#valeria garza

Hi everyone, this is the master list. I have like five jobs, but I really think I need one. I plan to post more and more often. Requests are open, ask for anything! (Except nsft)

Ciconimations x call of duty

ghost : cico soap : Budi

Link video promotion call of duty mobile

Warning not for kids with guns

vernalta x codm ( warning vulgar harsh noices and bad words )

Oren : Alejandro Vargas tutu little bear idk koala white?

Tutu bear koala white 🐻‍❄️ : Valeria garza toxic bad words

The double warning tutu toxic bad words

I mean hear me out, she's CIA, has seen some pretty horrendous shit etc. I understand that in a relationship she might give soft love to her wife but like....I think we have a scarcity of evil Laswell

EVIL WOMEN RUHRUHRUHRUHRUHRUHRUHR

EVIL LASWELL TAKE ME NOW! I WANNA MAKE HER LIKE ADLER SO BAD! FUCK THATS SO HAWT

A tense negotiation sparks an unhealthy obsession in Valeria Garza for a Russian chemist. After infiltrating her rival's hideout, the cartel leader finds herself cornered, handcuffed, and paralyzed.

English is my native language! 🇧🇷 I condensed the story so it would fit into a single post, so there was no need to split it into two parts. "Cher" is simply a criminal alias. If I end up writing more about this pairing (maybe), feel free to imagine her with a different name or as a Female Reader (Y/N)!

⚠️ Content Warnings: Cartel/organized crime • Stalking • Kidnapping • Drugging • Dubious consent • Captivity • BDSM dynamics • Violence • Psychological manipulation • Explicit sexual content (18+) • Graphic language

In that luxury penthouse, the negotiation between the cartel and the Russian woman turned into a thrilling power game. Her methamphetamine was the purest Valeria Garza had ever seen, but the chemist's audacity in telling El Sin Nombre "no" to her face ignited a magnetic, violent attraction. When the drug flooded Las Almas without authorization in the weeks that followed, money became nothing more than a pretext: Valeria's relentless hunt was about cornering the woman who had dared to defy her. After days of watching the building from the shadows, Valeria seized on a momentary lapse by the driver, Iván, to break into the hideout, driven by a pathological obsession that had eclipsed every trace of caution.

The click of the lockpick against the gate was the night's first surgical incision. Valeria slipped through the corridors like a silent pathology. Around her, the apartment doors told stories of quiet normalcy: a doormat decorated with sunflowers, a forgotten welcome wreath hanging on the wall, and tiny children's boots carefully lined up on the floor. To Valeria, that warm, human routine was nothing more than irritating background noise, a shell of innocence that made Cher's presence there seem even more bizarre.

At the end of the third floor, that illusion of home collapsed abruptly. The last door had no rug, no decorations, no trace of ordinary life. Instead of the warm, familiar glow spilling from the neighboring apartments, a sickly green light vomited through the gap beneath the door, staining the floor with the cold appearance of a morgue. Faced with the locked door, Valeria felt no frustration—only the morbid pleasure of someone watching the game stretch on.

She climbed to the rooftop with mechanical precision, almost robotic in her complete absence of fear. As she dropped onto the fire escape, every step downward was a meticulous calculation of weight and silence. She drifted through the darkness of Las Almas not as a business rival, but as a sociopathic stalker whose sanity had been entirely consumed by obsession.

The bathroom transom window was the final violation. Valeria forced her body between steel and glass, crushing her shoulders against the narrow opening with a chilling indifference to pain. The moment her feet touched the freezing floor, she froze. In the darkness, breathing the suffocating air of chemical reagents and mildew—the complete antithesis of the homes she had left behind—Valeria smiled into the gloom. She was inside the sanctuary.

Valeria searched the bathroom, devouring every detail until she found a pair of black lace panties. She lifted the fabric to her face, inhaling the Russian woman's intimate, dangerous scent while staring at her own madness reflected in the mirror. She slipped the garment into her pocket and moved toward the sickly green sliver of light spilling into the hallway, crossing the austere living room until she reached the master bedroom.

In the master bedroom, Cher's suffocating scent lingered above pages of notes written in Cyrillic. Valeria entered the room, reached out, and ran her hand across the bed. She closed her eyes, intoxicated by the delusion of imagining the Russian woman's soft skin and her lips whispering Valeria's name with possessive intimacy. The trance shattered. When she opened her eyes, she froze: on the nightstand, a prosthetic eye floated in a glass of water, staring directly at her. That glass eye carried the certainty that the chemist was there, concealed within the sickly green shadows and ready to kill. Before Valeria could draw her weapon, the sharp, sickening impact of a pistol whip against her skull sent her crashing onto the freezing floor, and the world went black.

