- Nov 22, 2014
- 3,715
- Gender
- amab Female
- Pronouns
- She/Her
- Posting Status
- Weekly
She wouldn’t have done it if she was sober.
It was Sunday morning. Two o’clock in the morning, to be precise. The sky was alive with a full moon and twinkling stars. Sea breeze blew through the trees, striking shaky black silhouettes against the night sky. A lone figure stumbled through the sleeping island campus.
She had skinny jeans with legs torn short just below the knee, with bare skin beginning where her humanity ended, and a small hole in the back for her tail to poke out. Two short, curved black horns sprouted out of a head that felt fuzzy on the inside, and warm, like her brain was snuggling up in a big fuzzy blanket. It didn’t want to do any serious work, like helping her remember where her dorm room was. It didn’t want to do anything complicated, like reminding her that what she had just done to that boy was probably unethical.
At some point over the course of that evening, Chloe stopped paying attention to how much she had been drinking. Ethics was hard. Counting was hard. The same could not be said for sating her unnatural hunger for the strength of mortals. That part was easy. Hell, being drunk might have even made it easier. She had fewer inhibitions, fewer problems with initiating physical contact university-age strangers. He was probably drunk too, and more than willing to believe that she was going to sleep with him. He was probably still sitting in the spot where they had been making out, wondering when she would come back, and wondering why he felt too weak to stand up.
Chloe wasn’t coming back. She wanted to go back to her room. Her friend Dorito was nowhere to be found, so Chloe decided to walk back to her room without her.
So she was wandering through the campus, a sixteen-year-old girl, drunk and alone, at 2AM.
It was Sunday morning. Two o’clock in the morning, to be precise. The sky was alive with a full moon and twinkling stars. Sea breeze blew through the trees, striking shaky black silhouettes against the night sky. A lone figure stumbled through the sleeping island campus.
She had skinny jeans with legs torn short just below the knee, with bare skin beginning where her humanity ended, and a small hole in the back for her tail to poke out. Two short, curved black horns sprouted out of a head that felt fuzzy on the inside, and warm, like her brain was snuggling up in a big fuzzy blanket. It didn’t want to do any serious work, like helping her remember where her dorm room was. It didn’t want to do anything complicated, like reminding her that what she had just done to that boy was probably unethical.
At some point over the course of that evening, Chloe stopped paying attention to how much she had been drinking. Ethics was hard. Counting was hard. The same could not be said for sating her unnatural hunger for the strength of mortals. That part was easy. Hell, being drunk might have even made it easier. She had fewer inhibitions, fewer problems with initiating physical contact university-age strangers. He was probably drunk too, and more than willing to believe that she was going to sleep with him. He was probably still sitting in the spot where they had been making out, wondering when she would come back, and wondering why he felt too weak to stand up.
Chloe wasn’t coming back. She wanted to go back to her room. Her friend Dorito was nowhere to be found, so Chloe decided to walk back to her room without her.
So she was wandering through the campus, a sixteen-year-old girl, drunk and alone, at 2AM.