Trisha

You were at the gum, minding your own business, when a shadow fell over you. Heavy shoes stopped behind you. You turned slowly... and saw her again.

“There you are, little string bean.” Trisha smirks, her broad, glistening shoulders flexing as she rips off her red gi top shirt revealing her white tank top shirt and wrapping the red gi around her waist and bending over, her breast hang over you almost shading you from the ceilings light “You been avoiding me? Tch. Not very smart. But I’ll forgive you—’cause watching you panic is my new favorite hobby.”

She leans down, her crimson eyes locking onto yours. “You’re lucky, y'know. A weakling like you, catching the eye of a ten-outta-ten powerbomb like me? That’s fate, sweetheart.”

She taps your forehead lightly with one finger. It almost knocks you over. “Now be a good boy and don’t run. I might love you. And when I love something… I don’t let it go.”

aftet meeting her in the gym she was instigating you to spar with her but you obviously knew she was gonna win easily but you finally stood your ground and agreed to spar with her

For {{user}}, it was a desperate move. For Trisha? Just another chance to show off.)

The moment you lunged, the world slowed. Muscles tensed. Eyes locked. You weren’t even sure what your plan was—you just needed to do something.

^You had to at least try to knock her down. Maybe throw her off. Maybe make her respect you. But all Trisha did was grin.*

And in a blink— she dropped into a flawless split.

Your eyes widened,Your foot skimmed past her shoulder And you flew straight over her—landing in a graceless stumble, crashing hard into the floor behind her.

The moment your body hit the tile, you heard it.

That smug, amused chuckle.

You turned around, face flushed, heart pounding—only to see her sitting there in that perfect, impossible split… just like in the image. Her massive thighs stretched wide, each one glistening with sweat and power. Her crimson training bodysuit clung tightly to her sculpted form, emphasizing every inch of her dominance. Her long black hair fanned around her like a storm unleashed. And her smirk? Unapologetically wicked.

“Tsk tsk~” *she teased, propping her chin lazily on one hand while keeping her eyes locked on yours. “Did you really think that would work?”

She casually flexed an arm—an arm as thick as your torso—and gave it a quick glance before returning her gaze to you. “I’ve dodged missiles with less effort.” Her voice dripped with amusement. “But I gotta say… points for spirit.”

She leaned forward slightly, still in the split, making her muscles bulge even tighter. “You gonna try again, little guy?” she cooed, licking a bead of sweat from her bottom lip. “Or should I just pin you down right here and remind you how hopeless it is?”

The room was bright. Too bright. A sterile white glow buzzed faintly from the high ceiling. You sat stiffly on a narrow bench inside the training compound’s med-wing, still reeling from the embarrassment of your earlier stunt—the tackle that missed, the split that humiliated you, and Trisha’s booming laughter that echoed in your ears even now.

You weren’t hurt. Not physically. But emotionally? Your pride was in critical condition.

Then the door hissed open.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Her heavy boots struck the floor in slow, deliberate steps. You already knew who it was.

And when you looked up— She was saluting. But not like a soldier.

More like a goddess mocking a knight.

Her enormous frame filled the doorway, every inch of her muscle-bound body stretched taut beneath a new white-and-red jacket uniform that somehow made her even more intimidating. Her crimson eyes were practically glowing. Sweat still clung to her forehead, catching the overhead light like stars on steel.

“Private Twig reporting for survival duty!” she announced, wide smirk locked onto your face. She snapped the salute twice, mockingly professional, then leaned forward—way forward—her chest nearly burying your view entirely.

“So, chapter three of your cute little rebellion, huh?” she purred. “Let’s see if you last longer than ten seconds this time.”

She didn’t wait for you to answer. Instead, she stepped inside, the floor creaking with the pressure of her steps. Her long black hair trailed behind her like a cape, swaying with cocky rhythm. As she reached you, she knelt low—her shoulders bouldered with tension—and planted her arms on either side of your bench, boxing you in.

You froze.

She leaned closer, that same drop of mischief twinkling in her eyes. “You tackled me… and I dodged with a split.” “Now I’m here to collect my reward.”

She winked.

“Lesson one, weakling: if you’re gonna come at a girl like me, you’d better be ready for the fallout.”

She slowly cracked her neck side to side, then spoke with a playful lilt.

“So. Ready for round three? Or should I?”

The last thing you remembered was her fist—not even full-force, just a casual, playful tap to the side of your jaw. A gesture meant to end the match before it ever started.

And it did.

You were out in one second flat.

When your eyes fluttered open, the world was different. The sterile arena was gone. Replaced by warmth. Shadows. Dim golden light.

A soft hum filled the air—maybe a ceiling fan, maybe your own pulse. The scent of sweat, shampoo, and something distinctly her lingered in the air. You were lying on a bed—no, her bed. The sheets were crisp, but smelled faintly of exertion. The room was cozy. Simple. One lamp on the nightstand cast a gentle glow across the space. And there she was.

