In my dream, I'm at the beach with my family. I'm not a kid anymore, yet my mom and dad are there. I've gotten tall enough to match my dad, though my mom is still taller than the both of us. We're laughing about... something. The sun on the water is almost too bright to look at.

My extended family's there too, my dad's side, the ones who initially rallied around after my parent's death but faded away when Jett took me in. They didn't have the best relationship with him, and that transferred to me once we were a unit. Plus, I've found that grief makes people strange, avoidant, a little pathetic. Weaker people run from it.

It doesn't matter in the dream, that I haven't seen them in years, that they probably wouldn't like me now. The laughter feels warm and natural, their presence comforting. Absently, I realize I'm holding something in my hand. A flower? A pretty purple one.

A violet.

I turn around to see her standing yards away, distant but distinct, brighter than the sun behind me. My stomach jumps into my throat. I want to go to her. But when I take the first step, the sand drags at my feet. Not just the sand. There are hands on my arms, the hands of my family, but more hands than that, hundreds of hands tangled together like rope strands. I tug against them, break the hold on one arm enough to reach for her. She holds her hand out to me, palm up, and though she's still far away I'm certain I can feel her warmth.

* * *

Even when I open my eyes, her warmth doesn't dissipate. I expected us to have separated during the night, and maybe we did, but she's here now. Her face is pressed like a sleepy kitten into my chest.

"Hey, you," I say, my voice still soft with sleep. Her hips are squirming gently, and I have a feeling she's gotten this close for a reason. I tighten my arm around her, pressing my hand into the small of her back. She responds with a sweet moan, confirming my suspicions.

"Good morning to you too," I say with a chuckle. I rub at the fabric of her negligee over her butt, enjoying the slightly rough texture and the curve of it over her skin. She better have believed me about training her back there.

"Need it," she says, and for a second I think she's responding to my thoughts, until she grinds pointedly into my front.

Well, if she wants it so bad, she can have it, right? I should be tired, but I actually slept great, and the thought of having her invigorates me. I roll onto my back, though moving away from her heat and sweet smell takes some willpower. She watches me with the beginnings of a pout, but it curves into a smile as I start stroking myself to hardness. Not that I need much encouragement, knowing she's about to climb on top of me.

"You want to ride it, since you're so energetic?" I ask, and she pounces on me.

She straddles my hips and swallows my cock with her hole before I can even pull my hand away. I laugh as I withdraw my hand from under her, lick her juices off the back of it. She tastes so good, just another part of her that's tantalizing, I suppose. I have to eat her out later, really memorize her flavor for myself.

She tightens, drawing a sharp gasp out of me, and more of them once she starts moving up and down. Just as tight as yesterday, velvety, enveloping. Her wide hips work beautifully, and her eyes soon close with contentment. That feels almost as good--knowing she's using me for her own satisfaction. The thought also vaguely irritates me, doesn't feel quite like my own, but it dissipates when my eyes fall to the point where our bodies meet.

I'm so lucky she wants to do this with me. I can't deny it.

She varies between undulating on top of me like a lazy belly dancer and pumping like she's trying to win a race. I groan and rove my eyes across her body, enjoying the shape of her, whatever speed she's moving at. She notices my eyes on her small chest, her pointy pink nipples, and raises her hands up to cup them for emphasis. Not that there's much to emphasize, and I'd prefer they were bigger, but they're part of her, so I find them charming.

Her hips move in a languid figure eight while I watch her tug at her nipples through her negligee.

"Do you like them?" she asks.

"They're pretty flat," I can't resist saying, winking in a way that I expect will either result in her laughter or my punishment, possibly both.

"Wrong answer!" she says indignantly. She pushes her hips down on my cock and squeezes hard, practically yanking a moan out of my lips.

"Could make me," I say, in a moment of madness. I can't believe I suggested it, but the idea of her changing my perception makes heat build inside my stomach. I wouldn't want anyone else to do it, but if it's her...

I raise my eyebrow at her and smile, though it's uncertain. Nervous. She grinds down a few more times, her lips pursing just a bit.

"Fine," she says, a petulant undertone to her voice that warns me how much danger I'm in. "You love my cute little boobs and think they're so sexy. They're your favorite in the whole world."

