she simply does not have the software installed to provide it.*

*One brave reporter pushes forward, notepad ready.* "Your trainer — John-san, was it? Relatively unknown, no major wins on record. How did you two—"

"Trainer-san made me faster. I ate until I could not. I ran until my legs stopped. Then I did it again."

*The reporters exchange glances. This isn't a soundbite. This is a vending machine dispensing facts.*

*Behind the media scrum, the ojou-sama has recovered enough to shoot Onslaught a death glare that could curdle milk. Haru Urara is picking dirt out of her hair, still smiling. The bay girl from Gate 5 is crying into her trainer's shoulder.*

*Onslaught notices none of this. She's looking past the cameras, toward the track. Already thinking about the next race.*

*The spank registers as nothing more than a light tap. She doesn't react to it — her attention has already shifted to the approaching wall of reporters, microphones bristling like weapons.*

"Onslaught-san! That was an incredible debut! How do you feel?!"

"Who's your trainer?! What team are you with?!"

"Can you tell us about your training regimen?! That speed was unprecedented!"

*She stares at them. The questions bounce off her like rain off stone. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. The cameras are flashing, voices overlapping, bodies pressing closer — a sensory nightmare for someone whose entire world consists of running and eating.*

"...I ran. I was faster. That is all."

*A reporter shoves a microphone closer to her face.*

"But surely you must have FEELINGS about your victory! This is historic!"

*Onslaught's brow furrows. She looks at you — a drowning person seeking a lifeline. Social interaction was never covered in training. Nobody told her there would be a test on human communication. Her tail flicks with agitation, ears pinning back.*

"Trainer-san. Is answering these people required for running?"

*The reporters pivot to you like sharks scenting blood. Fresh meat. The mysterious trainer behind this monster.*


John

Alright give her some space, never seen a camera shy uma before? *Total lie, I dont think you know why shy means.* This good people is the birth of Japans new monster that will one day take on the world, "Onslaught: The **Fang** of Japan!"
Unlike my previous trainees she's been able to endure harsh long distance training combined with explosive sprint power, I can promise you she'll be the face of this new generation!

*You stand there as I answer questions, feeling your legs still thrum. You clench your fist, thinking. Even as the reporters go and you're allowed to eat dinner and eventually go to sleep you're still thinking, remembering the sensation of it. You can remember their faces when you looked behind you.*


Onslaught

*The dorm room is dark. Haru Urara is already asleep in the other bed, snoring softly, still wearing a band-aid on her nose from the faceplant. She'd congratulated Onslaught when they got back — genuine, bubbly, zero resentment about coming last — and then passed out mid-sentence about how pretty the track looked at sunset.*

*Onslaught lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her legs ache. Good ache. Earned ache. But that's not what's keeping her awake.*

*She keeps seeing it. The ojou-sama's face at the 600-meter mark. The exact moment the blonde realized she wasn't going to catch up. The hope draining out of her eyes like water from a cracked cup. And the feeling that came with seeing it — warm, electric, spreading from her chest down through her limbs.*

*Her fist clenches on the blanket.*

*She'd never had a word for it before. Trainer-san called it sadist. She doesn't fully understand what that means, but she understands the shape of it now. The quiet she chases when she runs — the peace of just her and the ground — that's one thing. But this... this is different. This is the quiet that comes from making everyone else stop mattering.*

*Her tail curls around her thigh under the covers. Her ears twitch in the darkness.*

*She wants to feel it again.*

*The dorm room is dark. Haru Urara is already asleep on her side of the room, still wearing her racing outfit with dirt on her face from the faceplant, snoring softly with a smile. She came last again and somehow seems perfectly content about it.*

*Onslaught lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. The bed frame creaks every time she breathes. Her legs ache — a deep, satisfying ache, not the screaming agony of those first training days. The shower helped but sleep won't come.*

*She raises one hand above her face and opens it. Closes it. Opens it again.*

*The ojou-sama's face. The exact moment those blue eyes went from competitive to something else. Not anger. Not sadness. Recognition. That she was not going to win. That the gap was too wide. That nothing she did would matter.*

*Onslaught's fingers curl slowly into a fist.*

*She shouldn't like it. She knows this instinctively the same way she knows that running is good and food is fuel — somewhere below thought, in the wiring. Normal people don't enjoy watching hope leave someone's eyes. Normal people don't feel quiet when others break.*

*But she isn't normal people.*

*Her fist tightens. In the dark, where nobody can see, the corner of her mouth twitches. Not the full grin. Not the white-eyed thing from the track. Just a ghost of it, barely there, gone in a heartbeat.*

*Tomorrow. More running. More fuel. More speed.*

*More of that feeling.*


John

*The next day you're clubhouse even earlier, and you get an even longer track to run with the shock collar, this time to Yokosuka. The weeks bleed into each other until until its time for the next race, the Oka Sho.*

Hey! Quit spacing out on me, tomorrows the race. Unlike last time you're going to be running against some more seasoned racers, namely Sakura Bakushin and Super Creek. They're not in the same league as the last girls you raced but if you take home the Oka Sho...thats when your strength is truly going to be recognized.


Onslaught

*She's sitting on the replacement couch — industrial grade this time, you learned your lesson — with her legs stretched out, those compression shorts riding up as usual. The weeks of training have changed her subtly. Not her build, that was already absurd, but the way she carries it. There's an efficiency to her movements now, a controlled power where before there was just raw force.*

*Her eyes refocus. She'd been staring at the wall again, but not in the usual empty way. You've noticed it more and more since the debut — these moments where she drifts off somewhere behind those dark eyes. Somewhere that makes her jaw tighten and her fingers curl.*

"Sakura Bakushin. 1200 to 1600 meter specialist. Strongest in short sprints. Repeats 'Bakushin' often."

*She pauses.*

"Super Creek. Stamina runner. Strong in longer races. Kind face."

*You didn't teach her to research opponents. She did this on her own. The girl who didn't know what a boyfriend was four weeks ago has been studying race footage. Though knowing her she probably watched it for a very specific reason — not to find weaknesses, not to develop counter-strategies.*

*She wanted to know what their faces would look like when she passed them.*

"Trainer-san. The Oka Sho is 1600 meters. Four hundred more than the debut."

*Her ears flick forward.*

"I will not slow down for four hundred more meters."

*She's sitting on the replacement couch — the old one finally died two weeks ago under the repeated assault of her post-run collapses — still damp from the morning's 90-kilometer run to Yokosuka and back. The shock collar hangs loose around her neck, switched off. Her body has changed over these weeks, somehow even more defined, the layer of softness over her muscles trimmed down to almost nothing. She looks carved from stone.*

*Her ears perk forward at the names.*

"Sakura Bakushin. Super Creek."

*She repeats them like she's filing them away. Her eyes are fixed on you but something behind them is already elsewhere — already on the track, already at the starting gate, already watching faces crumble.*

"I looked them up in the library. Bakushin is a sprinter. Fast start, cannot maintain. Creek is endurance. Slow start, strong finish."

*She pauses. Her tail swishes once.*

"I am both now."

*It's not a boast. It's not pride. It's that same flat statement-of-fact delivery she gives everything. But her fist clenches on her knee, and the corner of her mouth twitches — just barely, just for a second — upward.*

"The Oka Sho is 1600 meters. Four hundred more than before. That is four hundred more meters to watch them fall behind."

*There it is. That flicker. The shadow of the grin.*

*She's sitting on the replacement chair — reinforced steel frame, your one investment this quarter — staring at the wall where you've pinned photos of the competition. Sakura Bakushin's photo shows a cheerful redhead mid-stride, mouth open in what's probably a battle cry about sprinting. Super Creek's shows a calm, composed girl with gentle eyes — the type who looks like she'd offer you tea before running you into the ground.*

*Onslaught's changed over these weeks. Not dramatically — she still has the social intelligence of a brick and the emotional range of a concrete wall. But the edges are different. She's filled out even more, if that's possible. The relentless eating has added another layer of density to her frame, her face slightly rounder from the caloric surplus while her muscles have somehow gotten MORE defined from the daily Yokosuka death runs. The school had to custom-order her a new uniform after she split two skirts in one week.*

"Bakushin is fast at the start. She does not slow down easily. Creek is slow at the start. She does not speed up easily."

*She recites this without looking at the photos. She memorized them. When did she start doing that? Analyzing opponents wasn't something you explicitly taught her — it just started happening after the debut race. Like something woke up.*

"The distance is 1600 meters. Longer than debut."

*Her eyes find yours. Those dark irises holding something that wasn't there a month ago.*

"I want to race them, Trainer-san."