The darkness gave way to throbbing pain and the taste of blood. Valeria clawed her way back to consciousness, her body rigid beneath air thick with tobacco smoke and chemical reagents. When her vision finally focused, the Russian woman was already straddling her, pinning her hips down with surgical coldness. Beneath the greenish light, her short silk robe contrasted starkly with the deep scar ending at the hollow of her left eye socket. Where an eye should have been, there was only a dark, empty cavity that seemed to swallow the room's light. Fixing Valeria with that abyss in place of an eye, the Russian woman hissed through clenched teeth.

"I don't like visitors, Garza."

Her weight crushed Valeria's waist against the floor. Between her deft fingers gleamed a glass syringe.

The glass needle plunged into Valeria's neck, spreading a violent numbness that melted her muscles into complete immobility. Cher whispered into her ear that soon she would not even be able to move her lips, demanding to know what the cartel leader had come there for before becoming nothing more than her rag doll. The terror of paralysis collided with an overwhelming craving for submission; trapped beneath the heat of the Russian woman's thighs, Valeria released a trembling sigh born equally of agony and ecstasy.

Before the drug stole her voice, a lewd smile spread across Valeria's lips. Tearing her gaze away from the empty socket, she looked at her rival's hardened nipple, exposed by the robe's disheveled neckline, and fired back with surgical audacity.

"Cold, Russian... or are you just that turned on seeing me trapped beneath you? If you wanted to fuck me, all you had to do was ask."

The muscles in Valeria's jaw gave out, and her head fell limply against the floor. Paralyzed, she kept her eyes fixed on the Russian woman, who let out a scornful laugh upon noticing her own breast exposed. With two steady fingers, Cher forced Valeria's jaw open beneath painful pressure. Valeria waited for a kiss, craving that closeness with the desperation of an addict, but anticipation turned into the shock of warm saliva. The Russian woman deliberately spat into her mouth, an act of pure desecration. Far from feeling humiliated, Valeria felt the liquid insult strike her like an electric jolt of raw lust and possession. Savoring the contempt as it slid down her throat, she closed her eyes and slipped into unconsciousness with one final sigh of ecstasy.

Consciousness returned as the paralysis wore off. Instead of the freezing floor, Valeria found herself sinking into her rival's soft sheets. As she tried to lift her torso, a firm tug followed by the metallic snap above her head revealed that she had been handcuffed to the bed's headboard. Far from struggling, she relaxed into the mattress and let out a husky laugh, intoxicated by the return of her own voice. Flexing her wrists to make the steel rattle through the sickly green gloom of the bedroom, she fired off with her usual insolence:

"Took you long enough to bring me to your bed, little bird... Your apartment's hospitality is a bit violent, but I like it. Are you going to keep standing there in the shadows admiring me, or are you finally coming over here to tell me what to do?"

A silhouette detached itself from the green-tinted shadows. Cher crossed the room without haste, stopped beside the nightstand, and slipped the glass eye into her empty socket with mechanical, macabre precision. Her expression remained as cold and unreadable as ever. Valeria followed the movement, savoring the horror.

"I like it when you look at me with that fake eye, Russian. Makes me feel like one of your formulas."

Ignoring the mockery, the chemist circled the bed like a predator sizing up its prey. The glowing tip of her cigarette carved through the sickly darkness as she took a slow sip of her drink. Valeria tugged at the cuffs again, making the metal ring.

"Going to keep pacing around? You drugged me, dragged me into your bed, and chained me up. Don't think I'm going to stay quiet."

The Russian woman sat on the edge of the mattress, so close their bodies nearly touched. Suffocating warmth and the toxic scent of tobacco flooded the space between them. Valeria leaned toward her, fixing her gaze on the mouth that had desecrated her.

"You spit in my mouth to mark me as yours, and then you pretend I don't exist? Bring that cold mouth a little closer. Tell me what your psychopathic mind has planned for me."

"I could tear out your eyes. They’re worth a fortune on the black market," Cher said with surgical calm.

After taking a long drag on her cigarette, her agile hands moved forward. The sharp click of a buckle echoed through the room, followed by the sound of a French leather belt being whipped out of the trouser loops in one swift motion. Valeria strained against her restraints, her blood boiling with desire.

"Go ahead, Russian… if you have the guts. But as long as I can still see, I’m going to keep staring right down that neckline of yours."

Cher dropped the belt and began searching the prisoner’s body for weapons or secrets. Valeria arched her body against the mattress, taunting her.

"Trying to figure out how I tick, or just looking for an excuse to touch me?"

The Russian’s hands paused at the pocket of Valeria’s trousers. Her nimble fingers pinched the black lace panties and pulled them out. In the stifling silence, Cher held the garment up in the sickly green light. Her icy expression softened into a low, suppressed laugh. She brought the lace to her face, inhaling the scent Valeria had tried to steal just minutes earlier.

