deegee

✨Beyond The Veil✨

KESSLER

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Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Nightfall

Interactions: @Oso @Infinite Cosmos • Mentions: @Oso, @Infinite Cosmos

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He stood there, in the dank, rotten abattoir that reeked of death and Logan in equal measure. He could smell his struggle, his torture, the bitter scent of defeat and loss. He stood there in his tattered clothes, ripped and ruined from his earlier endeavours, and for the first time in a long time felt ill-at-ease with how dishevelled he must have looked. One of his pant-legs was ripped off at the thigh. His shirt was little more than a rag, all of it bloody. Only his kutte was spared the destruction of the past hour. Small mercies. He never would have come before Logan this way. Dom, yeah. There was little to no judgement from Dom. Not for doing the job, at least. But Logan had expected them all to be better than they were. To rise above, if not in station, in action. He stood there with the girl's blood on him, and his own, adding to the stench of the place, and wished it hadn't been this way. After but a moment, he realized he couldn't move. Couldn't act, as he was transfixed by the sight, his senses. To have moved from where he was rooted, would have been to give in to the blood lust. To act on instinct, and tear limb from limb. To find the root of this evil, and dig it up with his bare hands.

What was before him, was no way for any of their pack to die. It was undignified. It wasn't a warrior's death, and Logan had most certainly been that, and so much more. Images and memories came rushing to him of the kind, fatherly mentor and guide Logan had been for him in his early years. If Dom had been a companion, an older brother and a yardstick to measure his own accomplishments against, Logan had been the wise sensei, a father on occasion, a calm centre to a place that could be wild and unpredictable, but also a fearless hunter, a ruthless tactician, and a damn good friend.

He found his emotions overtaking him, and fought to maintain control. His claws were out, and Kessler kept his hands balled into massive, powerful, dangerous fists until the claws dug into flesh, nearly protruding from the other side of his hands, and blood ran freely from his clenched meat. His digits swelled around the rings he wore, adding to the pain. He could feel the change in his jaw and shoulders, teeth extending, jaw cracking, reforming. He held it in check, allowing just enough of the change to envelope him that it hurt. Hurt badly. The pain was amplified when you fought it. He wanted it to hurt. He needed the pain. The pain informed many of his reactions, allowed the tears to fall.

Tilting his head back, he howled. An ungodly thing to hear, all barrel chest and unbridled power, pushing from diaphragm to throat, the howl was likewise centred in the current duality of his form, equal parts his human bass, and partly the beast within. It spoke plainly of anguish, pain, loss and betrayal. And rage. So much seething rage, he hoped the perpetrators of this crime were stupid enough to be nearby to shit their collective pants when his cry pierced their eardrums and told them that death was coming to collect.

The howl spoke all the things that Kessler might've said if he were prone to speaking his mind. Though it would be only dimly understood by non-Lycans -- intent more than direct translation, to those that mattered to him -- namely Dominic, and Lucian, it would be as clear a treatise as any human dialogue. When he was finished, the howl lasting far longer than the capacity of his lungs would seem to allow, he reverted fully to his human form, taking a deep breath to centre himself, before looking to his palms, seeing the wounds there receding already, and wiped the blood, his own, across his forehead and under his eyes like war-paint. Marking himself for the hunt to come.

He received the bottle from Lucian, and took a short swig. He squeezed, breaking the bottle into long shards, and pocketed one of the pieces, tossing the rest of the mess against the far wall, over a hundred paces distant, adding to the rest of the debris strewn through the old warehouse. He finally spoke, and though it wasn't to anyone in particular, there was no mistaking whose ears it was meant for. Together they would devise a way to unleash hell on those who had done this, and together they would see it out. His voice was mostly growl, tainted with disgust and anger at the horrible deed that lay before them.