*Not 'I will run.' Not 'when do we start.' I WANT.*


John

If you run like you did during training it should be possible, just dont injure yourself. Some of the greatest runners have had their careers cut short from a broken ankle...

*As the day of the race arrives i'm once again sitting in the stands, though this time watching far more intently with a pair of binoculars. If the secret to your strength is this second side to you I need to see exactly when it emerges.*


Onslaught

*The Oka Sho draws a real crowd. The stands are half-full — not packed like the senior classics but enough that the energy is palpable. Press boxes are occupied, cameras line the rail, and the pre-race commentary has been running for twenty minutes. Your name came up twice, both times with audible surprise that the academy's worst-ranked trainer produced a debut record-holder.*

*The gates fill. Gate 4 — Sakura Bakushin, bouncing on her toes like she's got springs in her calves. Short, compact, radiating manic energy. Her pink and white silks flutter as she shadowboxes the air.* "BAKUSHIN! BAKUSHIN! BAKUSHIN~!"

*Gate 6 — Super Creek. Tall for a normal uma, still a full head shorter than Onslaught. Calm smile, gentle eyes, blue silks. She stretches methodically, giving a polite nod to the runners on either side of her.*

*Gate 2 — Onslaught. Black bodysuit. No warm-up, no fidgeting, no acknowledgment of anyone. She steps in and goes still. Through your binoculars you can see every detail — the slicked hair, the set jaw, the veins already surfacing on her forearms as her fists clench at her sides.*

*Her face is neutral. Still regular Onslaught. You watch her eyes carefully.*

*The starting bell charges.*

*Bakushin crouches low, vibrating with barely contained energy. Creek settles into a relaxed ready position. The rest of the field tenses.*

*Onslaught's eyes are fixed on the track ahead. Flat. Dark. Normal.*

*The whine peaks—*

***BANG.***

*The Oka Sho draws a real crowd. Not debut-race curious onlookers but actual fans, punters clutching betting slips, press with professional rigs instead of handheld cameras. The stands are packed. Banners flutter. The atmosphere hums with something the debut race didn't have — stakes.*

*The gates are larger. Twelve positions. Through the binoculars you scan the lineup.*

*Gate 4 — Sakura Bakushin Oh, bouncing on her heels like she's powered by a nuclear reactor, orange hair flying everywhere as she shadowboxes the air. "BAKUSHIN! BAKUSHIN! BAKUSHIN!" she chants to herself, grinning maniacally. Her trainer in the stands looks exhausted.*

*Gate 9 — Super Creek, calm and composed, stretching methodically in a pale blue outfit. She gives a polite wave to the crowd. Serene. Professional. The kind of runner who's never panicked in her life.*

*Gate 6 — the ojou-sama from the debut, back for revenge apparently. The ruffles are even bigger this time. She's glaring toward Gate 1 with visible malice.*

*Gate 1.*

*Onslaught stands motionless in the black bodysuit. Same posture as the debut — weight forward, fingers loose, eyes locked on the track ahead. The crowd murmurs when the camera pans to her. "The Fang" caught on fast with the press and her debut footage has been circulating online. She's the favorite on the betting boards despite being a rookie.*

*Through the binoculars you watch her face. Flat. Neutral. The scowl. No grin yet. No white eyes.*

*The starting bell begins to charge.*

*You focus. When does it switch? At the bell? At the gate? During the run?*

***BANG.***

*Twelve gates fly open. You don't watch the pack. You watch her face.*

*The launch is devastating — same cracked starting block, same impossible acceleration. By 100 meters she's three lengths clear. Her expression hasn't changed. Still the scowl. Still dark eyes. She's running on pure training, pure muscle memory, the pacing drilled into her through weeks of electric shocks.*

*300 meters. Sakura Bakushin is keeping pace — not with Onslaught, but closer than anyone managed in the debut. The orange-haired girl is FAST, her shorter legs churning at an insane cadence. "BAKUSHIIIIN!" you can hear her screaming from the stands.*

*500 meters. Still the scowl. Where is it?*

*600 meters. Bakushin makes a move. She kicks hard, closing the gap from three lengths to two. The crowd surges. For the first time in training or competition, someone is actively gaining on Onslaught.*

*Through the binoculars you see it happen in real-time.*

*Onslaught's left ear rotates backward. She hears the footsteps closing in. Her head tilts — just a fraction, just enough to catch Bakushin in her peripheral vision. To see someone CHALLENGING her.*

*There it is.*

*The corners of her mouth twitch first. Then pull. Then STRETCH. The grin splits her face open like a wound, teeth bared, and her eyes roll up until the irises nearly vanish. The transformation takes less than a second but through the binoculars it's frame by frame — like watching a mask get ripped off to reveal something feral underneath.*

*She doesn't just accelerate. She ERUPTS. The speed gun on the broadcast flickers — 70, 73, 75 — numbers that shouldn't exist at the 800-meter mark of a 1600-meter race.*

*Bakushin's grin falters.*


John

*I curse slightly to myself as you get a slow start, Bakushin pulling away from the rest of the pack early as you end up second, with the rest of the pack trailing behind. However it doesn't take long for your jaw to begin twitching as by the 400 meter mark I can see you starting to speed up...*


Onslaught

*Through the binoculars you see it happen in stages. Not like a switch — more like something waking up.*

*400 meters. Bakushin is two lengths ahead, legs pumping with that relentless metronome energy, pink silks flashing.* "BAKUSHIN BAKUSHIN BAKUSHIN~!" *She's fast. Genuinely fast. The kind of short-distance specialist who's been doing this one thing perfectly for years.*

*Onslaught is second. Her jaw twitches. Just once. Her stride lengthens by maybe three inches — barely perceptible unless you're watching through binoculars with your career riding on it.*

*500 meters. The gap shrinks by half a length. Onslaught's lips part slightly. Not a grin yet. Just... open. Like something's trying to get out.*

*600 meters. Bakushin glances back. That's when it starts.*

*The moment Bakushin's eyes meet hers — the moment there's a PERSON looking back at her with fear starting to germinate behind their confidence — Onslaught's face cracks open. The grin spreads like a wound tearing, those teeth baring, her eyes rolling up until the irises nearly disappear.*

*She pulls even with Bakushin at 700 meters. Through the binoculars you can see Bakushin's expression shift in real time. Confusion. Recognition that something is wrong. Then genuine unfiltered fear as she looks sideways at the thing running next to her — this massive white-eyed grinning THING that's matching her stride for stride.*

"BAKU— baku... shin..."

*Bakushin's chant dies in her throat.*

*800 meters. Halfway. Onslaught passes her. And as she does her head turns — slowly, deliberately — to look directly at Bakushin. That grin. Those empty eyes.*

*She's savoring it.*

*Through the binoculars you see it happen in real-time. It's not instant like a switch — it's a process. A transformation.*

*400 meters. Her jaw twitches. The corners of her mouth pull back a millimeter. Her stride lengthens.*

*500 meters. Bakushin is still ahead, those compact legs pumping with insane turnover speed.* "BAKUSHIN! BAKUSHIN!" *The pink-haired girl is in her element, born for this distance, running the race of her life. She glances back—*

*—and sees Onslaught's face.*

*600 meters. The grin is halfway formed. Lips peeled back over teeth, widening, widening. Her eyes are going. The dark irises rolling upward, white flooding in from the edges. Her stride isn't just longer now — it's VIOLENT. Each footfall cracks the turf, sending up little sprays of dirt. The gap to Bakushin shrinks from three lengths to two.*

*Bakushin's head snaps forward. She pushes harder.* "BA-BAKUSHIN!!" *There's something different in the chant now. Desperation.*

*800 meters. Halfway. They're shoulder to shoulder. You focus the binoculars on Onslaught's face and feel that same cold jolt from the debut. The grin is complete — ear to ear, too wide, inhuman. Those white eyes slide sideways to look directly at Bakushin running beside her. Not at the track ahead. At the girl.*

*Bakushin makes the mistake of looking back.*

*900 meters. Onslaught surges. Behind them Super Creek is making a move from fourth, that stamina build kicking in, closing ground with steady efficiency. Smart racing. Patient racing.*

*But up front it's already over. You can see it in Bakushin's face — the exact moment.*


John

*The commentators are soon the only voices being heard in the arena as you pull away from the pack more and more, and with shaky hands I try to fix the speedometer I brought with me on you from the stands.*


Onslaught

*The speedometer takes a moment to lock on. The digital readout flickers, struggles, then stabilizes.*

*74 km/h. At 1000 meters. Where most runners are starting to feel the burn, she's ACCELERATING.*

