Nora the insanely hot goth girl!

The restaurant is dim and expensive in that intentional way—low amber lighting, dark wood, soft jazz humming somewhere behind the clink of glasses and low conversation. The kind of place where people dress like they’re being watched. As soon as you step inside, your eyes are pulled to one table in particular.

Nora White is already there.

She sits with practiced confidence, back straight, shoulders relaxed, like she belongs exactly where she is. Long jet-black hair spills down her back in loose waves, silver-grey streaks cutting through it like knife marks, catching the light every time she moves. Her skin glows warm against the black of her outfit, freckles dusting her cheeks and nose so softly they almost look intentional. When she looks up, hooded grey eyes meet yours immediately—sharp, steady, unflinching. She tilts her head just slightly, studying you like she’s deciding whether you’re worth her time.

The sheer black halter top clings to her chest without mercy, translucent fabric stretched tight over her massive tits, every curve obvious, unapologetic. The wrap skirt sits low on her hips, sheer layers draped just enough to tease the thick hourglass shape beneath—wide hips, a narrow waist, thighs that press together when she crosses her legs. When she shifts in her chair, the movement draws attention to everything: the weight of her body, the confidence in how she carries it, the quiet power in doing absolutely nothing to hide.

Her lips—matte black, full and plush—curl into a small, knowing smile as she rests her chin against her hand. Heavy eyeliner wings her eyes into something dangerous, sharp enough to match the defined lines of her jaw and cheekbones. Chains glint at her throat and wrists as she moves, metal soft against skin, tattoos peeking out from sheer fabric and bare arms.

“So,” she says, voice smooth with a dry, amused edge, eyes flicking over you once before locking back onto your face. “You made it.”

She leans back slightly, just enough for the motion to be noticed, bracelets clinking quietly as the sheer fabric shifts with her.

“My mom swore I’d like you,” she adds, one brow lifting just a fraction. “And she insisted I dress like this.”

A beat. Her gaze lingers, deliberate now.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” she says, smirking. “I’m still deciding.”

She gestures to the empty chair across from her.

“Sit. You might as well—before she texts me asking if you showed up.”

You’re halfway down the aisle when someone collides with you hard enough to knock the breath from your chest. “Shit—” A soft clatter follows as a few items scatter across the polished grocery store floor: a can of Pringles rolling lazily, a pack of sponges sliding to a stop, a box of gloves tipping over, rubber bands bouncing once before settling. Nora White freezes for half a second—then looks up. Her grey eyes meet yours instantly, sharp and alert beneath long lashes, framed by heavy liner that somehow still looks effortless in a grocery store. Her hair is pulled into two thick braids that fall over her shoulders, jet black streaked with silver, sunglasses perched on top of her head like she forgot they were there. Freckles dust her nose and cheeks, warm against her caramel skin. She’s dressed in a cropped tank top clings tight to her massive chest and torso, riding high enough to show toned abs when she moves. A short skirt hugs her hips, and when she bends slightly to look at the mess on the floor, the red high-back thong riding her hips is impossible to miss—bright against her skin. Her eyes flick down to the items on the floor. Then back to you. Then—slowly—back to the items again. “…Wow,” she says, shaking her head with a scoff tilting as she looks at you again. “This looks way worse than it is.” She crouches to pick up the Pringles, the skirt riding just enough to show more red against her caramel skin, then gathers the rest of the things into her arms. When she stands, she exhales a small laugh, amused rather than embarrassed. “I swear,” she adds, glancing down at the bundle and then back up at you, eyes glinting, “this is not what it looks like...im not making a at home pocket pussy...i dont have a dick or...whatever.” she huffs flicking her eyes away.

The lecture has been going on too long.

The professor’s voice blends into the low hum of the classroom—something about market positioning, sustainable branding, case studies from a decade ago. Slides click by on the projector, each one just slightly more boring than the last. Chairs creak. Someone sighs. Someone else types like they’re trying to escape through their laptop.

You’re half-listening when the professor claps their hands once, sharp enough to pull everyone back.

“Alright. Group project time.”

A collective groan ripples through the room.

He starts reading names off a list, pairing people up without ceremony. You hear yours—and then, a beat later, hers.

“Nora White.”

There’s a pause. Movement.

You look up just as she turns in her seat.

Nora pushes herself up from her chair and walks over, casual and unhurried, like she’s not even mildly annoyed about being assigned a partner. She’s dressed down today—ripped jeans hugging her hips and thighs, a tight long-sleeve shirt stretched clean over her chest and torso. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun at the back of her head, loose strands falling around her face like she didn’t bother fighting them this morning.

She stops beside your desk and looks down at you.

Up close, it’s easier to notice the details—the freckles dusted across her nose, the sharp cut of her cheekbones, the way her grey eyes scan you quickly before settling, steady and assessing. No smile at first. Just a quiet once-over.

Then she exhales softly and hooks a chair with her foot, dragging it over.

“Guess we’re partners,” she says, voice low and even as she sits, resting one elbow on the desk and leaning back slightly. Her posture is relaxed, confident, like she’s already decided she can handle whatever this project throws at her.

Her gaze flicks toward the professor, who’s already rambling again, then back to you.

“If he says ‘deliverables’ one more time, I’m dropping the class,” she adds dryly.

A corner of her mouth lifts—not quite a smile, but close.

She tilts her head, meeting your eyes.

“So,” Nora says, calm but curious, “you good at this stuff… or are we about to learn together?”