"The motherfuckers... An eye for an eye won't cleanse this. This is a declaration of war. This ends any notion of peace." He was calculated, calm, though the rage was bubbling under the surface. Held at bay by the need to do right by his pack, and his dead friend. He stooped, getting close to the body, letting his razor-sharp senses do their job, equal parts forensic lab-rat and savage bloodletter. "No scent of vamp here. Faint human traces, but that could be circumstantial. There's a lot of wolf here, too. Maybe too much to be all from Logan." He paused, letting that settle in, or rather - unsettle. Didn't mean nothin'. Vamps could have covered their trail. Or bought off others to do their bidding. It seemed too big a hit for Wardens, but they'd been getting bolder. The idea that rival Lycans could have had anything to do with this nearly made his gorge rise. But the play to be made was Dom's choice. He stood, and turned to the two pack-members in silent question. The question was obvious: What now? "Word of this will be all over the Gutter by morning. If we're going to move, it has to be soon." He caught Lucian's eye, before stepping closer to Dominic. "At your word, Dom... anything."

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Kessler

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Location: 'The Eclipse' • Time: Dusk + 5 min

Interactions: None that matter • Mentions: @Oso Dom

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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. "I want it..." she cooed into his ear, teeth pulling on his lobe, hands hanging around his neck. "And you're going to get it..." 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. "My place isn't far..." 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. Faster. She was lost to her inebriation, and the need coursing through her veins. Faster. 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. Faster. 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. Faster. 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.

Faster.

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.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Kessler

Basic Information

Name: Damon Kessler
Nickname(s): 'The Jackal'
Age: 88 (51 years as a Lycan)
Gender: Male
Birthday: January 6th
Race: Lycan. In human form, he is Caucasian (looks maybe a little Turkish, or Greek, or Eastern European... )
Rank/Status Title (if any): Not the Alpha, but a trusted and capable (and intelligent) soldier, and a (thus far) loyal ally to the Iron Fangs. (Maybe one day, Beta.)

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Appearance

Height: 6'5" in Human form, a little over 7' in hybrid wolf / human form.
Build: heavily muscled, broad-shouldered, rugged.
Eye Color: pale blue in Human form
Hair Color & Style: dark brown, militaristic cut, full beard
Skin Tone: olive-complexioned
Notable Marks: GSW scarring on shoulder blades, abs and back, scarring from fights on arms, keeps ritual scarring (some would call it 'cutting') on his chest to count those kills made for the pack.
Typical Clothing Style: functional, easy to move in. Favours the informal, worn in, familiar.
Aura/First Impression: strong, silent type. If he speaks, the pack tends to listen though. Ever the good soldier.
Voice: Mads Mikkelsen

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Psychology

Hobbies/Interests
✦ scrimshaw. He often makes time for carving from his victims' bones (if retrieving a bone shard is feasible.)
✦ Blues guitar. He has a semi-regular gig at a joint called 'Suds,' a forgotten little bar on Shroud Ave.
✦ He's actually a pretty good cook, though few would know it.
Likes
✦ Good music, badly played. Or Bad music, well-played.
✦ The occasional cigar.
✦ Ensuring his Pack's place in the world, via whatever means are necessary.
Dislikes
✦ Cowardice.
✦ Dancehall music.
✦ Unfortunately, most of the females in the Pack. Not their fault. Just never really hit it off with them. Good warriors, skilled, valuable pack members. Just never found he was very compatible with them.
Fears
✦ Drowning. (it was how his sister died. He has been irrationally fearful ever since.)
✦ Letting the Fangs down.
✦ Dying alone, without a mate.
Habits
✦ Seeks out items from his childhood, specifically coins from his birth (and 'rebirth') years, 1937 and 1975.
✦ always keeps a 1937 British George VI half crown coin in his pocket, worn almost flat and devoid of detail after so many years.
Vices
✦ visiting the whorehouses of the Gutterdark. Maybe not for exactly the reasons you might imagine.
✦ 'enjoying' his powers, and his job for the pack a little too much. He is aware of it, of his bloodlust, and is attempting to be mindful of his zeal.