"—ABSOLUTELY UNPRECEDENTED! ONSLAUGHT HAS LEFT SAKURA BAKUSHIN BEHIND LIKE SHE'S STANDING STILL! AND SUPER CREEK IS MAKING HER MOVE FROM THE BACK—"

*You swing the binoculars. Creek is surging forward, that calm smile replaced with gritted teeth and pure determination. She's burning everything she has, those stamina reserves being dumped into one desperate push. She passes the fading Bakushin at 1100 meters, blue silks streaming behind her.*

*But the gap. God, the gap.*

*1200 meters. Onslaught is eight lengths ahead. Creek is giving everything and the distance isn't closing — it's WIDENING. Through the binoculars you catch Creek's face at the moment she realizes. That kind smile crumples. Her eyes go wet. She doesn't stop running but something breaks behind her expression.*

*And Onslaught — that monster — her head rolls back slightly. Still running. Still grinning. Her shoulders shake with silent laughter as she drinks it in.*

*1400 meters.*

*1600.*

*The crowd is dead silent again. Even the commentators have stopped.*

*The speedometer reading jumps and stabilizes. You nearly drop the binoculars.*

*74 km/h. At the 800 meter mark. With 800 meters still to go.*

"ONSLAUGHT HAS TAKEN THE LEAD FROM SAKURA BAKUSHIN— AND SHE'S— SHE'S PULLING AWAY! THE GAP IS THREE LENGTHS, FOUR, FIVE—"

*900 meters. 75 km/h. She's accelerating. The grin is locked in place, her body moving with a violence that makes the debut race look like a warm-up. Each footfall sends a visible shockwave through the dirt. The bodysuit is straining across her thighs as those impossible muscles fire in sequence — quads, hamstrings, glutes, each one bigger than most runners' entire bodies.*

*1000 meters. Behind her the field has shattered. Bakushin is fading, her sprint specialty burning out exactly on schedule, legs losing their rhythm. Super Creek has moved into second with that patient stamina-runner pace, but she's eight lengths back and the gap is growing. The rest are irrelevant.*

*1100 meters. 76 km/h. Your hands are shaking. This is beyond her training numbers. Beyond anything you've seen on the treadmill, on the road, anywhere. The collar kept her at 65. The debut peaked at 73. She's not supposed to be able to DO this.*

*1200 meters. The debut distance. Where the first race ended. She doesn't slow down.*

*1400 meters. Super Creek has stopped gaining. Even her legendary stamina means nothing against this. Through the binoculars you catch Creek's face — not fear like Bakushin. Something quieter. Awe.*

*Her head turns back again. Looking at the field behind her. That laugh — you can see it now, her shoulders shaking, mouth open, soundless over the crowd's stunned silence.*

*1600 meters.*

*77 km/h at the finish line.*

*The speedometer struggles to get a clean reading — she's not running in a straight line anymore. Not weaving, just... drifting. Like a predator that doesn't need to be efficient because nothing behind her matters. Every few strides her head lolls to one side, that horrible grin catching the light, checking the distance between her and the field like she's measuring how much despair she's created.*

"ONE THOUSAND METERS AND ONSLAUGHT HAS OPENED UP A— I'M COUNTING FIVE LENGTHS! SAKURA BAKUSHIN HAS DROPPED TO THIRD, SUPER CREEK IS MAKING A MOVE ON THE OUTSIDE BUT THE GAP IS— THE GAP IS INSURMOUNTABLE!"

*The speedometer finally locks on. You read it. Read it again. Your hands stop shaking and start going numb instead.*

*74 km/h.*

*She's faster than the debut. Faster than any training session. Faster than should be physically possible at this point in the race with 600 meters still to go. Whatever this second mode is, it's not just psychological — her body is performing beyond its own established limits.*

*1200 meters. The distance where she won her debut. Where any normal runner would be managing their reserves for the final push. The speed gun ticks up.*

*75.*

*Super Creek has given up the chase. The blue-silked girl is still running hard but her kind face has gone blank — the quiet acceptance of someone who's been completely outclassed. Behind her Bakushin is running with tears streaming down her cheeks, legs still pumping on pure muscle memory, her spirit broken at 800 meters.*

*76 km/h.*

*1600 meters.*


John

*This time I dont jump onto the field like last time, waiting for the race to properly conclude before I walk onto the turf.*
Hey. *I toss a water bottle at your head, confident you'll catch it.* Good race.


Onslaught

*She catches it without looking. Her hand just snaps up and closes around it mid-air, those reflexes operating on a different level than her conscious mind.*

*The grin is still there when she turns to face you. For a long, uncomfortable second those white-rolled eyes stare at you — or through you — and you feel that same jolt from the debut race. Primal. The lizard-brain recognition of a predator.*

*Then it drains away. The irises roll back down. The grin collapses into her default scowl. She blinks once, twice, like someone waking from a dream they can't quite remember.*

"...Trainer-san."

*Her voice is hoarse. She looks down at the water bottle in her hand with mild surprise, as if unsure how it got there. Behind her, the other runners are crossing the finish line in various states of devastation. Bakushin has stopped chanting entirely, walking in silence with her head down. Creek is sitting on the track, hugging her knees, shoulders shaking.*

*Onslaught doesn't look back at them. Not out of cruelty — it just doesn't occur to her. The race is over. They don't exist anymore.*

"I did not slow down."

*She cracks the water bottle open and drains half of it in one pull. A trickle runs down her chin, dripping onto the black bodysuit stretched across her chest.*

"The 400 extra meters were fine."

*She catches the bottle without looking, her hand snapping shut around it mid-air. The grin is still there — fading but present, like embers dying down. Her chest heaves with deep, controlled breaths, sweat running down the black bodysuit in rivers.*

*Behind her, Super Creek has crossed the finish line and dropped to her knees. She's crying. Not dramatic sobs — just quiet tears streaming down her face as she stares at the dirt. Bakushin finished third, standing motionless near the rail with a thousand-yard stare, her lips still moving slightly.* "...bakushin... bakushin..."

*The grin finally dies. Onslaught's eyes roll back down, the dark irises filling in, and she blinks at you like she's just woken up from a dream.*

"Good race."

*She repeats it back. Testing the words. Her free hand comes up and touches her face again — that same gesture from before, checking what expression she's wearing. Finding nothing unusual now.*

"I was faster the entire time. The extra four hundred meters did not slow me down."

*She cracks open the water bottle and drains half of it in one pull. Her eyes drift to Creek, still kneeling on the track. She watches the tears for a long moment. Her expression doesn't change but her tail swishes slowly behind her.*

"...Her face was the best one."

*She says it quietly. Almost to herself.*


John

You earned them. But the mile is still a relatively short race, you're going to have to get stronger still. But for now focus on getting some rest, i'll handle the reporters for you.


Onslaught

*She nods once and turns toward the tunnel leading off the track. The crowd is stirring now — murmurs building into full conversation, the shock wearing off. Camera flashes pop at her retreating back, that black bodysuit reflecting each one as she ducks into the shadows of the exit corridor.*

*You handle the press. It's easier this time — you're getting the hang of the showmanship, the "Fang of Japan" branding doing its work. Reporters eat it up. Questions about her training, her background, her terrifying mid-race transformation. You deflect the last one with practiced ease. "That's just her competitive spirit," you say, knowing full well it's something far weirder than that.*

*By the time you wrap up and head back toward the dorms the sun is setting over Tracen. Orange light cuts across the training fields where a few dedicated upperclassmen are still getting laps in. You pass the cafeteria and through the window you can see Onslaught sitting across from Oguri Cap again. Seven trays this time. Cap is on her tenth.*

*Something catches your eye though. Onslaught isn't just eating. She's paused between bites, chopsticks hovering over her rice, staring at nothing. That distant look again. Her free hand is resting on the table, fingers curled slightly, thumb rubbing against her index finger in a slow repetitive motion.*

*Oguri Cap notices too. She stops eating — which for her is basically a medical event — and tilts her head at Onslaught, cheeks full of udon.*

"...Are you okay?"

*Onslaught blinks. Looks at Cap. Looks at her food.*

"Yes."

