[Fanfic, 100% Orange Juice] Thigh Alert

Genre: Comedy

Length: 2458 words

B/D: Having finished the Christmas story after a whole bunch of writer's block, I wanted to do something to refresh myself... and ended up doing this in one sitting. Soren from the Fruitbat Factory Discord chat wanted a story about NoName, so here it is!

NoName laid back, looked up at the stars, and began to contemplate thighs.

It wasn’t the first time that he had contemplated thighs. Actually, he had been in a near-constant state of contemplating thighs, ever since the fateful day where he clawed his way out a malfunctioning biovat and hawked a gallon of artificial amniotic fluid out of his lungs. The love of them was inscribed upon his very bones – probably his thigh bones, but there were a number of other obvious candidates.

In his long meditations, he had reached several truths about the nature of thighs. They were, he felt, what separated humans from beasts. He knew of no animal, other than a human or an ape, that possessed a thigh, and if they existed he didn’t care because it wouldn’t support his point. They were therefore an evolutionary pointer, a sign for the minds of feeble protohumans as to what was acceptable to lust after. He held as a self-evident truth that if nature intended something it was morally pure, and that man should never strive to be greater than what he had been born as.

His second truth, and the one he had worked hardest to attain, was the truth of the perfect thigh. Thighs were at their best shortly after being shaved – not waxed. This was an amateur mistake, he felt; it reduced the vital essence of the limb. Rather, there should be a light sprinkling of hair, just enough to provide some counterbalance to the smooth, muscular texture of a well-toned thigh – like a fine dusting of sugar on a sumptuous cake. Furthermore, thigh composition was important. Like other delicious meats, there should be a certain balance between fat and muscle. Too or too much of either could reduce the thigh from being a paragon of anatomy to being just another accessory to a female body.

The third truth, the one that was dancing tantalisingly before him, the one he had approached yet shied away from so many times, was the idea that thighs were at their best in the wild. He didn’t want to believe it, because he had always wanted to have power over thighs. Power in general was very attractive; if he were perhaps a different man, on a different path, power over others would be the one thing he lusted after most. But the thighs, the thighs were more important. And they looked so good, so pure, so transcendent when given willingly.

Many men would have taken this as a sign that they should maybe start dating. They would use it as a chance to cultivate themselves romantically, and seek out a partner whose thighs they could adore forever after without need of financial recompense. NoName was not most men, because NoName had a different concept for the word ‘willing’. Mostly his version involved being conscious and not brainwashed, and not many parameters other than that. It would be nice, he thought wistfully, if they would not scream, or call the police, or fire giant laser cannons at him, but that seemed like an ideal world that didn’t exist – a Shangri-La he could never enter.

He sighed, and rolled over to face the town fountain. He liked the town fountain, because it had a very wide rim that he could sleep on. He also liked it because people sometimes threw pennies in there to make wishes, and the metal impurities entered the water and poisoned the birds. This, he felt, was very symbolic of the idea that you could never achieve your wishes without hurting another living being, as well as being a great source of pennies. He loved pennies; although he had a decent although variable income as a travelling hobo who occasionally sold off very dangerous and powerful robotics to arms dealers, he was still the type to pay for all his goods in single pennies and very much enjoyed painstakingly counting them out as the clerk got angry at him but tried to hide it. Sometimes the clerk just weighed the pennies, which was very annoying for him but meant he got his hundredweight of candy quicker.

Unfortunately, a man of his discerning tastes made many enemies amongst the women of the world, and some of them had taken to sneaking up when he was on the fountain’s rim and giving him a nice, hard shove towards the water, and as he attempted to astrally project himself into the Elemental Plane of Thighs, somebody did just that. He came up wet, irritated, and with pennies in his mouth.

