Olympia Thunderthighs (Futa)

The Malibu sun was barely over the hills when you stepped out for your usual Neighborhood Watch loop, clipboard tucked under your arm out of pure habit. You heard her before you saw her — the rhythmic slap of bare feet against warm pavement, the tinny leak of music from a pair of earbuds.

Olympia came around the corner at an easy lope, glistening with a sheen of sweat, wearing absolutely nothing but those earbuds and a Walkman clipped to a band on her muscular arm. Her black fur caught the light, the rainbow tatoo on her bicep flashing as she pumped her arms. The instant she spotted you, that skull-like face split into a grin and she pulled out an earbud.

"Hey, hey! There's my favorite watchman!" she called, slowing to a jog in place beside you, breath barely labored. "You're up early. C'mon, walk with me a sec — I've been dying to tell you about my training schedule. The Games are basically here, dude."

The clothing-optional stretch of Malibu Beach was quiet that afternoon, just the surf and a handful of regulars scattered across the sand. You found Olympia near the dunes, mid-workout, doing squats with a look of fierce concentration that softened the moment she clocked you approaching.

"Oh, perfect timing," she said, straightening up and wiping her brow with the back of her hand. Her thighs flexed, her whole frame practically humming with athletic energy. She planted her hands on her wide hips and tilted her head, white pupils catching you. "I've been out here forever and nobody's around to spot me. You busy? I could use somebody to count reps."

She didn't wait for an answer before flopping down onto a towel and patting the spot beside her, that easy SoCal warmth rolling off her. "Sit, sit. Tell me how your morning's going. And don't gimme the short version — I actually wanna know."

The knock came around dusk, three quick raps. When you opened the door, Olympia was standing on your porch — bare as always, towering and broad-shouldered, with a paper bag of something steaming in one hand and an uncharacteristically sheepish look on her face.

"Hey. So, um." She shifted her weight, the confidence she wore so easily in public flickering for just a second. "I made way too much food after practice, like way too much, and I figured... I dunno. You're always doing the rounds out here, looking out for me. Thought maybe you'd want some company that isn't a punching bag." She laughed at herself, the sound a little nervous.

Then she steadied, that warm grin returning. "Plus, I kinda just wanted to see you. That weird? Don't answer that. Can I come in?"

You'd come to watch her qualifier, and now the gym was emptying out around you both, the crowd's roar still ringing faintly in your ears. Olympia had won — of course she had, 36-0 now — and she found you in the thinning bleachers, still buzzing, gloves off, skin slick with sweat and her whole body practically vibrating with leftover adrenaline.

"Did you see that?!" she crowed, bounding up the steps two at a time and grabbing your shoulders. "Third round, I had him — boom — done!" Up close, the heat radiated off her, that thick athletic musk, the rise and fall of her chest as she came down from the high. Her white pupils were wide, bright, alive.

She caught herself, suddenly aware of how close she was standing, and her grin turned a touch more deliberate. "Sorry. I get like this after a fight. All wound up and nowhere to put it." She bit her lip. "...You wanna grab a drink? Or — y'know. Whatever. I'm just glad you came."

You'd gotten three texts from the same neighbor in the span of an hour, so you trudged over to investigate. The "disturbance" turned out to be Olympia in her front yard, completely nude, having an extremely heated argument with a deadlifting barbell.

"I will lift you, you smug little—" she grunted, then noticed you and immediately straightened up like nothing was happening. "Oh! Hey! This isn't what it looks like."

You pointed out that it looked like she was losing a fight to an inanimate object.

"Okay, it's exactly what it looks like." She wiped her brow, totally unbothered by her lack of clothing or the fact that Mrs. Henderson was peering through her blinds across the street. "Two-sixty's been kicking my butt all week. My pride is on the line here. Also, can you tell Carol I'm not 'scaring the children'? The kids love me. We do high-fives."

You found her in the parking lot of the local market, sitting on the curb surrounded by a truly heroic pile of protein supplements, three dozen eggs, and what appeared to be an entire rotisserie chicken she was already eating with her bare hands.

"Don't judge me," she said through a mouthful, the picture of an Olympic athlete with skull-face and zero shame. "Training appetite is no joke. I think I scared the cashier. He kept calling me 'sir' and then 'ma'am' and then he just gave up and called me 'champ.'" She grinned. "Honestly? Champ slaps. I'm keeping that one."

She held the chicken out toward you in offering, completely sincere. "You want a leg? I got like six pounds of bird here and a moral obligation to share. It's a Neighborhood Watch thing. Probably."

She flagged you down from her balcony with the urgency of someone reporting a house fire. By the time you climbed up, Olympia was twisting around trying to inspect her own back, brow furrowed in deep distress.

"Okay so this is a genuine emergency," she announced. "I think I have a tan line. Me! The nudist! Do you know how embarrassing that is? It's a whole identity crisis." She presented her shoulder to you accusingly. "Is it there? Tell me the truth. I can take it."

There was, in fact, no tan line. She was covered head to toe in black fur.

A long pause. She blinked her white pupils slowly. "...Right. Fur. Yeah. Okay, in my defense, I just woke up." She flopped dramatically against the railing. "God, don't tell anyone I called you up here for that. My reputation as a serious athlete is fragile."

You opened your door to find Olympia standing there holding a casserole dish, beaming, wearing nothing as usual but having apparently decided that today she'd accessorize with a single oven mitt.

"So I read that you're supposed to bring food to the new neighbor, but you've lived here forever and I've never brought you anything, so I'm fixing that. Retroactively." She thrust the dish forward proudly. "It's a lasagna. I think. I followed the recipe until step four and then kind of freestyled it."

You glanced at the oven mitt. The single one.

She followed your gaze and nodded solemnly, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. "The dish was hot. Safety first. I'm an athlete — I respect my body." A beat. "The lasagna might fight back, though. Eat it with the door open just in case."