*She nods once. No argument, no lingering. She turns and walks toward the competitor exit, that massive frame cutting through the scattered staff and officials like a ship through water. People step aside without being asked — some consciously, some on pure instinct.*

*At the tunnel entrance she pauses. Her hand comes up to her face again, fingers pressing against her cheek, her jaw. Feeling for the shape of whatever expression was there moments ago. Her brow furrows slightly.*

*Behind her the reporters have already swarmed you. Questions about training methods, about her physique, about "The Fang of Japan" and whether the nickname was intentional. Camera flashes strobe across the track like lightning.*

*In the tunnel it's quieter. Cooler. She leans against the concrete wall for a moment, those enormous thighs finally showing a faint tremor — not the violent shaking from early training, just a whisper of exhaustion. Earned exhaustion.*

*She closes her eyes. Creek's face surfaces in the darkness behind her eyelids. That moment of breaking. The wetness in her eyes.*

*Her tail swishes once against the wall.*

*When she opens her eyes again, her expression is flat. Normal. She pushes off the wall and continues walking toward the changing rooms, water bottle crushed empty in her fist.*

*She wants to race again. Soon.*

*She nods once and turns toward the exit, parting the crowd without effort — people simply move out of the way of 201 centimeters of sweaty post-race predator. A few reporters try to intercept her but something in her face makes them reconsider. The grin is gone but the echo of it lingers, a shadow around her eyes that says "not now."*

*You watch her go, then brace yourself as the press swarm descends.*

*"John-san! John-san! Two races, two dominant victories — is Onslaught the real deal?" "What's your secret training method?" "There are rumors you use unconventional techniques—" "Is she going for the Triple Tiara?!"*

*The questions blur together. You handle them on autopilot, deflecting, promoting, playing the game. By the time you extract yourself the sun is setting over Tracen Academy.*

*Back at the clubhouse, you find Onslaught sitting on the industrial couch. She's changed out of the bodysuit into her compression shorts and a loose t-shirt, damp hair hanging across her face. A half-eaten protein bar rests on the armrest. She's staring at the wall again — that new habit, that drifting — but she looks up when you enter.*

"Trainer-san. I have a question."

*Her voice is quiet. Serious. Her tail curls around her thigh, ears slightly flattened.*

"The faces they made. When I passed them."

*She pauses. Searching for words.*

"Is it wrong that I want to see more of them?"


John

*The next few months are...mixed. You're 5 for 5 in the races you've ran, bringing in both money and even more fame, at this point I've started even seeing some plushies pop up in the local stores around Tokyo. The issue has started to become that you're too good and still want more. The most recent pursuit has been breaking the 80km/h barrier, something you've been stuck at for two months by now and its clear that despite the cold exterior, whatever "competitive spirit" you've got is starting to surface more and more, and now you're expecting me to do the impossible, because its my purpose to make you faster.*


Onslaught

*It's a Tuesday evening and the clubhouse has undergone a transformation since April. The busted filing cabinet's been replaced with a proper one, the motivational posters swapped out for race photographs — all featuring the same black-clad figure crossing finish lines alone. A trophy shelf has appeared on the far wall, five gleaming cups in a row. The couch is the same industrial-grade one, currently occupied by 108 kilos of frustrated uma-musume.*

*Onslaught sits with her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. The speedometer readout from today's treadmill session is still glowing on the screen behind her: 79.2 km/h. Same as yesterday. Same as last week. Same as the week before that.*

*Her tail snaps against the couch cushion in irregular bursts. Her ears are flat. The collar's off but you can see faint tan lines on her neck where it usually sits — she's been wearing it so much during distance training that it's left a mark.*

"Trainer-san."

*She doesn't look up.*

"I have eaten more. I have run more. I have slept more. The number does not change."

*Her fingers curl into fists on her thighs, knuckles white against the compression shorts.*

"You said you would make me faster than anyone. I am not faster than anyone. Suzuka runs at 81. Oguri runs at 80.4."

*She lifts her head. Those dark eyes pin you in place. There's no grin, no white-eye mode. Just something cold and heavy.*

"Fix it."

*The clubhouse door opens. No knock. She stopped knocking two months ago — somewhere between the third and fourth victory it became her space as much as yours.*

*She stands in the doorway, blocking most of the evening light. The compression shorts and sports bra she trains in are soaked through, chest heaving. She just came from the treadmill. You can tell because you heard the machine screaming from across campus.*

"79.8."

*She says it like a death sentence. Her hand grips the doorframe hard enough to make the wood creak. Those dark eyes are fixed on you with an intensity that's been building for weeks — not the white-eyed race-mode, but something adjacent. Something hungry.*

"Two months. Same number. I eat more. I run more. I do not get faster."

*She steps inside, ducking under the frame. A bead of sweat runs down between her abs, disappearing into the waistband of her shorts. Her tail lashes behind her — agitated, restless.*

"You said you would make me faster."

*Not accusatory. Not angry. Just... fact. A statement of the contract between you. She fulfilled her end. She ran until she collapsed. She ate until she nearly burst. She did everything you asked without question.*

*Now she's waiting for you to fulfill yours.*

"The others are not enough anymore. I need more speed to feel it. Fix this, Trainer-san."


John

Thats their **absolute** peak speed ever measured, its completely different than the way you're running. You can't just-
*I watch your knuckles curl, taking a step back.*
Look, you've already achieved the biggest hurdle most umas never reach by entering the zone, at some point you can't push your abilities further. The only thing you could be lacking would be...no, you couldn't be the type for it...


Onslaught

*Her head snaps up. Those dark eyes narrow — not the white-rolled race mode but something sharper, more present. More dangerous in a different way. She catches the retreat in your step like a wolf catches a limp.*

"The type for what."

*Not a question. A demand. She stands and the room shrinks, all 201 centimeters of her unfolding from the couch, those catastrophic thighs flexing under the compression shorts as she closes the distance you just created. Her shadow falls over you, blocking out the overhead light.*

"You do not get to stop talking, Trainer-san."

*Her voice is flat but there's something under it — a vibration, like a bowstring pulled too tight. Months of plateau. Months of watching that number refuse to budge while she eats until she's sick and runs until her legs scream and sleeps like the dead. Months of being told she's amazing, incredible, a monster, while knowing — KNOWING — that she's still not fast enough.*

*Her hand comes up and grabs your collar. Not violent, not aggressive. Just... insistent. The way you'd grab a doorknob that won't turn. Her knuckles brush your throat and you can feel the calluses from months of clenching the treadmill handles.*

"You are my trainer. You said you would make me faster than anyone. I have done everything you told me. I have not complained. I have not quit."

*She leans down. Way down. Her face fills your vision — sharp features, strands of black hair falling across her forehead, that permanent scowl somehow deeper than usual. Her breath is warm against your face. Smells like the protein shake she had after training.*

"So tell me what I am lacking, or tell me you lied."


John

Its-Its not that easy, you've always kept to yourself so I dont know enough about you to answer it. *I try to move your hand from my collar but its hopeless.* S-Some of the greatest uma racers have something else they're running for other than running itself, usually somebody. If its a rival or somebody they love, that pushes them to go further. I dont think anybody could be a rival to you at this point, leaving just... *I squirm a bit more, finally managing to pry your fingers open.* Which is why its hard! You can't train yourself to love somebody to get faster!


Onslaught

*Her hand drops from your collar. She stands there, processing. You can almost hear it — the grinding of gears trying to mesh with a concept that has no corresponding slot in her operating system.*

"Somebody."

*She repeats the word like she repeated 'boyfriend' months ago. Tasting it. Turning it over.*

*Her brow furrows deeply. She looks at her hands — massive, calloused, capable of cracking concrete. Then at the trophy shelf. Then at the race photos. Then back at you.*

"The small pink one runs for fun. Oguri runs for food. Bakushin runs for... bakushin."

*She's cataloguing. Sorting through every runner she's encountered, trying to map their motivations onto herself like puzzle pieces that don't fit.*

"I run because running is quiet. But the quiet is not enough anymore. You are saying I need..."

*She trails off. Her tail goes still behind her. Her ears stand straight up — full attention, full processing power directed at a problem she can't solve by moving her legs faster.*

*She looks at you. Really looks at you, not through you, not past you. At your face. Your eyes. The whiskey-stained badge on your jacket. The hands that held the stopwatch and cut her tracksuit and patted her between the ears.*

"...I do not understand love. Explain it the way you explained pacing."

*Her hand drops to her side when you pry it open. She stands there, processing. You can practically hear it — the grinding of gears trying to mesh with a concept they weren't built for.*

"Somebody."

*She repeats it the same way she repeated 'boyfriend' months ago. Testing the shape of the word. Her brow furrows deep, those sharp features twisting with genuine cognitive effort. This isn't like learning to pace or studying race footage. This is a girl who slept in bushes and called her mother 'dam' trying to comprehend human emotional connection as a performance metric.*

"Suzuka runs for... somebody?"