It was then that he saw her – a true vision of beauty, walking along the cobbled streets of the town. She was tall, straight-backed, with fluffy blue hair and a cold, piercing gaze. She was, he thought, well built below her long dress; certainly, she had a bust that was restrained yet abundant. But most importantly, she had no arms. That meant that her thigh-to-body ratio was the highest of any woman he had seen in this entire, boring world. It was love at first sight. It was destiny. He was going to marry this woman, and he would reform himself as a man and she would let him shave her thighs in the shower for her so he could enjoy them later. What he wouldn’t give for a gust of wind right now, a hurricane to spirit up the hem of that long, drifting skirt! They were all the more tantalising for being so prudishly hidden. He didn’t need to see all of the thigh. Just a centimetre above the knee. Just a centimetre would do. Was a centimetre so much to ask? Was the wind so lazy as to deny him a mere centimetre?

The bowling ball of love had been thrown down the alley and knocked over all the pins in his heart – no, all but one, which was still standing firm, erect and rigid. He rose from the fountain, and was about to go sloshing towards her like an incredibly handsome and rugged swamp monster when, to his great concern, he saw another girl. Talking. To his beloved. She was blonde and she was pretty and he hated her immediately, but oh, oh, her dress was short, short enough to leave half a full handful – maybe a hand-and-a-half – of delicious meat between the hem and the knee, protected only by a thin layer of dark pantyhose. Pantyhose was second only to knee-socks in the arsenal of the temptress, enough to obscure the thigh itself but thin enough and tight enough to pick out every single beautiful contour, and so, so… fragile. He frantically simulated the thigh underneath in his mind, and found it pleasing and sumptuous. The remains of an athletic physique that was slowly going squishy, a wonderful harmony between strength and softness, tone and texture, muscle and fat. If the blue-haired woman was an angel, a representation of the platonic ideal of the thigh, then this girl was a devil, a temptress designed to pull him down the wrong path and smother him in an empty but very enjoyable hell.

The thing he hated most about the blonde girl was that she was walking side-by-side with the object of his affections, with not one, but two bags of groceries in her hands. They had been shopping together, for food, which strongly implied they were living together. Maybe even as lovers. The blonde girl was also chivalrously carrying his angel’s food for her, which should have been his job. Well, actually, he would never do it because manual labour was for plebeians, but the implication remained. She represented the possibility that his soulmate, the one woman who (probably) fit his overly shallow and specific criteria for female beauty, was taken. Possessed by somebody else. (It also meant he couldn’t rely on desperation or loneliness as a means to worm his way into his future lover’s heart, which he had kind’ve been counting on.)

Still, a small and optimistic voice said inside his mind. Maybe this isn’t a bad thing. Maybe you don’t have to pick between an angel and a devil. Maybe… Maybe you can have both. The thought brought new and terrible strength to his weary psuedo-hobo muscles, and joy to his withered heart.

“Excuse me!” he shouted. This, he felt, was a good start, because even though it was rude to shout at people, he wasn’t shouting anything overtly offensive this time. “You, the tall and beautiful one with no arms!”

She glided to a halt like a stately ghost, that long skirt fluttering infuriatingly at her ankles. She looked him up and down, and the surprise showed on her face before the disgust – a good sign. His heart, already swelling with passion, pounded as he felt her cool glare on his face.

“You’re fearless, aren’t you?” she asked, and her sweet voice was like a symphony to him.

“If ever my heart contained fear, my sweet, it was banished by the sight of you,” he said, in what he hoped was a sophisticated voice. His usual pickup line went something along the lines of ‘give me your thighs!’, but he was making a special effort. “I was so taken by your beauty that I had to stop and give you a compliment.”

The two girls looked at each other, and something silent and powerful passed between them. By the time they looked back at the strange, bedraggled and very wet man in front of them, they had seamlessly transformed from two women shopping to a single, unified partnership.

“Have I met you before?” the blonde asked him, tilting her head.

“No, at least not in this timeline. I would have remembered a lovely… face, like yours,” he replied.

“Well, sorry. You’re novel, I’ll give you that. But I don’t carry change. No pockets,” the blue haired woman replied, and looked at her friend. “You?”