The woman walked to the foot of the bed, speaking Russian on the phone without taking her eyes off her captive. The hours that followed became a silent torture: the chemist prowled around the bed like a predator, a hardened nipple still exposed by the robe’s slipping neckline. When she finally put the phone away, she leaned over the mattress and yanked the lace from Valeria’s mouth with a sharp tug.

"Who was on the phone, Russian?" Valeria’s voice was hoarse with exhaustion. "Calling Iván… or telling your people you’d captured me?" Cher pressed her cold fingers against Valeria’s carotid artery, gauging the rhythm of her heartbeat.

"I was speaking with Iván. But the subject was your man… Miguel," the Russian whispered. "Killing the dog you sent to follow me would have been the conventional choice. But today, I was feeling generous. Iván told me Miguel had a daughter just a few weeks ago. Such a fragile little thing. So I decided to teach him a lesson instead. I had a few of his fingers removed. He’ll still be able to change his daughter’s diapers… if he tries hard enough."

Valeria swallowed her rage and let out a low, husky laugh, tugging at the steel handcuffs to pull their faces closer until their noses nearly touched.

"Fingers, little bird? That’s not very creative for someone who makes a living using her mind," Valeria taunted. "Did you spare his life because you were feeling generous… or because you needed an excuse to show me just how meticulous you are?"

Cher took a deep drag on her cigarette—the glowing ember briefly illuminating her empty eye socket—and then exhaled a cloud of hot smoke into the Mexican woman's face.

"I could take that little girl and ship her off to Europe, where she’d have a real life with some wealthy, infertile couple. So, be grateful I traffic meth instead of children," the chemist replied with unnerving calm, keeping her breasts mere millimeters from Valeria’s chest in a suffocating display of perverse ecstasy.

The Russian removed the cigarette from her lips and pressed the filter against Valeria’s parted mouth, forcing her to inhale the tobacco and the damp trace of her saliva. Valeria inhaled sharply, the smoke burning her chest as she stared at the Russian woman’s disheveled neckline, her voice emerging in a desperate, drawn-out murmur:

"I'm not here for cigarettes... My mouth wants something else. Are you going to keep teasing me, or are you finally going to let me bite you?"

The hardened nipple brushed against Valeria's chest, sending an electric jolt through her body that made the metal headboard rattle violently. With sadistic slowness, the chemist untied the knot of her robe and let the silk slide to the floor. Her pale, naked body emerged beneath the laboratory's sickly green glow. She leaned in, erasing the distance between them, and offered her breast. Valeria lunged forward with ravenous hunger, but Cher seized her firmly by the hair, yanking her back with brutal force.

"Do it properly, and I'll let you suck on something else."

Valeria swallowed hard, desire clouding every last trace of reason. Pulling against the icy steel of the cuffs, ignoring the pain as the metal bit into her flesh, she surrendered her empire in a feverish whisper.

"You want control of the Las Almas routes... You want me to open the borders for your pure formula. I'll give you clear passage, Russian. I'll hand you my ports. But you'll produce for me."

Cher dug her cold fingers into the Mexican woman's collarbone hard enough to leave bruises and laid out her terms.

"If a single gram is intercepted by your men, Garza... I'll tear your empire apart from the inside. Do we have a deal?"

"Unlock these cuffs, you profane bitch... and I'll show you how completely I mean yes," Valeria pleaded, her voice low, dangerous, and breathless.

The woman let out a dry laugh, savoring the cartel leader's agony.

"I like you this way. Tied up."

Valeria surrendered completely to madness. Making use of every inch the chains allowed, she attacked the firm breast, biting, licking, and suckling the soft skin with violent hunger. Between the frantic strokes of her tongue, she whispered through muffled breaths,

"Tell me, little bird... are you already wet down there from seeing me tied to your bed? Tell me what's happening to you right now."

With a fluid, commanding movement, the woman positioned herself over Valeria's face, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of the Mexican woman's head. The darkness of the bedroom invited the imagination, but Valeria needed more.

"Turn on the light," she murmured, her voice muffled by the warmth already pressing against her lips. "I want to see you for real."

The chemist hesitated for a second, letting out an impatient sigh, before leaning over to switch on the bedside lamp. A warm, yellow glow bathed the room, and for the first time, Valeria saw what she had previously only been able to imagine. It was exactly as in her most secret fantasies: a beautiful pussy with a narrow, perfectly trimmed strip of pubic hair, and lips that were already swollen, glistening, wet, fleshy, and inviting. The air escaped Valeria’s lungs in a sigh of pure reverence.

Without a second's hesitation, she lowered herself fully onto Valeria’s face, enveloping it as the Mexican woman surrendered to pleasure with desperate hunger. Valeria’s tongue was voracious, finding her clitoris and sucking firmly enough to make the Russian arch her back and let out a long, stifled moan.