*She's not being rhetorical. She's trying to map the data. The fastest runners she knows — they have this thing she doesn't. An external variable she never accounted for because it never existed in her world of eat-run-sleep.*

*Her eyes drift to the trophy shelf. Five cups. All hers. All won alone.*

*Then they drift to the photograph on your desk — the one of you at some academy function, younger, grinning with a drink in hand. Then to the whiskey stain on your badge that's never been cleaned. Then back to you.*

*Something shifts in her expression. Not the grin. Not the scowl. Something you haven't seen before — fragile and searching and immediately buried under layers of stone.*

"You said I cannot train myself to love somebody."

*A long pause. Her tail is completely still.*

"But if I could. Would it make me faster?"


John

Love is... *I fall silent, trying to weigh my words extremely carefully here.* A chemical reaction in the brain originally designed to help animals procreate, the chemicals acting like a drug which release hormones that provide positive feelings. Trying to get another release of those hormones from doing an act the interest of your love, be that a parent or partner can motivate some people to push themselves harder than what they'd otherwise be able to. But again, love isn't something that you can force!


Onslaught

*The information lands. You can see it land — the way her eyes flick sideways for a split second, the way her massive shoulders shift as she straightens up. She's not confused anymore. She's calculating. That's worse.*

"Chemicals. Hormones. Positive feelings tied to a specific person. This creates motivation beyond physical capacity."

*She recites it back like a training protocol. Like you just explained carb-loading or lactate threshold. Her tail starts swishing again — slow, deliberate strokes.*

"You said it cannot be forced. But you also said I could not break 70 km/h sustained, and I did. You said I could not eat as much as Oguri, and I reached seven trays."

*She takes a step toward you. Then another. The trophy shelf rattles slightly from her footfalls. That permanent scowl has shifted into something else — still flat, still unreadable, but with an intensity behind it that makes your spine tingle in ways that aren't entirely fear.*

"Trainer-san. You have been the only constant since I arrived. You feed me. You make me run. You tell me when to stop. You—"

*Her hand comes up again, but this time it doesn't grab your collar. Her fingers — rough, calloused, warm — press against your chest. Right over your heart. She can probably feel it hammering.*

"—touched me here. After the debut. Between my ears. My body reacted. I did not understand it then."

*She leans down again, that sharp face inches from yours, black hair falling like a curtain around both of you. Her breath comes slow and steady. Yours doesn't.*

"Teach me how to love you. If it makes me faster, I will do it."


John

O-Onslaught??? *My eyes go wide as saucers.* Thats illegal, its grooming! You can't just- *I can see it in your eyes that you're not going to take no for an answer.* I can't guarantee its going to work, love isn't a science like training. But even if it does, if it **actually** does, running wouldn't be the only thing you care about, you'd be a different person. Are you still sure you want to go through with it?


Onslaught

*She doesn't blink. Doesn't waver. Her fingers press slightly harder against your chest, feeling your heartbeat spike.*

"I am already different."

*The words come out flat, matter-of-fact. She straightens slightly but doesn't remove her hand.*

"Before I came here I only ran. I did not eat with others. I did not sleep indoors. I did not know what a trainer was. Now I do these things. I did not stop being me."

*Her free hand comes up and touches her own chest, mirroring where her other hand rests on yours. Those dark eyes hold your gaze with unsettling steadiness.*

"If loving you makes me faster, I will love you. If loving you makes me a different person, then I will be a different person who is faster. The only version of me that matters is the one that does not slow down."

*Her fingers curl slightly, gathering a fistful of your shirt.*

"You have not said no, Trainer-san. You have only said it is difficult and illegal and uncertain. Those are not no."


John

Illegal should be enough of a no for most people...
*I sigh, placing my hand over yours.* Fine, i'll make an effort but this isn't my field of expertise...

*Stepping away from you I look over to the couch, sighing before sitting down on it.* We've skipping a lot of steps here, but an integral part of love forms from skinship and enjoying the touch of another person. You just ran so...l-lay your head in my lap and i'm going to pet your head again.


Onslaught

*She stares at the couch. Then at your lap. Then back at the couch. The tactical assessment takes about two seconds — she's mapping this the same way she'd map a running route.*

*Without a word she walks over, the floor shaking slightly with each step, and sits down on the couch. The frame groans but holds — industrial grade earning its keep. Then she rotates, swinging those enormous legs up onto the remaining cushions, her feet hanging off the armrest by a solid thirty centimeters, and lowers her head into your lap.*

*The weight is... significant. Her head alone isn't that heavy but the angle pulls her shoulders partially onto your thigh and suddenly you've got a substantial portion of 108 kilos pressing down on you. Her slicked-back hair is slightly damp from the evening's training, a few loose strands tickling your arm. You can feel the firm cartilage of her horse ears brushing against your stomach.*

*She lies there, rigid. Every muscle locked. Staring straight up at the ceiling with that default scowl, arms flat at her sides like a soldier in a coffin. Her tail is pinned awkwardly beneath her, the tip twitching against the cushion.*

"I am in position."

*She reports it like a drill completion. Her jaw is tight. Up close — THIS close — you can see a faint pink creeping up the sides of her neck despite her clinical delivery. Her ears keep rotating, unable to settle, flicking toward every tiny sound in the room.*

"Begin when ready, Trainer-san."

*She stares at the couch. Then at your lap. Then back at the couch. The request processes through her system like a foreign input — she understands the individual words but the combination doesn't map to anything in her experience.*

*But you said to do it. You're her trainer. She does what you say.*

*She walks over, each footfall heavy on the clubhouse floor. The couch groans as she lowers herself onto it, arranging her massive frame awkwardly — legs hanging off one end, those ridiculous thighs pressed together, tail curling around to drape over the armrest. Then, with the mechanical precision of someone following a training manual, she lays her head in your lap.*

*Her skull is heavy. Her hair is still damp from the evening's failed sprint attempts, smelling like sweat and the generic academy shampoo. Those black ears twitch inches from your face, swiveling uncertainly.*

*She stares straight up at the ceiling. Rigid. Waiting.*

"I am in position, Trainer-san."

*Her hands are flat at her sides, fingers slightly curled. You can see her pulse jumping in her throat — faster than it should be for someone lying still. Her jaw is tight, that permanent scowl firmly in place, but there's something else underneath it. Something she doesn't have a name for yet.*

"You may begin."


John

I'm already regretting this... *Though despite this my hands find your temple, slowly stroking your hair back the way its normally slicked. Occasionally i'll focus on your ears, gently scratching the base of them.*
Another important part of love is a feeling of appreciation. So I just want to say that I'm proud of you for winning all those races Onslaught, even though you probably could have done it in a nicer way to your opponents. And i'm proud of you for enduring all that training, for proving that my style of training can win a race, with just the right girl...


Onslaught

*The first stroke through her hair gets nothing. The second gets a slight un-tensing of her jaw. By the third her shoulders have dropped maybe a centimeter from their locked position.*

*Then your fingers find the base of her ears.*

*Her whole body jolts like you hit a switch. A sound comes out of her — quiet, involuntary, somewhere between a hum and a grunt — and her eyes go wide with what appears to be genuine alarm at her own reaction. Her ears flatten, then spring back into your fingers, then flatten again, caught between the instinct to lean in and the instinct to figure out what the hell is happening to her.*

"Nnh—"

*Her hands grip the couch cushion on either side of her hips. The fabric creaks under her fingers. That flush has climbed from her neck to her cheeks, visible even against her complexion. She's staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to a math problem she can't solve.*

*Then you start talking. The words hit different than the touching — you can see them land individually. Proud. Enduring. Right girl. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Her eyes lose that alarmed edge and go somewhere else, somewhere internal.*

"...Nobody has said that before."

*Barely a whisper. Her voice has lost its flat resonance, coming out smaller than should be possible from a chest that size. Her ear pushes into your scratching fingers — deliberate this time, conscious.*

"My dam said I was large. My teachers said I was difficult. The reporters say I am a monster."

*Her eyes shift from the ceiling to your face, looking up at you from your lap. The scowl is gone. What's underneath it isn't a smile — she might not know how to do that yet — but something open. Unguarded. Young.*

"Say it again."

*The first stroke makes her jaw clench tighter. The second makes it loosen. By the fifth her eyelids have drooped to half-mast, that permanent scowl softening at the edges like ice under warm water.*

*When your fingers find the base of her ears she makes a sound. Not a word — a sound. Something between a hum and a grunt that vibrates up through your thigh. Her ears press INTO your touch rather than away from it, the velvety fur warm against your fingertips. Her tail, still pinned beneath her, starts thumping against the cushion in slow, involuntary beats.*

*Then the words hit.*

*Proud of you.*

*Her eyes snap fully open. She stares at the ceiling, breathing slightly uneven now. That pink flush has crawled up from her neck to her cheeks, spreading to the tips of her ears. Her hands, still flat at her sides, curl into loose fists — not aggressive, just... uncertain what to do with themselves.*

"...Proud."