“I have pockets. But I wanted to try all the types of candy, so I spent my money on that.” She turned to look at him, with something approaching pity. “You can have some candy if you like. I have enough to share some.”

For a moment, his heart was touched. Even though people invariably assumed he was some kind of beggar, hobo or scam artist, not one of them ever gave him any change, much less their own hard-earned candy. What a noble heart this devil, this temptress, had! It was all he could do to stop tears of gratitude from springing to his eyes. But more important than candy, and more important than kindness, were thighs. Soft, supple, juicy thighs.

“I would love to take you up on your offer, but…” he began, sweeping his hand melodramatically across his brow, “…there’s something far sweeter I’d like from you ladies.”

The wind seemed to turn chill, and all the softness fell out of the girls’ faces. One moment, they were two (almost) ordinary women enjoying a day in town together, and the next they seemed almost… military.

“Alright,” his beloved said, but her voice was so gruff, so charmless now. “Keep your hands where I can see them, and keep your distance. I won’t warn you twice.”

Her tone was withering, and the words should have shattered his heart, pruned his hopes and punctured his ego. But alas; he had heard them too many times, from too many women. The best thighs were given willingly, but any thigh was better than no thigh, and he was a man always willing to resort to Plan B. He opened his jacket and whipped out his ballistic fist, brandishing it with a smile as wide and sharp as a shark’s.

“I don’t take no for an answer. I wanted to do this nicely, but… You,” he said, and gestured towards the tall one with his weapon, “are going to come and entertain me for the day. I like you, so I’ll even let you go afterwards! That is… unless you want me to crush your friend’s pretty little skull. Now. Come here. Slowly.”

She gave a short, frustrated huff, and threw a look to her companion before taking a slow step towards him. What else could she do? He was armed and she – he sniggered at his own joke – was very much not. He felt elated, delighted at the thought of thighs to come.

If he had been perhaps a little less delighted, he would have realised that neither of the girls were looking at his weapon. They were looking at him – at his scrawny physique, his less-than-impressive stature, his irritating grin. They were evaluating. Calculating.

He was, therefore, surprised when his angel’s second step was not actually a step, but a lunge. One that ended in a headbutt. A headbutt with all the weight of a charging bull behind it. His vision went blank for a fraction of a second, and when it returned the blonde was already upon him, moving with hideous and unnatural speed. Almost gently she pulled the ballistic fist from his hand and tossed it carelessly to the ground. Less gently, she drove her fist into his solar plexus and sent him tumbling to the ground like a child’s doll.

Splayed out on the ground, he had enough time to take one aching gasp before the blue-haired woman closed the distance. She stood over him, like a conquering champion, and raised her leg up high. He registered dark shadows where her dress lifted, saw just a glimpse of toned and muscular flesh. Then, like a pile driver firing a stake into the ground, she brought her boot down on his groin.

“I don’t think he’s going to get up from that,” she said, when the earth had stopped shaking from the stomp. There was only so much pain a human body could take before they passed out. “Sora, make sure you don’t leave that fist lying around. They shouldn’t give weapons to lechers or idiots.”

“Roger.” She picked it up gingerly, holding the pinkie finger almost between her thumb and forefinger. “It smells pretty bad. So sweaty...”

Nath looked at the passers-by, who were slowly clustering into a crowd. “Somebody call an ambulance for this guy. Or don’t. I’m not sure surrounding a pervert with nurses is really the best idea.”

She gave a deep, heavy sigh, and jerked her head in the direction of her apartment. It was time to leave. Time to leave, and then shower, and pretend none of this had ever happened. Sora gathered up the grocery bags, carefully balancing the fist on top, and followed in her wake.

“Nath?” she said. “The world got really weird since I went to sleep, didn’t it?”

Nath shuddered. “You’re telling me.”

A/N: thighs thighs thighs thighs thighs thighs thighs thighs