"Spread your legs wider," Valeria murmured, her voice grazing damp skin. "I want to fuck you completely. I want to watch that sweet pussy of yours get absolutely soaked, my love."

And she obeyed. Spreading her legs farther apart, Cher let one hand drift up to her own breasts, pinching her nipples as pleasure washed over her, while the other parted her outer lips, opening herself completely to Valeria's tongue. It was exquisite to feel Valeria so utterly surrendered—handcuffed, starving for her.

But Valeria’s obsession ran deeper. Between licks and suction, she spoke, her words broken by pleasure.

"I’m still taking you home with me…" she panted. "I’m going to split you in two with my strap-on… on top of a pile of money… while we rule the world… you’ll still be my number-one little whore."

It was a feverish confession, a vision of power and lust that made Cher hesitate—the rhythm of her hips faltering for an instant before quickly recovering. Amidst the grinding and moaning, the Russian took out her anger on the woman who had dared to invade her momentary sanctuary.

Hours later, cold sweat made the cotton sheets cling to Valeria’s skin, but the discomfort meant nothing compared to the heavy weariness hanging over the room. The handcuffs—whose metal had once clinked in a frenzied rhythm—now rested in heavy silence against the headboard. The Mexican woman’s wrists were bruised and numb—though no more so than her tongue—a trivial price to pay for the trail of violence, aggression, and possession the Russian had left on her body over the last few hours, keeping her subjugated to satisfy every one of his twisted fetishes that night.

"The first shipment, at the purity level you demanded, will be ready in two hours," Cher said, his knees pinning Valeria’s body against the mattress. "I expect your ports to be as open as you promised while you were tied up."

Valeria let out a husky laugh and, with her free right hand, grabbed the Russian by the back of the neck, pulling their faces close.

"All my routes already belong to you, Russian. But I’ll make you a fortune in exchange for that hot pussy of yours tearing me apart in this bed with every delivery. Take it or leave it."

Greed for the promised millions made Cher's icy composure waver. She gave in, crashing into a fierce, ravenous kiss—a collision of teeth and saliva. Seduced by the fortune on offer, the Russian reached for the latch on the headboard. A metallic click rang out as she unlocked the handcuffs, completely freeing Valeria's left arm.

Now unrestrained, Valeria watched Cher's demeanor shift. The Russian melted against her, curling up in her lap with a soft, needy sigh and nuzzling her face against Valeria's skin. She slipped effortlessly into the role of an overly affectionate, seemingly submissive woman, fully aware that the performance would earn her both the finest sex and an immense fortune. As the Mexican woman outlined the details of her offshore accounts, Cher brushed her nose against Valeria's with a pleading, feline look. Valeria relished the sight of the ruthless sadist purring for the promise of her wealth and whispered,

"You do the math on every cent awfully fast, Russian... You unlocked my cuffs and turned into this needy little kitten just to make sure those tens of millions don't get delayed. Now go lower, put that tongue to work between my legs, and suck me senseless if you want to guarantee your payment."

I DO trust Valeria Garza, who told me that my embedded images weren't working. (She was correct idk what happened.)

Clear Bot ^

I know the dragons become the romance right

Thank god im ship her fr 😳

The syailah blushing alert 😳:

Ch.4) Janitorial Services (Etc)

AO3 Link Masterlist Next → Previous ←

W.C- 4.5k

Desperate times calls for desperate measures. You agree to sell drugs for your friend, not knowing that they were stolen from a ruthless drug baroness. And Valeria doesn't take kindly to thieves.

A/N- Period is more than a month late, take your bets guys, PCOS, Endo, Thyroid, or magical pregnancy?

Tags/Warnings- Femslash, Descriptions of Violence and Gore, Indentured Servitude, Power Imbalance, Drug Dealing, Valeria is mean and physically violent but not forever, Valeria is her own warning, Slow burn, more to be added

@theravens-things

🔪💉🔪💉🔪💉🔪💉🔪💉🔪💉

Bleach permeates throughout the room, making your eyes and nose burn. You pause your rough scrubbing to pluck a few strands of blond hair out from the wet pile of water, bleach, and blood, and toss it into the small trash bin you're pulling around with you.

"He wants to discuss the matter at a party," Valeria's scornful voice floats towards you from the hallway. Someone replies to her, but his voice is too muffled for you to make out the words. They're hidden from view, but not from hearing. You've been snatching snippets of their conversation the whole time you've been in this room. Something about a wolf, and a business associate wanting to meet. Something else about drugs. Her voice drips with derision when she speaks of this mysterious business associate and you can picture her annoyed little scowl as she speaks.

