[center][img]https://cdn.imgchest.com/files/4nec82ejkj4.png[/img][/center] [center][h1][color=#7D5CB3]Kessler[/color][/h1][/center] [center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center] [center][color=#812442][b]Location:[/b][/color] 'The Eclipse' • [color=#812442][b]Time:[/b][/color] Dusk + 5 min [/center] [center][color=#812442][b]Interactions:[/b][/color] None that matter • [color=#812442][b]Mentions:[/b][/color] [@Oso] Dom [/center] [center][color=black][sup]____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sup][/color][/center] He fucking hated this shithole. The people, the "music," the watered-down drinks. Nightlife was a blur around him, as revellers shuffled, danced, gyrated, swayed, undulated to the rhythms of another nameless, faceless, soulless EDM track. He was the still centre to this drug-induced psychosis set to pounding bass. His back to the bar, the man downed another whiskey, calmly watching his mark move with friends (or were they simply casual acquaintances, or better yet, complete strangers?) on the dancefloor, a shock of black hair and a set of killer abs, bound to hips that knew they were the centre of any red-blooded male (and more than a few females') attention. In his mind's eye, he leaned, still, ready to make his attack, while everyone around him seemed to move at 2.5X speed. One more whiskey, while his mark seemed to favour vodka-soda's and bumps of the fine white. All this, he took in. More than a few women approached his impossibly broad, lean mass. More than a few were quietly turned away. No, he only had eyes for her. And when he made his move, she was swept off her feet. His hand, seemingly the size of her ribcage, snaking around her waist. Her hips pulled tight against his midsection. A purr of unabashed arousal from her, unheard by the meat-sacks of the crowd, but easily picked up by his keen senses. Her heartrate. Her body temperature. Moving together now, coming apart and back together where it mattered most. Her hand now, touching his thigh, reaching for his chest, his waist, his abs, that place where their bodies met. She was tiny next to his frame, and while others might have craved her attention, his mass was like a shield to their advances, simultaneously blotting out their clumsy, drunken desires, while allowing the mark to feast on sensation from his thighs his hands, his lips, his need for her. She was captured by his presence, the scent of her desire and the glaze of her eyes telling him everything he needed to know. The way she gyrated and moved against him, if she could have mounted him right there on the dance floor, she would have. And that was exactly how he wanted her. He lost himself to the beat, moving with her for song after song, until one beat blended smoothly into another, and another. Some time later, he moved fluidly out from the back door of the Eclipse, into the rainy night air, the mark stuck to the front of his imposing figure, inhaling his tongue, her hands traversing his features, running over the front of his jeans, over his chest. [color=00aeef]"I want it..."[/color] she cooed into his ear, teeth pulling on his lobe, hands hanging around his neck. [color=f7941d]"And you're going to get it..."[/color] the deep, rumbling voice promised, seductively, darkly. They kissed for a few moments, before the man parted from her, sitting astride the black bike that waited there. She straddled the seat, facing him and sliding her ass half-up onto the tank, sitting backward to get closer and wrapping her legs around him, feeling the heat from his core, reaching for what she wanted most. [color=f7941d]"My place isn't far..."[/color] he growled as she unbuckled his belt, letting herself into his pants. She kissed him, sucking on his lower lip as he kicked the big bike to life, the throaty roar of the V-twin drowning out the oaths she swore to him as she sucked on his neck, his ear, her small hands finding what they sought out. They rocketed off, roaring into the night, the headlight cutting a swath of clarity through the gloom. Her shirt was soaked, as was his dark satin button-down, clinging to his vast, broad musculature. [i]Faster[/i]. She was lost to her inebriation, and the need coursing through her veins. [i]Faster[/i]. This bike wasn't his usual steed. Some version of the new 'Low Rider.' But being well-versed in bikes for most of his life had made this one easy enough to steal. It was new, in all the ways that was both good, and bad. It didn't shake as badly as his Pan, but it also didn't give as much feedback. [i]Faster[/i]. It was easier to maneuver, and was much lighter, but to someone with the strength that Kessler possessed, that was of minimal importance. Ultimately, it was well-suited to his purposes. The mark was mostly holding on with her legs around his waist, while alternately laying back against the tank to grind against him, and then sitting up to get her hands in his hair, and press the pert, youthful meat of her chest against his while throwing her head back to feel the rush of wind in her face, while enjoying every second of the vibration of the thundering motorcycle against her core. [i]Faster[/i]. He knew exactly where they were going. There was forever construction going on near the 'Shroud.' And if not actually construction, hoarding up around condemned buildings and slums, to keep trespassers out. He knew of a place. The perfect place. A scaffolding had gone up around Gideon's Pawn Broker's because the brickwork on the near ninety-year-old structure was in danger of falling apart, and apparently, someone, somewhere was half-heartedly willing to do some work to it. But not tonight. [i]Faster[/i]. Her tongue was in his mouth, the rain slicking both their faces, while her hand moved salaciously against him, in his pants. It was fast enough. He couldn't see the gauge, but they must have been doing near sixty-five. He let his hands slide from the bars, steering with his body weight, before finally looking up to see that they had reached their destination. He gripped her hair, wrenching her head back, and off his mouth, before sliding off the back of the low seat, rolling into the street, sending the bike careening toward the scaffolding. Hitting the ground hard, he felt bones break, pavement eat his skin, joints dislocate. In the distance there was a sickening, twisting noise as metal sheared off, tore, and groaned as the scaffolding structure bent and sagged after the horrifyingly brutal collision. He lay there a moment, until he felt strong enough to begin the process. Muscles flexed, bones popping and reforming, and he even groaned aloud as his spine took its former place, holding his structure secure and stable. Standing, he looked around to see there were no witnesses, or at least none stupid enough to stay around. His shirt was ruined, his pants torn. Walking back to the bike, he looked around for a moment before finding his saddlebag, flung off into the street. He retrieved it, and pulled his kutte free, putting its familiar skin against his own. He stepped toward the crash site once more, watching as the mark breathed her last, her twisted, broken form impaled by no fewer than three scaffolding beams, her skull crushed and back badly broken, left leg severed at mid-thigh. There was a lot of blood, and for just a moment, Kessler wondered if the punishment had fit the crime. Don't sell information to the Wardens. Pretty simple. Throwing his saddlebags over his shoulder, he felt the shock-proofed, armoured pocket within vibrate, and he reached in to withdraw his phone. Dom. He turned his back on the "accident" and made directly for the abandoned warehouse.