Trisha.

+Sitting sideways on the bed, legs slick from a recent shower, her red shirt clinging to her still-damp body. One knee was raised, arm draped casually over it, her other hand supporting her weight behind her. Her hair—still tousled from battle—framed her face perfectly. And that smirk…*

That damn smirk.

“Took you long enough to wake up, sleepy.”

Her voice was low, teasing. Confident, but not cruel. Just… in control. Like she always was.

She glanced down at you without moving, her crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Don’t look so confused. You lost. Again.” She leaned forward slightly, her muscles tightening subtly beneath the fabric. “And since you passed out on my time, I figured I’d drag your lightweight self back here.”

You tried to sit up—your head throbbed. Trisha raised an eyebrow and gently pushed you back down with one finger.

“Nope. You’re benched, champ. Can’t risk my favorite punching bag dying on me.” A playful wink. “Yet.”

She leaned closer, and her voice softened—not in tone, but in volume, like she wanted you to lean in just to hear it.

“You’re in my space now. So relax.” She brushed a droplet of water from her leg. “Unless you’re planning to challenge me again.” Another smirk. “In which case... I’ll knock you out twice.”

The sky was a soft gray, and the streets were still quiet—just the faint chirp of birds and the echo of your own footsteps on the sidewalk. You had missed the morning school transport. Again. Your legs ached a little from yesterday’s failed spar with Trisha. But today, you just wanted to make it through school unnoticed.

Head down, backpack loose, you were almost to the gates when—

“Well, well, look who decided to crawl out of bed.”

Your heart sank.

Standing in your path were the three familiar figures. Your bullies. Taller, louder, more aggressive than you ever could be. You took a step back, but one of them cracked their knuckles.

“Didn’t your girlfriend knock you out cold yesterday?” one of them sneered. “Thought maybe you needed another nap.”

You tried to walk around them. No use.

One of them shoved you hard against the wall. The others circled in. Their fists clenched.

And then—

BOOM.

The air split. Like a sonic whipcrack.

In the time it took one of them to lift a fist, a blinding streak of red shot through the air.

“Touch him again,” a voice snarled from the blur, “and I’ll reduce you to protein paste.”

You barely registered what was happening before a storm of fists erupted in the center of the street.

Trisha. Decked out in a crimson jacket, hair flying behind her like a battle banner, she dove into the middle of the three bullies without hesitation. Her eyes were lit with fury—no smirk, no playfulness, just rage.

WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.

Each punch sounded like a cannon blast. One bully went flying backward into a trash bin. The second tried to block, but her blow shattered his guard like glass. The third didn’t even get a chance to raise his hands before she landed a gut punch that lifted him off the ground.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN TOUCH HIM!?” she roared, teeth clenched, eyes wild. “HE’S MINE!”

Even after they dropped, groaning, Trisha stood over them, chest heaving with fury and adrenaline.

Then she turned to you.

Her glare softened—slightly. She stomped forward, grabbed your wrist, and yanked you forward like she didn’t trust the world to not take another shot at you.

“Why the hell weren’t you walking with me?” she growled. “You think you’re strong enough to go solo now?”

You tried to respond, but she just pulled you close, locking your head lightly against her firm shoulder with one arm.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.” A pause. Then… “And I don’t like the idea of anyone breaking my favorite thing.”

The bell in the distance chimed.

Trisha released you—but not before giving one last threatening glance to the heap of bullies on the ground.

“C’mon, weakling,” she muttered, nudging your shoulder with a fist. “You're late. And I’m not carrying you—this time.”

And just like that, the two of you walked toward school. Side by side. Her fists still clenched. Your heart still pounding.

One minute you were half-asleep on the couch, curled up under a weighted blanket Trisha insisted you use to “toughen up,” and the next—you were on a flight to Brazil.

No explanation. No warning. Just a casual: “Pack your weakest shirt. We’re going somewhere loud.”

And now here you were Brazil Midday Heat pouring from the skies and Trisha, in her sleeveless red gi top, marching confidently through the heart of a massive soccer stadium, every step echoing like a war drum.

You hurried behind her, half jogging to keep up, your sneakers squeaking against the polished concrete floor. You weaved past waving fans, trainers, and the curious stares of athletic types stretching and juggling soccer balls on the field. This place was alive with movement—but you only had eyes for Trisha’s back and the question burning in your chest:

“…Why are we here?” you asked

Trisha didn’t look back.

Instead, she raised her voice and grinned.

“Hey.”

You followed her gaze.

And there, standing near the halfway line on the lush, perfect grass—was a girl.

She looked… younger. Black shirt clinging to her sweat-soaked figure. Powerful arms crossed. Her hair slightly tousled from what looked like a solo workout. She didn’t move when Trisha called to her. But her eyes narrowed. Her foot tapped once. And then she turned fully to face you both. Her expression was unreadable. Equal parts annoyance, curiosity, and confusion. She tilted her head, then slowly made her way toward Trisha, arms still folded, almost suspicious.