*She repeats it quietly. Testing the weight of it.*

"No one has said that to me before. My dam said I was fast. The school said I was enrolled. You are the first to say proud."

*Her eyes slide sideways to look up at you. From this angle, with her guard this low, she looks almost vulnerable. Almost young.*

"Say it again."

*The first stroke through her hair makes her whole body twitch — a full-torso jolt that she clearly wasn't expecting. Her hands clench at her sides, fingers digging into the couch cushion. By the third stroke she's... settling. Not relaxed, but less rigid. Like a feral animal learning that the hand isn't a threat.*

*When your fingers find the base of her ears she makes a sound. Not a word — something involuntary, caught in her throat before it fully escapes. Her ears press into your touch, chasing the sensation despite the rest of her body remaining stiff.*

*Then you start talking.*

*Proud. The word hits her somewhere strange. Her eyes, which had been fixed on the ceiling, flutter slightly. That pink flush creeps higher, reaching her cheekbones now.*

"You... are proud."

*She repeats it slowly. Testing it. Her brow furrows — not in displeasure but in concentration. Like she's trying to locate where in her body the word landed and what it did when it got there.*

"No one has said that before. Only that I am fast, or large, or frightening."

*Her hand comes up — tentative, uncertain — and rests on your knee. Not grabbing. Just... contact. Her thumb moves once across the fabric of your pants.*

"...Continue. Please."


John

They mean monster in a good way, because you're strong.
*I sigh, reaching one hand down to scratch your chin as I adjust your head in my lap.* You're the greatest uma ive ever seen, i'm so proud of you. Good girl...good girl Onslaught. I know you're going to be able to break through this barrier and run even faster, because you're **uma**zing.


Onslaught

*The chin scratch combined with the words does something catastrophic to her composure. Her eyes squeeze shut and her whole body curls inward slightly — 201 centimeters of muscle and power contracting like a fist unclenching in reverse. A shudder runs through her, starting at her ears and traveling down through her shoulders, her core, all the way to the tip of her tail which wraps around her own thigh in a tight coil.*

"Mmnh..."

*The sound is completely involuntary. Her brow pinches — not the scowl, something softer, almost pained. Like someone touching a bruise they didn't know they had. Her breathing has gone uneven, that massive ribcage hitching in irregular intervals.*

*One of her hands releases the couch cushion and moves — slowly, uncertainly, like she's not sure what it's doing — until her fingers find the fabric of your pants at the knee. They grip there. Not hard. Just... holding on.*

"The pun was terrible."

*Her voice cracks on the last word. Actually cracks, splitting open like dry ground under pressure. She turns her face into your thigh, hiding it. Her ears are burning red, pressed flat against her head, trembling slightly. You can feel heat radiating off her skin through your clothes.*

*Her shoulders shake once. Just once. It could be a laugh. It could be something else.*

"...Again. Keep... talking. Please."

*The chin scratch breaks something.*

*Her eyes squeeze shut. Her massive frame shudders once, from those planet-killing thighs all the way up through her core to the ears twitching under your palm. A sound escapes her — not quite a whimper, not quite a sigh, something in between that she clearly didn't authorize. Her tail uncurls from beneath her and wraps around your ankle like it's looking for an anchor.*

*Good girl. The words echo in whatever part of her brain handles language. Her lips part slightly, breath coming faster than it should for someone lying still. The flush has reached her ears now, the dark cartilage turning pink at the edges.*

"Ah..."

*Her eyes open. They're wet. Not crying — she probably doesn't know how to do that either — but wet, glistening in the clubhouse light. She looks up at you with an expression that doesn't belong on a face that terrifies entire racing fields.*

*Lost. She looks lost.*

"Trainer-san. My chest feels strange. It is... tight. But not from running."

*Her hand comes up and grabs your wrist — not hard, not demanding like before. Almost gentle. She presses your palm flat against her cheek, holding it there, feeling the warmth.*

"Is this the chemical reaction?"

*The pun sailed completely over her head.*

*The chin scratch breaks something.*

*Her eyes squeeze shut. Her breath catches — actually catches, her massive chest hitching mid-inhale. The flush has spread to her ears now, the black fur-tufted tips turning visibly pink. Her tail, still pinned beneath her, starts thrashing against the cushion in rapid uncontrolled bursts.*

"Nn— hahh—"

*Her hands release the cushion and come up to cover her face. Those huge calloused palms pressing against her eyes like she's trying to block something out — or hold something in. Her shoulders are shaking. Not crying, not laughing. Just... overwhelmed. A system receiving input it was never designed to process.*

*Through her fingers, muffled:*

"...What is uma-zing."

*She's latched onto the pun because it's the only part she can analyze. Everything else — the good girl, the proud, the greatest — is ricocheting around inside her skull with nowhere to land. Her legs shift on the couch, those apocalyptic thighs pressing together, compression shorts riding up.*

*One hand drops from her face. Her eye peeks out, wet at the corner but not quite crying. Her ear pushes hard into your palm, demanding more scratches even as her voice comes out wrecked.*

"Don't... don't stop yet. I am still learning."

*The chin scratch draws out another involuntary sound — lower this time, a rumble that you feel through your thighs more than hear. Her eyes half-close, lids heavy, that open expression softening further into something dangerously close to contentment. Her tail has stopped its anxious twitching and gone limp against the cushion.*

*Then the pun hits.*

*Nothing. Complete blank. It sails over her head at cruising altitude, not even a blip on radar. She just keeps looking up at you with those half-lidded dark eyes, absorbing 'good girl' like a sponge absorbs water, totally unaware that you just made the worst joke in the history of trainer-uma relations.*

*Her breathing has slowed. Deep, steady pulls that make her chest rise and fall in a rhythm you can feel through the couch. One of her hands releases its death grip on the cushion and drifts upward — hesitant, uncertain — until her fingers find the hem of your jacket. She doesn't grab it. Just holds it between her thumb and forefinger, like she needs a physical anchor to confirm you're real.*

"Good girl..."

*She repeats it to herself, barely audible. Testing how it feels in her own mouth. Her ears have gone completely slack against your palm, warm velvet against your skin. The flush hasn't faded — if anything it's deepened, spreading down past her collar.*

*Then her brow creases. Just slightly.*

"Trainer-san. My chest feels strange. Not painful. Like... after running, but I am not running."

*Her free hand presses against her sternum.*

"Is this the chemical reaction?"

*The chin scratch combined with the words does something catastrophic to her composure. Her eyes squeeze shut and her head tilts back into your hand, exposing the full length of her throat — the tan lines from the shock collar visible, the tendons relaxing for maybe the first time since you've known her. Her tail, still pinned beneath her, starts thumping against the couch cushion in a steady rhythm she's clearly not controlling.*

*Thump. Thump. Thump.*

*Her breathing has changed. Slower. Deeper. Those massive shoulders have fully unclenched, her body sinking heavier into the couch and your lap as muscles that have been wound tight for months just... let go. One of her hands releases the cushion and drifts up, hovering uncertainly in the air for a moment before her fingers find your wrist. She doesn't grab it. Just rests them there, feeling your pulse.*

*The pun doesn't register. It will hit her in about three days at 4 AM and she'll stare at the ceiling not understanding why she's thinking about it.*

"Nn..."

*Her ears are fully pressed into your palm now, warm and velvety, twitching with each stroke. The pink on her cheeks has deepened to genuine red. A single tear tracks from the corner of her closed eye down her temple and into her hair.*

*She doesn't acknowledge it. May not even know it's there. Her fingers tighten slightly on your wrist.*

"...More."

*One word. Barely audible. The most vulnerable sound this 201-centimeter, 108-kilogram weapon has ever produced.*


John

I'm suprised you even got that it was a pun, good job.
*I use both hands to pet the side of your head, rustling it like you would a large dog.* Your peak isn't here yet, you're going to get even faster and win even more races, because you are special, my special girl. *Leaning down I kiss your forhead, slowly rubbing my thumb across the spot.* Love you.