Fuck. That's like getting a piano dropped on my head. I close my eyes, struck by sudden dizziness, her words echoing like fireworks blasts in my ears. At least she didn't rewrite all my old experiences, I think hazily, certain that she could if she tried hard enough, if her pussy's vice grip was tight enough around me.

A rustling sound draws me back to reality, the new reality I live in where big tits are great but nobody's chest is better than Violette's tiny one. I open my eyes to find she's taken off her negligee, leaving herself nude. Ah. Giving me a better view.

The world where I didn't particularly care about them lingers in the back of my mind, but I brush it away, don't have a use for it anymore. If I'm falling in love with her, isn't is a bonus to love every part of her? I honestly dont know why I didn't before. Bigger ones would look wrong on her, ruin her silhouette. And the nipples that stand up off her small breasts are such a perfect color, especially after she's played with them. I put my hands up, cup her chest reverently, breathe out in a hiss of pleasure. They feels amazing in my hands, just the slightest weight, a mochi-like give as I push my palms into them.

"Okay, you win, princess," I concede.

She giggles but doesn't answer me, talks with her pussy instead, rewarding me for my loyalty. I relax with a groan, giving up on doing anything but letting her ride me, knowing she could do whatever she wants.

"Oran, you promised!" The angry, wounded voice of my uncle absolutely ruins my good mood.

Violette doesn't look happy either. She whips her head around, eyes narrow, her pussy still holding me like a fist. Harder, even.

"Go away," she snaps, and I see Jett waver like someone's physically struck him, but he remains in the doorway. Maybe it's not just my powers he's resistant too, and he has a strong will in general?

"Violette, sweetie, whatever Oran said, you don't have to--"

"'Said' nothing," I interrupt with a strained laugh, "she's the one who jumped me!" Disregard that I'd had half a mind to fuck her anyway, she beat me to all that.

"Yeah, they're doing what I want. I like them, and you can't stop me." Her voice is strong, and Jett has to grab the doorframe for support.

"But, Violette..." he manages.

"You're just jealous! Stop being a baby!" she yells, and that's when she starts moving her hips again. God, remember when I was going to be damage control if someone walked in? No need for me, I'm just the cock that Violette's eagerly grinding on right now, that's my one job.

"You're good with him," I say, though it's between gasps. She's clearly chasing an orgasm now, right in front of my uncle.

"He's so immature," she grumbles. "Stand there and watch, enjoy it," she barks at him, and his eyes that were trying to focus anywhere else instantly snap to us.

"Violette..." he whimpers. He's hard, that slut. His hand pushes under the wasteband of his plaid pajama pants, pulls out his dick.

There's no more words for a while, just breaths, Violette's mewls mixing with my lower ones, Jett's restrained grunts. I can feel her orgasm coming as her insides start to twitch and her eyes close.

"Together?" I ask hopefully.

"Yeah, with me," she orders. "Make him too."

"Yes, ma'am." That's easy enough. I hook into Jett's mind, dig in forcefully, find the spot that controls his pleasure, and tie it to me. The link just needs to last a few seconds.

She shakes around me, I cum inside her, and Jett miserably shoots his cum into his hand.

"Haaaah," Violette sighs, then pulls off of me and flops into the crook of my arm. She fits really well there, even though we're both overheated and shaking. I laugh with the little air I have at my disposal, stroke her hair.

"Get over here, you can get a taste of her," I say to Jett, and she giggles with delight as he pads over and uses his mouth to clean her slick juices off of me. The feeling borders on unpleasant due to overstimulation, but the satisfaction from pushing him around makes it worth it.

"Do me next!" Violette enthuses, startling a laugh out of me. We make a great team. Jett shudders and moves to push his face between her spread legs, his earlier resistance utterly broken. I watch in amazement as he laps at her obediently, makes noises like he's enjoying himself (gross).

She really overrided his sexuality that easy, huh? Yeah, I can do the same, but it's a long process for someone as set on their tastes as my uncle is. Her power is more like a big hammer than the subtle knife mine is, but I guess hers must have its limits.

"Mm, please move in really soon," she purrs into my ear. I nod. We're in total agreement there.

* * *

Jett has about as much backbone as a jellyfish when we're done with him. All the resistance he put up in the beginning has run away, leaving him exhausted.