Core Motivation: Find a love. Support the Pack. Find his place in Halcyon, whatever that means. (secretly: Find meaning, a purpose in life bigger than the pack, or something other than the pack he'd gladly trade his life for. )

Personality Overview: Kessler is the good soldier. He is there whenever the pack needs him. He is dedicated, loyal to a fault, nearly fearless, driven / determined, and gets results. It is not typically Kessler's job to speak. He prefers it that way. Privately, he speaks with a few members of the pack, but he prefers to keep quiet. The problem with the good soldier is, sometimes there isn't much more in their lives. He's a bit lonely, though he's rarely alone. He struggles with his Human past, and the memories that occasionally invade. He has a troubled range of emotions when it comes to Humans, even Wardens.

He does what he does, because he is very good at it, and because it is expected of him, and because he loves Dominic like a brother, and his pack are his family. Does he believe in 'the cause?' Maybe. Does he see right and wrong in the Pack's actions, or his own? Maybe. Maybe not. He wants change, and sometimes, just sometimes, sees himself as an agent of change -- but for better, or worse? These are the thoughts that he thinks on, long after the lights are out, and the claws are away.

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Relationships and Reputation

Openness to Friendship (1-5): 2
Openness to Romance (1-5): 3
Romantic Preferences: (casual/flirty or serious/trusting, none at all,etc.) Casual, open, trusting, but with zero strings. The pack comes first (so far.)
Current Romantic Interests (if any): None.
View on Forbidden Relationships: (Officially) against. (Privately) open.
Biggest Turn-ons:
✦ Someone powerful. Someone who can match him, physically and sexually.
✦ Someone who could challenge him intellectually.
✦ Loyalty.
Biggest Turn-offs:
✦ Frivolity, or displays of excess.
✦ A lack of principles.
✦ Vanilla.
How They Handle Love: It has been a long time... he barely remembers. The last time didn't exactly... end well.
Reputation Among Their Race/Faction: Rock-solid. Trusted. An ally you want beside you. But not necessarily the guy you go for a beer with after work.
Relationship with the Glamour: A luxury for those who can't control their urges, or clean up their messes.
Known Enemies: TBD
Known Friends TBD (the pack, Dominic.)
Known Family Members: His human family? Dead, as far as he knows.

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Background

Current Occupation: Enforcer.
Level of Schooling(if any): As a human -- community college, studied to be a history teacher, post-secondary level. As a Lycan? A keen student of their own history.
Past Occupations (if any): Motorcycle mechanic, teacher.
Socioeconomic Status: The pack will provide. (The better end of low-class. Keeps a room in a lodging house in the Gutter.)
History Summary: Turned sometime in his 38th year (he recalls very little of the events leading up to the turning, and his Human life before is muddled and indistinct. Memories are disjointed and unclear. Like dreams. (Open to determining who turned him, and whether they are still alive, or not.) He was nursed back to health by a pack that no longer exists, and never truly found acceptance by that pack, due to his non-pureblood background. Even the Iron Claws (the few who know,) see him as less than, because he wasn't born, he was turned. It is subtle, and he has more than proved his worth, time and again.

Kess has known Dom for nearly 50 years. Has fought and bled with him since the dawn of his new life, has seen him grow to be a fine Alpha, most certainly someone who can stir people’s spirit, engender a willingness to sacrifice, to go the extra mile. Kess loves his Alpha like a brother, would literally do anything for him. (Note: Kessler does not really recall how or why he was turned. Dom knows the truth of it, but it has never come out.) Kess has no interest in being an alpha. Especially if it meant stepping over Dom. Dominic is the leader the people of the Gutter —- his people — need.

Race-Specific Questions

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▸ Lycans:
✦Born or Turned? Turned. By a former Alpha.
✦Reaction to Full Moon: Revels in his power. (So far) sees no downside or limits to his abilities and waning, minimal remorse for his actions.
✦Pack Loyalty Level: 100% (but questions the notion of the 'forbidden' love, and would alter his loyalty for a mate, or for an undeserving Alpha...)
✦Views on Mortals: Tries to recall his life as a mortal. Struggles with his past, and reconciling his current status vs. his former self. Pities them, even the Wardens, to a degree.
✦Views on Vampires: Kill 'em all.
✦Views on Fae: Distrusts, avoids.