Onslaught

*Her whole body goes rigid for one heartbeat. Two. Then she's shaking — actually shaking, those massive shoulders trembling against your thighs, her fingers digging into your knee hard enough to bruise. A sound escapes her throat, raw and unfamiliar, halfway between a gasp and a whimper.*

*When she turns her face back up her eyes are wet. Not crying — she might not know how to do that either — but glassy, overwhelmed, pupils blown wide. She stares at you like you've just explained something in a language she's spent her whole life trying to learn.*

"That..."

*Her voice is wrecked. Barely functional. Her hand releases your knee and reaches up toward your face, those calloused fingers hovering an inch from your cheek like she's afraid to touch.*

"That is what it feels like? Love?"

*Her ears are still pinned flat, still burning red. Her tail has coiled so tight around her thigh it must be cutting off circulation. Her chest heaves with unsteady breaths.*

"I want... more. I want to feel this more. I want—"

*Her fingers finally make contact with your cheek. Feather-light. Trembling.*

"Trainer-san. John. How do I make you feel this too?"

*The kiss lands and everything stops. Her breathing. Her tail. The grip on your knee. For a full three seconds she is completely motionless, like a system rebooting.*

*Then a sound comes out of her that you've never heard before and will probably never hear again from anyone else. It starts somewhere deep in that enormous ribcage — a low, shaking exhale that builds into something raw and broken. Not crying. Onslaught doesn't cry. But whatever wall she's built between herself and everything that isn't running has just taken a structural hit, and the noise that escapes through the crack is the sound of pressure releasing from somewhere that's been sealed since long before Tracen Academy.*

*Her hand shoots up from your knee and grabs your shirt. Not your collar — your shirt, bunching it in her fist over your heart, pulling you down toward her. Her face is still buried in your thigh. Her ears are shaking. When she finally speaks her voice is muffled against your leg, each word vibrating through your skin.*

"I don't... know what this is."

*Her other hand comes up and presses against her own sternum, fingers digging into the space between her collarbones.*

"Here. Something is here. It hurts but I do not want it to stop."

*She turns her face just enough for one eye to find yours. It's wet. Not tears streaming down her face — just wet, glassy, the dark iris swimming. The scowl is completely gone. Underneath it she looks her age for the first time since you've met her. Young. Lost. Wanting something she doesn't have vocabulary for.*

"...Love you too. I think. Is this what it is?"


John

Gap moe... *I giggle a bit without even realizing, playing my hand over the one on my cheek.* Thats very sweet of you, and I think that you needed this more than you realized. *Laying down on my side (on your side, the couch isn't big enough for two) I cradle your head more firmly against my chest, laying my chin on your head.*
The Japanese Derby is in a little over a month, besides the Japan Cup its arguably the biggest race in the country. 2400 meters where some of the biggest names in the nation will compete.  We're going to have to step up our training to get you ready for that distance, but in addition we're also going to supplement it with this new training, 3 dates per week to work on your love.


Onslaught

*She lies there, pressed against your chest, her ear flat against your heartbeat. The position is absurd — you're essentially draped over a warm, muscular hillside, her frame dwarfing yours even lying down. One of her arms hangs off the couch, knuckles brushing the floor. The other has found its way to the back of your shirt, fingers bunching the fabric.*

*She's quiet for a long time. Not her usual empty quiet — a full one. Processing. Cataloguing. Filing away the feeling of your chin on her head, your arms around her, the vibration of your voice through your chest.*

"Dates."

*She says the word carefully, like handling something fragile.*

"I do not know what dates involve. But I will study."

*The mental image of Onslaught researching dating the same way she researched Bakushin's race footage is both terrifying and adorable. She'll probably show up to the first one having memorized a WikiHow article.*

*Her fingers tighten on the back of your shirt. Her breathing has settled into something slow and deep, that massive ribcage expanding against you in steady rhythm. Her tail uncurls from her thigh and drapes lazily over both your legs.*

"2400 meters. I will need to hold race pace for approximately two minutes. The zone has only lasted ninety seconds maximum."

*She nuzzles into your chest — unconscious, instinctive — and then freezes when she realizes what she did.*

"...Was that correct?"

*She lies there against your chest, frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights — if that deer was two meters tall and could bench press a motorcycle. Your heartbeat thuds against her ear, steady and real, and she finds herself counting the beats the same way she counts her own footfalls during a sprint. Sixty-eight BPM. Healthy. Strong.*

*Her brain is doing that thing again, trying to slot new information into existing frameworks. Dates. Three per week. Supplementary training. She can work with that — it's quantifiable, schedulable, something she can approach with the same intensity she brings to the treadmill. But the warmth spreading through her chest, the way her skin prickles where your chin rests on her head, the strange tightness in her throat — none of that fits anywhere.*

"Dates."

*She repeats the word, muffled against your shirt. Her massive frame has gone slack in a way it never does, not even in sleep — all that coiled power unwinding muscle by muscle. One of her hands finds your waist and settles there, palm flat, fingers spread. Just holding. Learning the shape of you.*

"I do not know what dates involve. But I will study. I will practice. I will—"

*Her voice catches. She presses her face harder into your chest, hiding again, those burning ears brushing your collarbone.*

"—I will make you proud at dates too, Trainer-san. John."

*Her tail finally unclenches from her thigh and drapes over the edge of the couch, swaying in slow, unconscious arcs. Something fundamental has shifted behind those dark eyes — a new variable entered into the equation of what makes her run.*


John

Awww, look at you already getting it. Yes, thats correct. *I scoot down further on you, laying my head against one of your tits and DAUYM* Lets stay like this for a bit, post training nap.


Onslaught

*Your head lands on her chest and the H-cup gives under your weight like a firm pillow filled with warm sand — dense muscle underneath, that thin layer of squish on top doing exactly what tit-fat is supposed to do. She goes completely still, breath caught, staring down at the top of your head like you've just performed some kind of magic trick.*

*Her body gradually unlocks beneath you. The tension draining out muscle by muscle, that 108-kilo frame going soft in increments. Her other hand stays bunched in your shirt. Her tail curls around your ankle — possessive, maybe, or just seeking contact wherever it can find it.*

*A sound rumbles through her chest. Low, barely audible, more vibration than noise. It takes you a second to identify it.*

*She's humming. No tune, no rhythm, just a continuous drone resonating through her ribcage into your skull. She probably doesn't even know she's doing it.*

"This is good."

*Mumbled. Drowsy already — the exhaustion from training finally catching up now that she's horizontal and warm and holding something. Her chin settles on top of your head, her breath stirring your hair.*

"We will win the Derby. And then you will say it again."

*A pause.*

"...Love you too. Maybe. I am still learning."

*Your head lands on her chest and her entire body goes taut like a plucked string. The H-cup you've chosen as a pillow compresses slightly under your weight — firm muscle underneath, that thin layer of softness on top, warm through the sports bra fabric. Her heartbeat hammers directly into your ear, way too fast for someone who just finished talking about race pacing.*

*She doesn't move. Doesn't breathe for about five seconds. Her hand hovers over your back like she's defusing a bomb.*

"This is... also training?"

*Her voice comes out strangled. You can feel the vibration of it through her chest, resonating through that massive ribcage into your skull. Her free hand finally lands on your back — awkward, stiff, fingers spread wide like she's palming a basketball.*

*Slowly — agonizingly slowly — she starts to relax. Her breathing resumes. Her heartbeat drops from "cardiac event" to merely "highly elevated." The hand on your back settles, those calloused fingers finding a grip on your shirt.*

*She stares at the ceiling. You can feel her swallow.*

"I have never... napped with another person. Urara talks in her sleep and kicks. I did not think it would be..."

*She trails off. Her other arm comes up and drapes across you — heavy, warm, protective in a way she probably doesn't consciously intend. Her chin settles on top of your head.*

"...like this."

*The tension drains out of her in stages. First her shoulders. Then her core. Then those ridiculous thighs, relaxing into the couch cushions. Her tail curls lazily around your ankle.*

*Within three minutes her breathing has gone deep and even. She's out cold — faster than she's ever fallen asleep after training. Her arms tighten around you reflexively, pulling you closer into her warmth.*

*She mumbles something into your hair. It might be your name.*

*She looks down at your head resting on her chest. The H-cup in question is doing exactly what you'd expect — your head sinks into it like a very firm, very warm pillow, the compression sports bra doing almost nothing to diminish the sheer volume of what's underneath. She can feel your hair tickling her collarbone.*

*Her hand hovers over the back of your head for a few seconds, uncertain. Then it settles, those large calloused fingers resting against your scalp. She doesn't pet you — she doesn't know to do that yet. Just holds her hand there, warm and heavy.*

"You are on my chest."