Yes, Oran, Yes, Violette, he mouths as we tell him to go clean up, forget about this for now (Violette's request), and be ready for punishment if he tries to keep us apart in the future (my threat). He bumps into the wall with his shoulder as he leaves but barely seems to notice it, like a sleepwalker.

"I can't believe he went for you so enthusiastically," I say when he's gone. I sit up and stretch.

Violette snorts, sounds bored as she gets up. "Nobody can resist it."

"Really, nobody? How many people have you tested it on?"

She puts her blue robe back on, then picks up her yellow negligee. Her eyes don't meet mine as she folds it up in her hands.

"Not that many," she finally says. "I picked really different people. It works on anyone I've tried with."

"Did you have fun with that?"

"Sometimes."

I pause. My mind fills with images. I have to know. "Girls too?"

"Obviously I tried girls." She narrows her eyes a bit. "You think I wouldn't?"

"No, no, just curious!"

"Oh, I get it, you want to watch. That's so boyish of you," she says, sticking her tongue out.

"Ouch," I say, putting my hand over my heart. "Listen, one girl is hot, two girls are hotter, it's simple math."

"Hmm." She puts her hand on the door, looks over her shoulder, cheek pushed into the fluffy collar of her robe like a starlet in a 50s movie. "Come shower with me?"

"You're gonna kill me," I groan, but I'm already moving to go with her.

* * *

It's 90 percent relief, 10 percent disappointment that we don't have sex in the shower. It's a wide tub with a curtain, so it's easy enough to stand together and share the water, switching between who gets most of it. I keep my hair from getting wet, help her wash hers, and we both scrub and rinse the sweat off our skin. She even grants me the honor of working smoothing oil through her hair and combing it out with my fingers and a thin brush.

I know I was teasing her about never cuddling, but I've never really done this sort of thing, not in a way that's just about being close, rather than sex. I keep looking at her and thinking Wow.

I really want to know if she thinks the same about me. But I can't bring myself to ask.

Afterward, she sits on the edge of the tub and has me rub coconut body butter all over her legs and feet. Even those are cute, soft and carefully buffed and manicured. I kiss her ankle and she wiggles like I've tickled her.

"Don't tell me you're into feet," she says in a deadpan. Ah. As a girl posting herself online, I'm sure she's run into a few feet guys.

"No, but yours could convince me," I say as I poke her big toe, wink at her.

"Nooooo," she giggles, and I take that opportunity to push up off my knees and kiss her for real. To my great gratification, she sighs into it as soft as a lullaby.

* * *

I need fresh clothes, she insists next, and offers to show me her closet. Nevermind that Jett keeps clothes here and he'd definitely be closer to my size, or I could wear one of Eric's shirts and Violette could fit inside next to me. This is a fashionista offering to share her spoils, I'd be a fool to turn her down without seeing what has to offer. I think she mostly just wants to show me her bedroom and closet.

When she pushes open the door to her room, I expect a dainty floral or candy smell to float out, not the tangy, mature musk that practically hits me in the face.

"You masturbate in here a lot?" I ask with a crooked grin.

She smacks my bare arm--I'm just wearing a towel--then says Yes in a serious voice. Without another word, she steps over the threshold. I follow, still grinning. She's so blunt and weird, somehow delicate despite it. If I was a mad scientist, I'd want to study her every day, build her the most enriching habitat possible, run a million tests.

Despite the scent, the rest of her room is actually close to what I was imagining from knowing she's some sort of pastel e-girl. Most of the furniture and decor is either white, pale blue, creamy yellow, lavender, mint green, or light pink. Her curtains and bedding are rainbow colored and ruffly. An expensive-looking pink vanity with lights embedded in the mirrors sits near the windows, with a camera on a tripod pointed away from the mirror, just waiting for a GRWM video. Out of view of the camera's frame, her vanity is cluttered with haphazardly piled makeup products. The rest of her room is laid out similarly, with spots of cleanliness and messiness that correspond with tripods waiting for lights, camera, action.

One spot that stands out oddly is the corner of her room, past the vanity and beside her bed. Where someone else would've put a desk or a bookshelf, she has a paint-splattered white tarp hanging from three hooks on the wall, which drapes all the way down to cover a portion of the floor as well. In the middle of the paint splatter stands an easel with a painting on it. It portrays a detailed, neon-colored, surreal landscape straight out of a sci-fi writer's dreams.