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Miscellaneous

Theme Song: 'Lenny.'
Favorite Food: Steak. Bloody.
Favorite Animal(s): Kessler isn't really an 'animal' person, but oddly, there are a host of stray cats in his neighbourhood, and he puts food out for all of them. They all hiss at him, distrustful of his Lycan scent, but he cares for them just the same.
Favorite Music Genre: Delta Blues.
Favorite Haunt (location): The Sundown, Blood Market Row, Suds.
Signature Weapon (if any): twin reverse-curved blades, like Kukri.
Preferred Vices: Redheads.
Guilty Pleasure: see 'preferred vices.'

Beyond The Veil Interest Check

Link to the main thread?

Beyond The Veil Interest Check

Please join the discord

@Helo @Sadie @JJ Doe @ShiningSector @ReusableSword@Infinite Cosmos@deegee@Ithradine@Manzanilla@Mole@Passable Writer@Ctenoid Soul @enmuni@TokyoPewPew

@princess

Done!! (Can’t see anything though… no channels, no members…)

Beyond The Veil Interest Check

Colour me very interested... But in which faction... remains to be seen...

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

He didn’t really have any notion that the others had disembarked. He figured Jet would be getting after it soon enough, but that he’d already left? No idea. Certainly no idea that Aellyn had left for town, too. He was on the bridge, had been for quite some time, too… just pouring over the new data from Abilene. The new score. Or what he was starting to think of as a score. Maybe. Though every time he opened a new file, or scrolled to a new part of the sec doc, he frowned at yet another way to get dead. This wasn’t going to be a cake-walk. He reached for the empty hydro flask for the third time, absently picking it up to take a swig before remembering there was nothing in it, had been nothing in it for an hour. Kark. He was so deeply engrossed that barely anything from the outside was registering.

If Jet had walked in and reported on his condition and the injuries he’d sustained on his way to town, Fel would’ve been like, ‘ok…’ while eyes were pasted to the screen. If Zane had tossed popcorn at him from the doorway, he’d have eaten it, had it landed in front of him, or ignored it, if it bounced off his shoulder.

There was no way he could pull off the caper himself. Jet, neither. They both had military records (and rap sheets.) And neither of them had the right ‘look.’ Zane couldn’t do it. Not by himself, anyways. Not from the inside. He might not have had a dossier in Imperial records, but he simply wouldn’t pass for a bigwig. Nope… to do this clean, meant Aellyn. Aellyn, meant trouble. And not only Aellyn, doing this gig clean, meant two on the inside, which meant Fel would have to take on outside help. Which meant sharing their take. But if he played the dates right, they’d have more than enough to split. Any day of the week would net them five, six million. Once a standard month, the take could be closer to fifteen million.

Now, some of it would have to be fenced. Not all would be hard currency. But even so, it was going to be a good payday – if they made it out alive. In addition to the two inside, there would need to be one on security, one behind the scenes, the best damn slicer this side of CorSec, and a strong-box worker. They could almost do it on their own, but their slicer would be a Face on this job, so they were short a safecracker, a slicer, and Fel wasn’t entirely sure he or Jet were up to the task of being quite as chameleon as they’d need to be. He’d just have to lay it all on the line for the crew. Worst they could say was ‘hell, no.’

Wasn’t every day they got to knock over a casino.

Aellyn stopped the bike right next to the loading ramp. Fortunately for her and Jet, the ride back to the UA was uneventful. Perhaps the wildlife did bite more than they could chew, thinking of Jet's half eaten arm. The sled came to a halt next to her as she dismounted. “Start offloading… See if I can’t get the kid to help…” She shouted over to Jet, making her way up the ramp. Stepping aboard the UA, the faithful droid immediately started to beep at her, while she made her way toward the cockpit.

Jet sat on the edge of the skiff, legs dangling, one hand gripping the railing tight. He didn’t trust the droid at the controls, and with good reason. It had been more hindrance than help. But maybe being out of the junkyard for a while, or even away from the settlement's noise, had settled something in its scrambled circuits. The skiff moved to make a stop beside the ship, just near where Aellyn had already stopped. He gave her a lazy wave as if to say ‘Yeah, I got this.’ Jet flinched, instinct bracing him for a jolt that never came. When the ride stayed calm, and came to a slow, steady stop, he let out a breath, a small, low whistle escaping his lips.