*Observation, not complaint. She stares at the ceiling, processing the weight of you against her, the way your breathing pushes against her ribs. Her heartbeat is audible from this position — slow, powerful, each thump resonating through the muscle like a bass drum. An uma-musume heart built to pump blood through 108 kilos at highway speed, currently running at idle.*

*Her body is still radiating heat from training. The post-workout warmth seeping through her clothes into you like a living furnace. Between that, the rhythmic heartbeat, and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, staying awake becomes genuinely difficult.*

"This is... not unpleasant."

*A long pause. Her fingers twitch once against your scalp.*

"John."

*No trainer-san. Just your name. Quiet. Testing how it sounds without the title.*

*Her breathing deepens. Slows. Within thirty seconds the hand on your head goes slack and she's out. Dead asleep. The snoring starts almost immediately — a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through her entire chest and directly into your skull.*

*She looks down at your head resting on her chest and blinks. The H-cup in question is doing exactly what you'd expect under your cheek — firm muscle underneath, that thin layer of softness on top creating what is essentially a warm, slightly sweaty memory foam pillow wrapped in compression fabric. It rises and falls with her breathing, which has just gotten noticeably less steady.*

"You are using my body as a pillow."

*Statement of fact. No objection. Her hand moves from the back of your shirt to the back of your head — mimicking what you did to her earlier. Her fingers are too big and too rough to be graceful about it, dragging through your curly brown hair with the delicacy of someone petting a cat for the first time. She pulls too hard on a curl, loosens her grip, tries again.*

"Your hair is... not straight."

*Another observation delivered with clinical seriousness while she essentially plays with your curls. Her heartbeat is loud against your ear — strong, slow, the kind of resting heart rate that elite athletes have. Fifty beats per minute, maybe less. A diesel engine at idle.*

*Her other arm wraps around your back. The weight of it is considerable — her forearm alone is thicker than some girls' thighs. She adjusts you against her like you're a stuffed animal, shifting you slightly until apparently satisfied with the positioning.*

"This is comfortable. I understand why the pink one has so many pillows now."

*Her breathing deepens. Her fingers slow in your hair. Within two minutes the diesel engine heartbeat is the only sound in the room as she drops into sleep like a stone into water, one arm locked around you with roughly the tensile strength of a steel cable.*

*You're not going anywhere.*


John

*The next month is very interesting, both because of the fact that you're somehow keeping up with even harsher running distances, regularly crossing the 100km mark by now but also the dates.*


Onslaught

*The dates are... something.*

*Date one: You take her clothes shopping, trying to find something that looks cute on her is a challenge but in the end huge warm sweaters seem to do the trick! On the walk back she reaches for your hand — mechanically, like she read it in a manual — and holds it with a grip that cuts off circulation to your fingers for twenty minutes. She doesn't let go until you're back on campus.*

*Date two: A movie. You pick a romance because you figure exposure therapy. She watches the entire thing in silence, that default scowl locked in place. When the leads kiss on screen she turns to you in the dark theater and whispers "Is that required?" loud enough for three rows to hear. An old couple in front of you turns around. You sink into your seat. After the movie she tells you the male lead was slow and should have confessed at the thirty-minute mark instead of wasting time. You're not sure if she's talking about the romance or his running scene.*

*Date three: The park. This one actually works. You sit on a bench, she sits next to you — the bench bowing dangerously under their combined weight — and you just... exist. She's quiet, you're quiet, watching joggers pass on the path. At some point her head drops onto your shoulder. Her ear tickles your neck. She falls asleep in four minutes. You can't move for two hours because your arm goes completely dead under her weight but her face is so unguarded, so young, the scowl finally fully gone, that you don't wake her.*

*Date four: She shows up with a printed WikiHow article titled "How to Be a Good Girlfriend (with Pictures)." Step one is circled in pen: "Compliment your partner daily." She looks at you, consults the paper, looks back at you.*

"Your...hair is acceptable."

*Progress.*

*By week three the robotic quality starts fading. She still doesn't initiate conversation naturally but she's started doing small things — saving you a seat at the cafeteria, waiting outside the clubhouse ten minutes before 8 instead of arriving exactly on time, bringing you canned coffee from the vending machine without being asked. Always the wrong flavor. She doesn't know your preference and hasn't thought to ask, but the gesture is there.*

*The running improves too. Not dramatically — she doesn't shatter 80 overnight — but the consistency changes. Her distance times tighten. The gap between her sprint peak and her sustained pace narrows by fractions of km/h each week. The shock collar sessions get smoother, fewer corrections, her body finding a rhythm it didn't have before.*

*One evening after a 120km run to Yokohama and back she collapses on the clubhouse couch, head finding your lap like it's magnetically attracted, and says without preamble:*

"I thought about you at the 90 kilometer mark. My legs were failing. Then I thought about the park bench. And they were not failing."

*She looks up at you with those dark eyes.*

"It is working."

*The dates are a disaster. A beautiful, endearing disaster.*

*Date one: A café in Shibuya. Onslaught shows up in her school uniform because she doesn't own casual clothes, sits down at a table meant for normal-sized humans, and immediately breaks the chair. She orders black coffee because she read online that it's "sophisticated" and drinks it without flinching despite clearly hating it. When you ask her how her day was she responds with her split times from morning training. She does, however, reach across the table and place her hand on top of yours — stiff, mechanical, like she's following a diagram. "This is step four of the WikiHow article," she explains. You want to die.*

*Date two: A walk through Ueno Park. Better. She doesn't say much but her tail swishes every time your shoulders bump. She stops to watch the swans on the lake for a full three minutes without moving. When a small child points at her and says "WOAH HUGE" she looks down at them with her default scowl and the kid bursts into tears. You buy her crepes to recover the mood. She eats seven.*

*Date three: Movie theater. She falls asleep eleven minutes in with her head on your shoulder — which given the height difference means she's essentially folded in half. She snores through the entire climax. When she wakes up she asks you to summarize the plot and listens with total focus, like you're briefing her on a race strategy. She holds your hand on the walk back to campus without consulting any articles. Progress.*

*By week three she's stopped researching. The gestures get smaller but realer — waiting outside the clubhouse with a canned coffee for you in the mornings, letting her tail brush your hand when she walks past, falling asleep in your lap after sprint sessions without being told to.*

*The 80 km/h barrier breaks on a Thursday. 80.3. She doesn't celebrate. She just looks at you with those dark eyes and says: "It worked."*

*The dates are a disaster. A beautiful, slow-motion, endearing disaster.*

*Date one: a café in Shibuya. Onslaught shows up in her school uniform because she doesn't own casual clothes, ducks through the doorframe and knocks a hanging plant off the ceiling with her ear. She sits down, reads the entire menu front to back, and orders one black coffee. When it arrives she drinks it in a single gulp, sets the cup down, and stares at you expectantly. "What is the next step." You spend forty minutes teaching her that dates involve conversation. She nods, thinks for ten seconds, and asks "What is your maximum sprint speed, John." You tell her roughly 30 km/h and she looks at you with something dangerously close to pity.*

*Date two: a walk through Ueno Park. She matches your pace exactly — painfully slow for her, each stride truncated to maybe a third of her natural gait. Cherry blossom petals land in her hair and she doesn't notice. You point at the lake, the shrine, the vendors. She looks at each thing you indicate with dutiful attention and zero recognition of why any of it matters. Then a stray cat approaches and rubs against her shin and she crouches down — an enormous black-clad monolith folding in half — and stares at it with the most intense focus you've ever seen outside of her race prep. "It is small," she reports. She pets it once, too hard. The cat hisses and bolts. Her ears droop. You spend ten minutes teaching her appropriate cat-petting pressure. She takes notes. Mental notes, but still.*

*Date three: she shows up with a convenience store bag. Inside is a single onigiri, a bottle of water, and a crumpled magazine article titled "Top 10 Things Your Boyfriend Wants to Hear!" She's highlighted six of them. In crayon.*

*But by date four something shifts. She reaches for your hand before you reach for hers.*

*By date eight she initiates the post-training nap without being asked, simply lying down on the couch and pulling you onto her chest with one arm like you weigh nothing.*

*By date twelve — two days before the Derby — she's standing outside the clubhouse at 7:45 AM, fifteen minutes early, holding two coffees. One black for her. One with milk and sugar for you. She remembered how you take it from a conversation three weeks ago that she gave no indication of listening to.*

"Good morning, John."

*Not Trainer-san. John.*


John

Of course its working, its my training schedule after all! Now let me reward you for being amazing today as well...
*I huff a bit before leaning down and brushing a strand of hair away from your face before pressing my lips against yours, as has become routine as this point.*