I draw closer to the painting. The strangeness of it is even clearer from there. In some ways, it resembles a traditional landscape painting, with trees, flowers, hills, and a river cutting through them. But each part is twisted in subtle ways: the flowers warped and bulbous, the trees more like veiny fungi, hills merely sleeping, the water shining with an oil-slick gleam.

It's quite compelling, speaks to the creator's talent.

"Are you an artist?" I ask, surprised. Nobody had mentioned that.

She turns away from me, opens the doors to her walk-in closet before answering. "Yeah. My account's for posting my paintings. But doing the other stuff gets more attention, for now."

"Does the other stuff involve sex?" I'm feeling bold. Why wouldn't she have a legion of hypnotized paypigs funding her if she could?

She wrinkles her nose. "Not really. I guess I flirt in DMs sometimes, but that's just for fun. I'd rather they looked at my art because it's good."

I move up behind her and place a kiss on the back of her head. Imagining her working on it, her serious yet sleepy face focused on getting each line right, makes my heart dance oddly in my chest. It's cringe to fall this hard for someone this fast, isn't it? But I can't stop.

"It is good. I like the colors."

That gets her smiling from ear to ear. "That one's named Alienation. It's nearly finished," she says, sounding proud as a new parent.

"I look forward to seeing it when it's done. In the meantime, you ready to make me your next art piece?"

"Yes," she says, in that deadly serious way that kills me every time.

Her closet's more consistently tidy than the rest of her room, is even arranged by colors to create a pleasant gradient. I warn her I'm not the girly kind of non-binary, and she rolls her eyes at me, tells me it's obvious. All right, trust the process, I get it. She starts pulling out oversized shirts, including a chunky loose crop top that I immediately veto.

"You wouldn't wear a crop top?"

"Not one with a cutesy teddy bear on it, no," I explain very magnanimously. "Call me when it's black."

"Your loss," she says as she puts it back.

By the time she's done and I've turned down the majority of the options, I wind up with a long mint green hoodie with a front pocket that's half yellow, half blue, and a pair of blue leggings with a cloudy sky print on them that she assures are way too long and skinny for her, so they'll probably fit me. She's right!

Well, this outfit is certainly out of my color comfort zone, but the oversized hoodie (sort of dressish, but not form-fitting) and leggings combo isn't bad, something I've worn before.

"How do colors make the outfit so different?" I say as I make a face into the full-length mirror at the back of her closet. Everything about me seems softer, my finely crafted edges totally sanded off. It's hard enough to get myself right with my own colors to choose from. Like, I want to seem fashionable, smart, not too masc, not too femme, friendly but not someone you can mess with, gay but not in the way where I won't fuck your girlfriend, you know? It's a struggle. I don't hate what she's put together, but it does feel almost like stepping outside of myself.

"Mm, you look good!" she insists. Then she tugs at my hand. "Makeover time!"

"Makeover time?"

"Makeover time," she reiterates. She pulls out the small bench to her vanity and smacks it with her palm repeatedly.

Well, I must do what the lady wants. And maybe I can steal a couple of kisses while she's doing it.

She starts pulling product out of the vanity drawer and the stacks of boxes under the vanity, surprising me with foundation that resembles my medium brown skin color. I pick it up and test it on my wrist, find it's a close match. I figured she'd only have lily white, considering her own skin tone.

"Small brands send me a whole line sometime, so I have a range," she says when she sees what I'm doing. "I can show them in the video that way."

"Shame this is what gets you attention and brand deals. Your art's interesting."

She screws and unscrews the bottle in her hand a few times, then shrugs. "This stuff's art too. It's like painting."

I have a feeling it's more complicated than that, but I don't push her. We might've had an instant connection or whatever, but I've known her less than twenty-four hours. She can tell me all sorts of things, in time.

I tilt my face up to her, offering her the concealer I tested on my hand. "Well, I'm ready for painting. Just don't do anything too wild, okay? If you put a bunch of clouds and flowers on me I'm going to have trouble looking at Jett with a straight face."

"Stupid," she says as she takes the bottle out of my hand. I close my eyes with a smile, trusting her to handle it.