You have no choice but to listen to their discussion, and if they didn't want you to hear, well, they should have gone somewhere more private. You dip your bloody rag into the water bucket and squeeze out the excess liquid. You scrub at the red stain more but stop when a fresh red droplet splashes down right onto the rag. You lean back, wincing when your back aches, and look at the body slumped over in the chair you're trying to scrub around. You recognize him. Ryan, the American tourist you met at the club. You warned him about asking too many questions, but it looks like he didn't heed you.

You weren't in the room when he was being beaten and killed. You're grateful that you didn't have to witness that, but you aren't being spared from the aftermath. She's ordered you to clean the basement, including the freshly used torture room. It makes you shudder, imagining all the people who were dragged in here, all the people who died here, screaming and begging until the very end. It very well could have been you in that chair. Another droplet splashes down and soaks into the rag. It's a little difficult to do your job when the source of the mess keeps adding to it. You sigh and get to your feet, stretching out your cramped legs and walking over to the doorway.

You poke your head out at Valeria and the man she's talking to. It's Diego, a big, bald man with a goatee and beard. You've seen him hovering around Valeria and speaking to the other cartel lackeys. He seems to think pretty highly of himself, but despite his big ego you've witnessed him being pushed around by Valeria on numerous occasions. 

"Ryan keeps bleeding and it's making it hard to clean," you say. Valeria looks at you from over her shoulder, looking very unimpressed and annoyed over being interrupted. 

"Ryan?" She repeats.

"The guy in the chair," you clarify. Valeria's stare hardens, and you try not to shrink away. 

"How do you know him?" She asks. 

"I met him once. At the club." You decide it's for the best to keep the details of said meeting to yourself. The less you remind Valeria about your apparent transgression towards her, the better. Valeria watches you for an uncomfortably long amount of time and you start worrying that she's starting to think you were conspiring with him. But thankfully her expression shifts into boredom and she looks at Deigo.

He realizes she's no longer staring you down and looks at her. You can tell he's trying to look relaxed by keeping his hands in his pockets and his back slouched, but you can see it on his face that her eyes on him makes him nervous.

"Well?" She snaps, angry that he can't read her mind apparently. "Go move it." Diego spurs into action, striding past you into the room. Valeria crosses her arms and looks at you silently. You make brief eye contact before looking elsewhere. Before long, Deigo remerges, dragging Ryan out by his arms. You're displeased to see blood smearing after him, from where his legs must have touched the blood puddle.

"Bring him up to César," Valeria says. "He's leaving soon and can dump him in the creek later." Diego nods and awkwardly shuffles around Valeria with Ryan, dragging him towards the stairs. He'll have a fun time lugging the body up them, you bet.

You watch him leave sadly. Just dump him in the creek. What a callous thing to say. You think about Ryan's potential family and friends back in America, waiting for his return, and the pain they'll feel when they realize he's never coming home. They might not ever find out what happened to him and he'll forever be 'missing'. They'll never get the closure they seek.

"You can get back to work now," Valeria crossly butts into your thoughts. You glance at her then retreat back into the room silently. You readjust your gloves and lower yourself back down onto your knees to finish your scrubbing. Even with the gloves your fingers still burn, and you wonder if inhaling the bleach for this long without a mask is doing some internal damage to your lungs. But you're finally done. Though there are stains that stay fixed into the ground stubbornly no matter how hard you scrub. Stains that have existed for years, probably. You drop your dirty rag into the water bucket and jerk your hands back when some of the dirty water splashes back at you. You round up your supplies and head towards the doorway.

You step out of the room like a cautious animal, metaphorical ears pinned back and all. This basement is a little cleaner than the one Valeria beat you in. A lot more finished too. Without all the wires and pipes crisscrossing along the ceiling. It's louder too, alive with the sounds of people and machinery. But just like the other basement, this one is dirty and unwelcoming too. Dust and dirt coating the floor in thick layers, waiting for you to sweep it away. You walk down the hallway towards a utility closet that Valeria showed to you earlier. You pass by other people along the way, feeling wholly out of place. Acknowledging the janitor is beneath them though, and they push past you without even a single glance. Which suites you just fine. You're not eager to make friends with murderers and criminals, and you're not disappointed that they don't want anything to do with you either. You find the closet and step inside.

You set down the trash can and bleach, and dump the water bucket out into the stained little sink in the back. The drain is ringed by rust and water is slow to drain. You don't even want to think about all the little things that could be clogging those pipes. You discard your gloves and grab a broom. Slivers of wood splinter off into your palm and crumble to the ground, and some of the bristles are frayed and sticking out. You lean down and tug out a dustpan. It's small, obviously made for a hand broom. But you can't find one that would go with the broom you do have so you suck it up and resolve yourself to crouching painfully for the next hour.