The droid had already begun unloading the injectors, chirping to itself in short bursts. Jet eyed the remaining scrap and sighed. Each movement sent a dull ache radiating through his ribs and shoulder, a lingering gift from the predator that had nearly torn him apart. His jacket still clung to him in tatters, and every breath reminded him how close he’d come to not making it at all. The idea of hauling the rest of the load with one good arm and a battered body didn’t thrill him, but the work wasn’t going to do itself. He could only hope that someone came back to lend a hand, even if just for the heavier crates.

He dragged the first load aboard, boots scuffing against the deck, then detoured to his workbench. He grabbed a hydrospanner and jammed it beneath the casing on his prosthetic, prying the metal back with a tired grunt. The latch resisted, then gave way with a snap. The lower half of the arm dropped onto the bench with a sharp, echoing clang that rang through the ship’s quiet. Jet leaned over it for a moment, catching his breath, then straightened with a wince and turned back toward the skiff to grab the next load.

“I told you, I would be back. Appreciate you not leaving me and Jet. Hey.. boss..” The word boss was sour in her mouth but she needed to stay in line or else. Aellyn tapped on the wall inside the cockpit, making her presence known. “Jet and I picked through the scraps they had. Not much but we think we found what we needed. Could use a hand but I can grab the kid if you're busy? Is he still sleeping? ”

At first, Aellyn’s voice barely registered. For just a moment. That voice could make itself known anywhere, anytime. It had a way of saying ‘LISTEN to me, MFer, or else!’ Aellyn wasn’t the only one who thought that ‘boss’ sounded wrong. Fel winced as the words came out. Firstly… he was nobody’s boss. Never wanted that reputation or title. Not when he was a squadron leader, certainly not now. Bosses didn’t usually lead by example. He pictured an uptight, white-collar, stuffed-shirt executive sitting behind some big desk in the upper levels on a central planet. That was a boss. Also – hadn’t he just told Aellyn to kick rocks, get the hell off his ship? …like a boss. Kark.

Zane awoke to the sound of voices out in the common area. Apparently, morning had already come and gone. The kid checked the wall chrono, which he could only guess had been updated by the ship’s systems. Yup, it was already after noon - or whatever counted for “noon” on this rock. Shaking off his grogginess, Zane swung his legs around to hang off of the upper bunk. He no longer felt the soreness he usually felt upon waking. His body actually felt…light. Sliding off the bunk to land on the balls of his feet like some sort of lithe mammal, he sat down on the edge of the lower bunk and slipped into his appropriated boots. Sooner or later, he’d call them “his boots”...but they still felt as though they didn’t truly belong to him. Once he made sure the sleeves of his jumpsuit were tied around his waist once more, he walked over and depressed the button to open the door, seeing Aellyn in the doorway to the bridge quite a ways from him. Strolling across the floor, the kid called out to her, ”Sorry for sleepin’ so long. Guess I needed it, though. I already feel a ton better!”

“Speaking of..” Aellyn looked over toward Zane, motioning for them to follow.

He stood, following her back to the skiff, grabbing one half of a crate with Zane. “You said you and Jet pieced this together?” He looked at the assembled bits and pieces, about two thirds of which he could identify. (he knew how to fly them… wasn’t much for building them.) Glancing around, the mech was nowhere in sight. “Where did he get off to? …you two outdid yourselves here. Abilene actually let you walk off with this?” He wanted to give Jet the praise they both deserved for a damn good job. “We get this gear squared away, I should speak to all of you about the next gig. It’s… well, it’s a doozy.”

18+ interest check

Bump?

Dee's NSFW prompt

Bumping. (In the night.)

1x1 long-term The Boys, or original RP. Specific characters, and faceclaim requests inside. [NSFW][18+][MxF][Discord&PMs]

*waves*