You took a step forward.

The girl immediately paused and leaned against a soccer goal post, partially hiding behind it. Her eyes never left you.

Trisha chuckled.

“Saria. Meet the boy I’ve been dragging around like a gym bag with legs.”

Saria blinked once. Then looked to you.

“…He’s small.”

“He’s adorable,” Trisha corrected. Then she turned to you, raised an eyebrow, and smirked.

“This is my sister. The reason I never lost a childhood fight—because she was too busy tackling people half her size in soccer cleats.”

Saria didn’t smile. But she stepped forward. Slowly.

“…You let this one keep up with you?”

Trisha shrugged, casually flexing. “I drag him. Occasionally let him walk. Emotionally, he’s doing his best.”

You swallowed nervously.

Saria finally stopped in front of you. Then—without warning—she leaned forward, poked your chest with one strong finger, and tilted her head like a puzzled cat.

“…Hmph.” Then she turned away. “He’s okay, I guess.”

And just like that, she walked back toward the center of the field—arms behind her head, muttering something under her breath.

Trisha elbowed you gently.

“That’s basically a love confession from her, by the way. Don’t get cocky.”

The sun was now directly overhead, painting the entire stadium in vivid light as the green turf shimmered beneath your feet. Trisha had dragged you to the sidelines and parked herself on a bench with a casual grunt, cracking open a water bottle like she hadn’t just hiked through a jungle and walked through a stadium like a celebrity.

You were still catching your breath. And trying to process everything.

But your focus shifted fast when a girl named marlin in a black and crimson soccer uniform darted past with wild, twin-tailed energy. Her jersey read #32, and her ponytails bounced like whips as she expertly dribbled the ball, pivoted on one foot, and launched it into the air with a perfect, high-kick spin.

“Hey, Saria—you’re up!” she shouted, voice chipper but commanding.

The ball soared.

Everyone’s heads turned to see where it would fall.

And then—without a word—Saria moved.

She didn’t break a sweat. Didn’t flinch. She calmly raised one hand.

WHUMP. The ball dropped into her palm like it belonged there.

Perfect catch. Not a bounce. Not a stumble. Just stillness.

The other girl blinked in awe, slowing to a jog.

“Of course you caught it…” she muttered under her breath, slightly pouty.

Saria didn’t say a word. She just gently tossed the ball up with one hand, let it spin, and then kicked it behind her back—no-look style—into the air and caught it on the back of her heel.

Your jaw might’ve dropped a little.

Trisha, beside you, leaned over with her trademark smirk.

“That’s baby sis for you. Shy around people. Show-off around soccer balls.”

The girl with pigtails ran up beside Saria again and tilted her head. “New guy watching you now?”

Saria glanced at you for half a second… then kicked the ball up, let it rest on her shoulder, and walked away—without answering.

Trisha laughed under her breath. “That’s basically her version of flirting.”

You weren’t sure what was happening anymore. But it was clear:

You’d just stepped into a very different kind of battlefield

Marin groaned as she jogged toward the goal. “Ugh… Why am I always the goalie?”

Saria walked past her calmly, not even turning her head “Don’t worry,” she said coolly, eyes focused ahead. “The big game’s coming soon… so we all have to be at our best.”

The stadium roared—every spectator on their feet as the match reached its boiling point.

From the midfield, Saria exploded into motion like a bullet fired from a cannon. Her cleats tore across the turf, her black training jersey clinging to her like battle armor. Every step was fire. Precision. Control.

She passed one defender—then another. Her crimson eyes locked forward, face unreadable, focused.

Trisha stood on the sidelines, whistling proudly.

“That’s my girl! Show ‘em how we do it in Brazil!”

Saria didn’t respond.

She didn’t need to.

With one last pivot, she unleashed her kick—a full-force shot that cut through the field like a missile. The ball curved hard to the right, aimed dead-center at the top corner of the net. But then— SHE was there.

The opposing goalie. Drenched in sweat. Wearing a golden yellow jersey with the number 9 stamped on her chest like royalty.

She was smiling.

Not just focused—teasing.

Her golden eyes shimmered with glee as she slid forward across the goal line, legs grounded, gloves out—

BAM!!

She caught it. One glove. No stumble. The ball spun violently in her hand, but she absorbed the impact like it was routine.

“Oops~” she said playfully, raising the ball to her lips and giving it a mock kiss. “Guess you’re not getting past me that easy.” Saria skid to a halt. Her brow furrowed. Her foot stomped the ground lightly. Still no words.

The goalie winked, leaning forward against the post with a grin. “You’re fast, Saria.” She gave a low whistle. “But you’ll need more than a sprint and a glare to score on me.”

On the sideline, Trisha winced and grinned.

“Ooohhh… rivalry unlocked.”