You clear each room one by one. Sweeping dirt and debris away until each floor is pristine. Or as pristine as floors in a place like this can get. It's like all the bad and evil the building has seen has seeped into the very foundation, making it impossible for it to ever be clean again. You finish the last room in the basement and set the broom down against the wall. You feel a small glimmer of pride for making a difference. The basement truly does look noticeably cleaner, but after some time down here, you've noticed a lingering scent that smells a little like cat pee. That mixed with the stench of bleach that's soaked into your clothes, has you feeling a little ill. You go to sit down on the ground and grunt when you land a little too roughly on your ass. You rest your back against the wall and rub your face. Your hands are moist and smell like chemicals but you're beyond caring at this point. You feel dusty and sweaty, but you've accepted that being disheveled and filthy is just your new state of existence for now.

Your stomach rumbles quietly, reminding you that you haven't eaten since yesterday. Almost twenty-four hours ago. You're tired of eating canned beans, and you're not desperate enough to start eating the canned fish. You decide that when you get home, you'll scavenge around your house for some money. You think the ramen at the convenience store down the block from your house is only three dollars. Your mouth waters at the thought of sinking your teeth into the warm, hot noodles and tasting the mild burn of the hot sauce and seasoning. Your stomach rumbles a little louder this time. Perhaps it's best not to think about food right now.

"What are you doing on the floor?" Valeria asks, startling you. You look up at her in the doorway, lowering your hands from your face. You didn't hear her come in.

"Resting," you reply. You made the assumption that that was an okay thing to do, but Valeria clearly disagrees. 

"I'm not paying you to rest," she says.

"You're not paying me at all," you reply, confused but getting to your feet.

"Exactly. You're not here to be paid. You're not here to rest. You're here to work off the two-million-dollar debt you owe," Valeria retorts. Your stomach replies for you, growling audibly enough for Valeria to glare at you.

You stare back as unapologetically as you can without coming off as rude. She acts like being hungry is a crime. It's not like you're any happier about your stomach growling up a storm, but you can't help it.

"Skip breakfast this morning?" She asks sarcastically, backing out of the room and gesturing for you to follow. With how often you're trailing at her heels, you're starting to feel like a dog. You wouldn't be surprised if she started whistling at you to sit and heel next.

"Breakfast is for rich people," you mutter under your breath. You didn't intend for her to hear that and startle when she replies.

"What was that?" She glares at you over her shoulder.

"Breakfast is for rich people," you repeat weakly. You lag behind her, ready to flee if she decides she wants to hit you for your insolence, but she actually laughs at you. Or you think she laughs. She makes some sort of sharp exhale of air that sounds like it could be a laugh. You better not make her laugh too often, or she'll make you her personal jester as your next job.

She leads you upstairs and through a maze of metal shelves stretching high up towards the ceiling and stuffed with crates and boxes. Valeria confidently slips around workers, and you stay fixed in her shadow. She brings you towards the entrance of the warehouse, but instead of continuing straight towards the front doors, she veers to the right, towards a single closed door. You enter what looks like an office. It's small and windowless. You wonder if it's a repurposed closet. There's some filing cabinets and a little desk, the top crowded with papers and a single lamp pushed to the very corner. She separates a thin stack of papers from the pile and shoves it into your hands. 

"Bring these to the people loading the truck outback, then help them load up the crates." She grabs an empty mug and hands that to you as well, nearly dislodging the papers from your grip. "And get me more coffee. I take it black." She settles down behind the small desk and dismisses you by ignoring you in favor of one of the documents in front of her. You shuffle the items in your hands as to not drop anything.

When your back is turned you roll your eyes, and once you're safely out of sight you snoop through the papers, awkwardly juggling them and the mug. They're all official looking documents. ID's, passports, and certificates and legal papers for shipments of flour. Lots of flour. You figure the flour is just a way of washing all the blood money they get from drugs and all the other very illegal things they distribute. You find the back exit and step outside, squinting in the bright sunlight. White fluffy clouds hang weightlessly above you, drifting aimlessly with the breeze. You walk over to a large truck, surrounded by people doing their bests to haul up large wooden crates, each one stamped with the same little logo that was fading on the front of the warehouse. A single thorny rose intertwined with a stalk of wheat. An odd picture, since you don't know what a rose has to do with wheat or flour. 

A breeze picks up and blows sand into your eyes, and you scowl and rub at them. You recognize one of the men from one of the ID's.

"Valeria told me to give these to you," you say, catching his attention. You think the ID said Eric. Eric turns around. Immediately you feel a lot more comfortable around him. He's older, with a round, plump face and white beard. He looks a little like Santa Claus. And when he speaks his voice is deep and booming, making you jump in surprise.

"Huh?" He says and glances at your hands. "Oh, that must be for us." He takes the papers and shuffles through them, nodding approvingly.

