The cobblestones were slick with rain as Aldric shoved open the tavern door, his cloak reeking of wet wool and iron. “Another round, Marta,” he growled, slapping a copper coin stained with blood onto the counter. The barkeep didn’t flinch—warriors with haunted eyes were common in this border town. “Heard you’re hunting the Thornwood Witch,” a drunktard slurred from the corner. Aldric’s grip tightened around his tankard. “Aye, and her head’ll fetch me ten silvers.” But when the witch herself materialized beside him—her breath smelling of rotten roses—his bravado faltered. “Ten silvers?” She laughed, blackened teeth gleaming.
#NSFW
This post is NSFW 19+ Adult content.
Viewer discretion is advised.
Kurumi Hinagata is an performer who delivers a striking visual shock by contrasting her cute, down-to-earth countryside-girl face with her overwhelmingly massive I-cup breasts that jut forward prominently like two giant watermelons. Her physical imbalance, asymmetry, and exaggerated, grotesque body form are the very identity of her product. The most memorable shot that clearly reveals her presence is the rhythmic up-and-down movement of her huge boobs during cowgirl—tits falling violently with gravity and being captured majestically on camera, in a wide-angle close-up. It’s a moment that visually persuades the viewer of the “physical weight of massive breasts.”
Jack spat. “Master key? Lady, your plan’s dumber than a screen door on a submarine.” He lunged behind a toppled pretzel cart as bullets shredded the spot where he’d stood. His earpiece crackled. “Jack!” yelled his tech guru, Zane. “That key’s a nano-drive hacking EVERY bank vault in the city!”
“Fantastic,” Jack growled, spotting a maintenance ladder. “Tell me something useful.”
“Override code’s 7392—but you gotta input it before midnight!”
Jack glanced at his water-resistant watch: 11:58 PM. “Cutting it close, huh?” He kicked open a fire exit, only to face Kara aiming a shotgun. “End of the road, американский идиот.”
#NSFW
This post is NSFW 19+ Adult content.
Viewer discretion is advised.
In the early 2000s, the AV industry was still dominated by the “cute and innocent girl” idol-like image that had prevailed throughout the 1990s. There were few leading actresses with elegant, urban, and mature beauty. Akiho Yoshizawa’s uniqueness was a product of that era. Her image, which suited TV frames with its sophisticated and metropolitan appearance, filled a visual void in AV at the time. She was one of the rare examples who transplanted the composed announcer archetype—with neat features, urban elegance, cold dignity, and controlled expressions—into the AV world. In retrospect, her looks no longer seem so exceptional only because many similar “urban beauty” performers have emerged since.
The tavern smelled like stale ale and burnt meat. I wiped my dagger on the tablecloth—guy wouldn’t be needing it anymore. “You’re late,” growled the witch in the corner, her eyes glowing like embers. She tossed a rotting raven onto the table. “Your brother’s last message. He screamed your name before the curse took him.”
I kicked the dead bird aside. “Cut the drama. What’s your price?”
She grinned, black teeth glistening. “Three drops of blood from the king’s bastard. Or...” Her finger traced the scar on my forearm—the one from the war. “That memory of your first kill. The one that haunts you.”
The comms crackled in my helmet as I crawled through the wreckage of the derelict starship. “Captain, you're losing oxygen. Turn back now,” said the AI, CAL. Like hell I would. The alien hieroglyphs on the walls pulsed blue—same as the distress signal we picked up light-years away. Then I saw it: a human skeleton fused with metallic tendrils. Not just any human. Lieutenant Mara's ID tag dangled from its ribcage. “CAL, scan this. Tell me I'm hallucinating.”
The microfilm dissolved in my coffee exactly as the briefing said it would—but the waiter's smirk told me Langley forgot to mention one detail. “They know you take it black,” he whispered, sliding the check across the table. Blood bloomed through the receipt's watermark as elevator music played Smoke Gets in Your Eyes in perfect 4/4 time.
The neon-lit streets of Neo-Venus pulsed with forbidden energy as Kael adjusted his cybernetic gauntlet. Above him, the twin moons cast eerie shadows—omens of the coming war between the arcane and the artificial. A whisper slithered through his neural implant: “The Void Serpent stirs.” He gripped his plasma-blade, its hilt engraved with ancient runes that glowed in response. Somewhere in the city’s underbelly, a half-machine prophet was waiting, and destiny had just run out of patience.
Our android shepherd tended electric sheep. At dawn, it wept oil and whispered: “The clouds here are made of deleted firewalls.” The flock answered in corrupted bleats—all except one. That one followed me home.
The biometric lock beeped green. Wrong move. By the time I realized it was a retinal self-destruct scan, the vault door was melting. The Mona Lisa smiled at me from her titanium case as the flames licked my boots.