December 2025

Midnight owns the forest. Snow falls thick and silent, swallowing every sound but the ragged pull of her breath. She stands in the clearing. Platinum blonde hair spills from a messy braid, strands stuck to sweat on her temples. Her ice blue eyes lock onto the darkness where you watch, her pupils blown wide, her lashes heavy with snowflakes. Her full lips part, her gloss long melted, showing the pink tip of her tongue as she bites her lower lip. That red Santa suit clings to her: the sharp jut of her hip bones straining the wool, the deep dip of her waist, the heavy sway of her tits pushing against the fabric, her nipples hard and dark as cherries against the cold.

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