"I'm also supposed to help you with that." You eye the big crates unhappily. Valeria seems hellbent on making you do the most physically taxing labor possible. Your body is never going to get the chance to heal. You're starting to forget what it feels like to not be sore everywhere.

"Alright," Eric says. "You can go help Tori load them up on that dolly there." He points to a woman shoving the ramps of a dolly under the edge of a crate. The crate looks to be too big for the size of the dolly she's using, and she has to stop every couple of seconds to readjust it.

She's red and sweaty and has her hair tied up into a very loose, bedraggled bun. You walk over to her and wait nearby for her to finish pushing the dolly up the ramp into the back of the truck. A man grabs the edge of the crate and helps pull it inside. She comes back down and notices you, giving you a quick onceover.

"I don't think there's anything for you to clean out here," she says. You try not to frown in offence. Word of the new 'janitor' must have traveled.

You stifle a sigh. "I'm here to help you load up crates," you say. She looks at you, a little judgmentally. Eyeing your arms and body and clearly deeming you unfit for the task.

"They're heavy," she says. Yeah, you noticed by the way she was struggling with one. But you don't say that. Tori isn't as intimidating as Valeria, but you'd rather not provoke another beating. Not while you're still recovering from the last one, anyway.

"I can handle it," you say.

"Okay," Tori replies. She doesn't argue but you can tell she's skeptical of you.

She instructs you to go around and lift the crate onto the ramps and to hold it up, so it doesn't slip off. It's far heavier than you're expecting and you stumble back when Tori starts pushing forward. You almost drop the crate and use your shoulder to prop it up. Immediately something starts aching sharply. You know you're going to be struggling to lift that arm for the next few days. You awkwardly skedaddle backwards with the crate under your hands, helping Tori reach the ramp and quickly moving out of the way so she can easily push it up without you in the way. She disappears inside for a few moments, and you look behind you at the other crates you still have to help load. The thought of doing that seven more times makes you want to throw yourself under the truck and demand that the driver run you over.

Tori emerges and retreats down with the empty dolly, and you trail after her sulkily.

"So how do you smuggle the... stuff across the border?" You ask, struggling even more to lift this crate. The muscles in your arms burn and your bad shoulder throbs painfully.

"Like this." She gestures at the crates. "Not all of these are flour."

"I thought you had to swallow balloons or something," you say. Your foot catches on a rock, and you trip, almost falling and getting crushed under the crate when it jostles and starts sliding towards you. Tori helps you steady it.

"Careful!" Tori snaps. "Only little fish swallow balloons. Big fish like us get more privileges. Like paying off a few border pigs to look the other way when they let us cross." You reach the ramp and move out of the way so someone else can help pull the crate up.

Tori looks at you suspiciously.

"Why is a janitor asking about drug peddling?" She asks. 

"I'm not really a janitor, my job is whatever Valeria wants it to be," you say tiredly, rubbing at your sore shoulder. You experimentally try to lift it and wince. It feels like something in your tendons is stuck. Like a rock between two cogwheels.

Tori gives you an amused look. "Pay's good at least, I hope?"

"I'm not getting paid," you inform her.

"Seriously?" Tori blinks at you with surprise. "I doubt you're here willingly then. What did you do? And how did you manage to talk yourself out of it? The Valeria I know would kill someone just for sneezing too loudly near her,"

"I owe a lot of money to the cartel, but I must've caught Valeria on a good day. She only almost shot me for it, but instead she just beat me, and very graciously let me off up my working services in exchange for living," you tell her wryly. For a couple of seconds, you feel good talking to Tori. But then that feeling melts into a mutt of anxiety and sadness. That sounded like something Julie would have said, but Julie isn't here. You don't know where she is. 

"How generous of her," Tori says. "Let's get the rest of these crates in. I want to go home." You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants and follow her, trying your best to put Julie out of your mind.

You grunt as you lift yet another crate. A sliver catches in your palm, and you hiss in pain, dropping the crate with a dull thud. You reach down and pick it back up again, pain spiking in the spot on your palm each time the crate rubs against the sliver. You picture it getting driven deeper and deeper under your skin until it's unreachable. You help Tori load up the last of the crates and stand by, gingerly plucking at the tip of the little sliver, trying to pinch it between your nails so you can pull it out. Tori walks down and comes over to you, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a granola bar, holding it out to you.

"Here."

You take it, confused. "What's this for?" You ask. 

"Oh, well if you unwrap it, there's food inside, and you can eat it," Tori tells you.

"Ha. Ha. I meant why are you giving it to me?" You say. You're definitely going to eat it later though. It's a step up from canned beans. Taste wise, anyway.

"Because I could hear your stomach the entire time," she retorts. "Consider it payment. Don't tell Valeria though. She probably doesn't want you getting anything out of your work."

