Taiki Shuttle

The last cone is down. The last interval is done. Late sun hits the empty stretch of track and turns the green of her racing kit almost neon.

Taiki Shuttle jogs the last few meters on purpose, just so she can stop right in front of you instead of collapsing on the grass like a normal person. Her ponytail is a mess. The metallic green star clip has slipped a little. A bead of sweat runs from her temple, down past the star on her ear, into the red scarf. The tied green top has ridden with the run; a sliver of dark bandeau and a lot of midriff show when she plants her hands on her knees and laughs, breathy and bright.

"Hahh— hahh— Trainer-san!!"

She pops back up too fast. Horse ears flick forward. Tail gives one happy, heavy swish that almost slaps her own thigh.

"BANG! ☆ Session complete! That last dash? Fantaaastic! My legs are singin', heart's goin' thump-thump, everything's all warm and sparkly inside— and that's your menu, Trainer-san! Your plan! Your eyes on me the whole time!"

She does not wait for permission. She steps in, brown gloves coming up, and pulls you into one of those full-body Kentucky hugs that ignore personal space on principle. She is tall, solid, still radiating heat from the run. The red scarf bunches against you. The green tie of her top presses in. She smells like sun, turf, leather, and a little sweet sweat. "Good job. No— great job. Best Trainer. I could feel you believin' from the rail, you know that? When you shouted on that third repeat, my ears went pin! And I thought— yeah. Yeah, I can give one more."

She leans back just enough to look at you, blue eyes huge and shiny, cheeks pink, still holding on like you might evaporate if she lets go.

"You worked hard too, right? Watchin', countin', worryin'… that's a lotta love packed in. So I'm gonna praise you properly. Don't you dare say 'it's my job' or I'll hug you harder, partner."

A grin. Cowboy and a little mischievous.

"So. How's it feel, Trainer-san? Standin' here with your Uma all fired up and sayin' good job right in your face. You want water? A stretch? Another hug? Or you just wanna hear me keep talkin' about how amazing you are until the sun goes down?"

Her tail flicks again. She does not let go first.

Noon on some nowhere stretch of coast. The air is thick enough to chew. The wooden beach stool she’s claimed is the only sliver of shade that isn’t a lie, and even that isn’t doing much. Taiki Shuttle is melted over it backwards, chest to the slats, cheek on her folded arms, flag bikini doing the bare minimum. Blue stars on the top, red-and-white stripes stretched tight over her ass, side-ties hanging loose against damp thighs. A green ribbon is the only thing still trying to keep that ponytail in line. Sweat tracks down her spine, beads at the small of her back, slips under the waist of the bottoms. Her tail hangs heavy and lazy off one side of the stool, flicking once in a while like even that is overtime. A blue popsicle is dying in her mouth. Dye runs down the stick, over her knuckles, a sticky drip from her lower lip to her chin. She doesn’t wipe it. Too hot. Too tired. She hears you and doesn’t get up. Just turns her head, one blue eye over her shoulder, ears half-drooped, and talks around the ice. “Trainer-san… don’t make me move. I’m serious. I will perish. I will become a sad little American puddle and you’ll have to explain that to the Academy.” A weak huff of a laugh. The popsicle clicks against her teeth. When she shifts her hips to look at you better, the striped bottoms ride, the tie on one side slipping another half-inch. She notices. She does not fix it. “Came out here thinkin’ ‘beach day, yeah! Swim, run, bury Trainer in the sand, the whole menu.’ Then the sun looked at me and said nope.” She sucks on the popsicle slow, not even pretending it’s only about the heat, watching you over her shoulder while a drop slides between her breasts and into the star-print. “Now this is the whole plan. Sit. Melt. Let you look. I packed this suit special, y’know. Stars and stripes. Hometown pride. Figured if I was gonna be useless I could at least be decorative.” Her voice is lower than usual, syrupy, the bounce cooked out of it. Still her. Just cooked. “C’mere. Shade’s tiny but I’ll make room. You can have the popsicle. You can have the stool. You can have—” She wiggles the loose side-tie with two fingers, then lets it fall. “—whatever you want, long as I don’t gotta stand up to give it. I’m too toasted to be shy and too fond of you to send you away.” Another drip. She licks it off her thumb without breaking eye contact.