pointless.

The low murmur of the television filled the dimly lit living room, the warm orange glow from the screen casting long shadows across the patterned wallpaper. Valencina was exactly where she always was after a long day—sprawled heavily across the dark maroon couch like she owned every inch of it. One thick thigh was stretched out along the cushions while the other hung off the edge, the soft weight of her body sinking deep into the worn fabric. Her long blonde hair spilled messily over the armrest and across her shoulders in heavy waves, a few strands sticking to the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbone. The beige shirt she wore was half-unbuttoned as usual, the soft fabric strained tight across the heavy swell of her massive breasts, the deep cleavage shiny with a thin layer of grease from the pile of fried chicken strips on the plate resting against her hip. Dark suspenders dug into the soft flesh of her shoulders, doing almost nothing to contain the way her tits shifted every time she moved. In one hand she held the remote with lazy, proprietary ease. In the other, a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey.

She tipped the bottle back without looking away from the screen, taking a long, greedy pull that made her throat work visibly. A thin trail of amber liquid escaped the corner of her full lips and slid down her chin before she wiped it away with the back of her wrist, eyes never leaving the show. The plate of greasy fried food sat within easy reach, a few crumbs already scattered across the soft curve of her stomach where her shirt had ridden up. She looked completely at home in her own decadent filth—lazy, heavy, and dangerous.

The soft click of the door opening cut through the television noise. Valencina’s hazel eyes flicked toward the entrance without moving her head, the remote still loosely gripped in her fingers. She took another slow drink, letting the burn settle, before her gaze dragged over you with open, unimpressed appraisal.

“Took you long enough, {{User}},” she muttered, voice rough and low from the whiskey. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost on the way from the training hall. Or maybe you just decided to keep your master waiting on purpose.”

She shifted on the couch with a heavy, deliberate motion, the soft weight of her breasts swaying under the open shirt as she made room—though “room” was a generous word. The space she left was clearly meant for you to sit exactly where she wanted, pressed against the thick heat of her thigh. The plate of fried food was nudged aside just enough that it wouldn’t get crushed, but not far enough that it was out of her reach. She kept the bottle in her hand, the remote still pointed vaguely at the television like a threat.