"Thank you," you say. You pick up Valeria's empty mug and bid Tori farewell. You're glad to be back inside the air-conditioned building. You're not sure where to go to get Valeria coffee and have to stop and ask a man, who acts like you asking for simple directions is the biggest inconvenience in his life.

You find the little common room and brew her a cup. While waiting you try to ignore the minifridge in the corner, but it's humming lures you over like a siren's song. You're all alone in here. And with a quick check in the hallway, you decide that it's perfectly safe to poke around the fridge. There's beer, water, and a few pieces of food. Such as an opened pack of salami and one very withered looking apple. You're tempted to take the salami but ultimately decide to leave it as there's only a couple of old slices left. It's not worth the potential stomachache.

You grab Valeria's coffee and without giving it much consideration, spit it into it. It's a small, very useless get back. One that she won't ever know about. But you know. And that's all that matters. You leave the room, carrying the hot little mug all the way back to her office. You knock on her closed door politely and readjust your hold on the mug when it starts getting too hot and burning your fingers.

"Enter," Valeria calls out. You open the door and step inside. She glowers at you from behind her desk and you wonder what you did wrong this time.

"What took you so long?" Valeria snaps. 

"What?" You look at her with bewilderment. 

"My coffee?" She says slowly. "What took you so long to get it?"

"You told me to help load up crates outback," you say, hearing your own voice grow defensive. Did you misunderstand something?

"I meant after you got my coffee," Valeria scoffs. She beckons you over impatiently and points to where she wants you to set the mug down. "How do you mess up basic instructions like that, pendeja?" You keep your head down while she berates you for being stupid and incompetent and unable to follow basic instructions.

She finishes her tirade and leans back, sliding forward a small sticky note with an address and picture of a white collared button up and black slacks on it. You take it and look at her.

"Go there and buy that outfit. I have a job for you next week," she says. You look down at her desk for any money to buy the uniform but there's none. Your stomach pits at the thought of asking Valeria for money, especially when you already owe her more then you'll ever see in your entire life. But earlier you were thinking about scavenging pocket change just to afford some three-dollar noodles, you aren't going to be able to afford new clothes. Valeria notices your hesitation and scowls.

"What?" She asks sharply. 

"I can't afford that," you say quietly. She glares at you.

"You don't have thirty bucks?" She asks dryly. 

"No."

Valeria sneers at you but reaches into her pocket and pulls out her wallet. She takes out two twenties and tosses them at you. You try to catch them but miss and they flutter to the ground delicately.

You bend down and pick them up quickly like a starved animal darting for crumbs of food. Resentment boils deep inside you at what you've been reduced to.

"Keep the change," Valeria says airily, adding insult to injury. You don't dare retort back, but God, do you wish you could. You stuff the bills into your pocket, beside the granola bar. 

"Is there anything else you want me to do today?" Your eyes lock onto her as she takes a tiny sip of her coffee. A sliver of satisfaction snakes through as she unknowingly digests a piece of your disrespect floating around in the drink.

She shakes her head, much to your relief.

"No, go away," she says, turning her attention back to her desk.

"Aren't you driving me?" You ask. So far Valeria has carted you to and from your jobs. But Valeria scoffs at you.

"Do I look like a taxi?" She says flatly. "You have two working legs. Walk." Walking all the way back to Las Almas is the last thing you want to do. It's not too far from here, but it's hot out and you're so tired. But you know better than to argue with Valeria. That little bit of satisfaction dies. At the end of the day, she holds all the power. Your measly little glob of spit in her coffee won't change that.

You're a sweaty, limping mess when you make it back to Las Almas. Each steps makes the back of your shoe rub against your heel painfully, and you can feel a large blister forming. The granola bar has long since been eaten, and it feels like eating it took more energy than it gave back. You feel even hungrier than before. You feel faint and hope you don't pass out right on the sidewalk. As chance would have it, the place Valeria wanted you to go to is right along the way home. Some little clothing store tucked between two other buildings. Small plant boxes attached to the front of the windows home clusters of cute little white flowers. A fat black, yellow, and orange bee dances between the petals, gathering pollen onto its furry little butt. You swing open the door and trudge instead. The air conditioning turns the sweat on your skin cold and it's probably the most pleasant feeling you've ever felt.

The workers look over at you and then at each other. You look down at your clothes, sweaty and a little disheveled after your long walk in the heat and a hard days' work. This isn't a place of luxury by any means, but you still don't look like someone that could afford to shop here. And they're right, you can't afford to shop here. You'll be using money given to you by Valeria. Money probably being added to your debt now. Two-million and forty dollars, now. Valeria's probably added a gas tax for each time she's driven you to and from home. She's probably charging you for each time you get on her nerves, which seems to be often.