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Showing results for tags 'mature'.
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⚠️This showcase is strictly for players aged 18+ only. Mature themes are present. No exceptions. 💓 Pulse Founded by Nyx and her ride-or-die Riley, Pulse is more than a name—it’s a lifeline. Born out of backroom betrayals and velvet lies, Pulse is a sanctuary for working girls—escorts, dancers, performers, and anyone grinding under the neon glow. From an apartment tucked inside the heart of Los Santos, Pulse beats with sisterhood, survival, and zero shame. No pimps, no predators, no bullshit—just a place to crash, connect, and cash out on your terms. 💋 We protect our own. We work smart. We never apologize for being the fantasy—and owning it. 🔥 Who We Are Pulse is a collective, a sanctuary, a sisterhood. Established by two women who crawled out of the smoke, stripped off the control, and built something the system never wanted them to have: freedom. We’re dancers, escorts, sugar babies, and dream-weavers. We sell fantasy, but we live in truth—and that truth is power, protection, and choice. Pulse is home. Pulse is family. Pulse is ours. 🏠 The Apartment Hidden from the chaos of the city, Pulse’s base is a grungy, open-concept apartment lit in violet and crimson—part lounge, part war room. It has rooms to rest, spaces to work, and a no-judgment policy stronger than steel. Visitors need a vouch. Enemies don’t make it to the door. 💋 What We Believe Sex work is work. Safety is a right, not a privilege. We share knowledge, not competition. No one gets left behind. We do not belong to anyone but ourselves. ⚡ Pulse Is… A place to crash when you’ve burned every bridge. A soft landing after a hard night. A guidebook for the new girl, and a war cry for the one who’s had enough. ⚠️ Themes & Content Pulse explores mature themes including sex work, violence, drug use, and trauma. We handle all topics with respect, consent, and clear boundaries. We value story over shock. Grit doesn’t mean glorification. ⚠️This showcase is strictly for players aged 18+ only. Mature themes are present. No exceptions.
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Nurlan Bakytov was born on November 14, 1997, in Osh, Kyrgyzstan, a region known for its rugged terrain and diverse cultural heritage. Growing up in a post-Soviet environment, Nurlan was exposed to the harsh realities of economic instability and political turmoil. His father, a former factory worker, and his mother, a school teacher, instilled in him the values of resilience and hard work. Nurlan's athletic prowess was evident from an early age, leading him to pursue a career in mixed martial arts. He trained at a local gym where he was spotted by a fight promoter who introduced him to Kyrgyzstan’s clandestine fighting circuits. By the age of 18, he was a well-known figure in the underground fight leagues of Bishkek, earning the nickname "Arstan" (Lion in Kyrgyz) for his ferocity and strength. Nurlan's success in the fighting ring caught the attention of local organized crime groups. By his early twenties, he was deeply involved in the criminal underworld, working as an enforcer and debt collector. His activities soon expanded to include arms dealing, smuggling operations across the Kyrgyz-Tajik border, and establishing a network of illegal gambling dens. In his mid-twenties, Nurlan moved to Moscow to manage and expand his criminal operations. He established a significant presence in the Russian mafia, dealing in everything from luxury car smuggling to high-stakes robbery. His influence also spread to Eastern Europe, where he orchestrated several high-profile art heists, targeting private collectors and small museums. Despite his criminal lifestyle, Nurlan is known for his philanthropic efforts, particularly towards children's sports and education in Kyrgyzstan. He funded the construction of a youth sports center in Osh, which provides free training and education to underprivileged children. Nurlan's personal life remains largely private. He was once romantically involved with a Russian journalist, Ekaterina, who ended the relationship upon discovering his criminal activities. He suffers from chronic insomnia, a condition he manages through physical training and chess, a game he plays to strategize and relax. Nurlan has never been convicted, despite several investigations. His connections within political and law enforcement circles in Kyrgyzstan and Russia have kept him largely out of prison. As of the latest reports, Nurlan has been considering expanding his operations to the United States, specifically Los Santos, where he aims to explore opportunities in the arms and technology sectors.
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I It’s late. The kind of late that blurs the lines between night and the cruel joke of an early morning. I'm sitting here in the half-light, nursing a glass of bourbon that’s more habit than pleasure these days. The room is quiet, but it's a goddamn lie. Inside, it’s loud as hell—my thoughts, my memories, they don’t let up. Aging, it’s a bitch. Not just the creaks and aches, the way your body betrays you, growing frail and stubborn. It’s the mind games, the replay of every face, every job that I’ve erased from the world. Joined the army young, thought I was tough as nails. But the shit I saw... it hollows you out, leaves you a shell, walking and talking, but always on the edge of breaking. Retirement? Hell, who am I kidding? You don’t just walk away from this life. It clings to you, like the blood stains that never really wash out. My hands shake now, not much, but enough to remind me that I’m not what I once was. They used to be steady, reliable. Now they’re traitors, trembling with the ghosts of too many years. Linda, she’s seen it all. She’s got this look, you know? Like she’s waiting for the storm to pass, but we both know, some storms, they don’t move on. They settle in, make a home in your bones. And Michael, my boy, he’s the one damn thing I did right. Kept him clear of all the shit. He doesn’t know the man I really am, and I’ll die before I let that change. Sometimes, when it’s this late, I think about hanging it all up. What’s left for a washed-up old soldier who’s seen too much? But who am I if not this? The cleaner, the fixer—shit, it’s all I know. It’s like being caught in a riptide, constantly fighting to keep your head above water when it’d be so easy to just let go. They say time heals all, but whoever said that didn’t have my fucking memories. Some wounds, they don’t close; they fester, they itch, they drive you mad. And I’ve got an arsenal of them, each one a reminder of the lives I've crossed out, the secrets I've buried deep. Maybe I’m looking for redemption, or maybe it’s forgiveness I want. But from who? The people I’ve saved? Or the ones I couldn’t? Every day, the line I walk gets a little blurrier. But as long as I’m breathing, as long as I can still hold a gun, I know I won’t stop. Not really. So here’s to the twilight years, to finding some goddamn peace, or at least a quiet corner of hell to call my own. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to look myself in the mirror and not see the ghosts staring back. Maybe then I’ll believe it’s enough. Until then, I keep moving, one slow, painful step at a time...- 1 reply
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- organized crime
- cleaner
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(Idk what to put here. Ta-dah.)
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- professional
- dirtbag
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(This follows the narration of Unknown Assailant during their crusade of killings)
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- serial killer
- psychology
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- mature
- ezra cunningham
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