Sucks and swallows anything&period

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Sucks and swallows anything&period

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Translation of "suck" in German

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Sucks And Swallows Anything&period Navigation menu Video

RILEY REID SUCKING THE MIC ON IMPAULSIVE

Proving they have relatively nil respect for the corporation's intentions, both claim she's their girlfriend and take turns stealing her from the other.

She doesn't mind, and has come around to their way of thinking. That's right: they converted their minder.

She is the least bored woman in the universe and knows it. She's having a blast. TD says: For our crazed twins I'm thinking Chaos Theory.

Theoretical Science. You don't need to invent anything or spout equations - rolls can do the dirty work. We'll chat. Tall, statuesque, curves in all the right places.

Hints of muscle. She's got the uncomfortable pallor of someone who has spent too long in space, bordering on ghostly, and the blonde hair and ice blue eyes combine to give her the general appearance of a photograph that's been overexposed.

If she were someone else entirely, it might seem ethereal, but she's too vivacious -- and too much of a smart-ass -- for that schtick.

But she's got the crazy eyes, and they don't lie. Something about Nyka reeks of the way nature says 'do not touch'. She wears an official Penumbra badge, and when in the lab, she's probably wearing a lab coat.

Not so much. Business attire? Not even when she's in trouble. Snarky tees, ripped-up cargo shorts, combat boots. Look, just be glad she's got outside pants at this rate; that's not always a given.

The Chaos Theory lab is an exemplification of its name, and maybe something of a disappointment at the same time. There is nothing on fire, no one is screaming, and a distinct lack of green ooze bubbling in beakers has to make it something of a let-down.

There is a small Tesla ball serving as a paperweight on one of the work stations, so at least there's some colorful electricity arcing about, albeit in miniature form.

Over the walls without windows, an elaborate Rube Goldberg device has been installed. While the majority of it is behind transparent panels to keep the parts from snagging on anything and to help keep the metal balls on track, it frames metal rails running from one end of the lab to the other in a dizzying variety of swoops and angles, lifts and drops.

There are a few mysterious-looking compartments, a vast array of switches and buttons and indicator lights that blink in ominous sequences.

It is difficult to discern what, if anything, it actually does. The lab is divided into two relatively distinct sectors. Both have a central work station, with a keyboard, console, and large monitor.

One is lined with a series of additional monitors, typically running a sequence of animated fractals over the screen [these live in the research foyer now], while the other includes more technical, physical spaces for direct tinkering and various small tools and monitoring equipment.

On the hub-center wall, a small console shelf and cabinet is set below the viewing window. It hosts an elaborate, sleek coffeemaker, vacuum sealed square canisters of beans, along with sugar and various sweeteners.

There's a small sink, and a panel for a small fridge. About a dozen stainless steel thermal cups, stemless style without mug handles, are laid out along the counter, beside six thermoses in a variety of sizes.

My twin brother. Doesn't he have the kind of face you just want to punch? What's wrong with you? Hurt him and I'll fucking cut you.

Comrade Asshole in arms. Goddamn, that boy can liaise. The boss actually listens. That's a switchup from the usual. Not always what everyone would expect.

Macaroni fights forever! Fellow bearer of bad news. Drinking buddy. Reminder to not be so serious -- not that I'm admitting I ever need one -- don't be ridiculous.

We originally met back on Pegasus. Don't ever want to miss him again. Has a better head on his shoulders than I would have expected from a rich kid.

If he's trying to prove himself like the rumors say? He may well pull it off. Don't see that every day. Still wants to mine. Didn't know what to expect from an import, but she's been able to roll with it thus far.

Not like this is the normal state of affairs, either, which means it says a lot more than usual. Way too insightful. Gets it.

See also: goddammit, way too insightful. Head screwed on straight. Does not need notes dumbed down. Likes notes on paper awww! Secret mission: make this woman laugh at least once, she seems to need it.

Counselor Human Resources Lackey Mission Documentarian Kenna Murdock was a medium-level Human Resources specialist: counseling the crazies and trying to get them to at least make some vague attempt at toeing the company line.

Lucky Kenna, she got assigned to the Kolvek twins -- individually and as a pair -- so many times they became her permanent assignment. Officially, she is their 'oversight'.

That's just not really how it worked out. Turns out, Kenna was fantastic at her job because she wasn't exactly a corporate soul herself.

She just knew the way to fake it, and well. It didn't take much for her to become friends with the twins, and one or the other often enough refers to her as their girlfriend 'the girlfriend', generally seriously enough for there to clearly be something to it.

She lets them think they're stealing her back and forth; it keeps them busy, keeps her amused, fewer things explode in the lab, and nobody has to write lengthy HR reports in triplicate.

Everyone wins! Sure, she could go back to earth and get some cushy gig with fancy clothes and a spectacular penthouse view, but why?

Kenna is the least bored woman in the universe. So far as she is concerned, she has won at life. Player Note: Her landing brawn roll: ROLL Nyka rolls 4d8 for: [8]: x4 Set -- Match Value: 4 Raw: 8 8 8 8 -- d8 -- I think she might have used up all her winning at life here.

Stay tuned! In addition to her usual role as Twin Patrol aka 'Disaster Management' , she's been tasked by Penumbra to do interviews with the team in idle moments, and take footage of some of the team, PR-friendly aspects of their discoveries, and gather up quotes, photos, and other materials meant to make the company look extra shiny if the mission goes off like a charm and they need to recruit more company assets to expand their footprint next door to this end of the universe's kitchen sink drain with garbage disposal.

The following entries are the video log recorded in Nyka's coffin, along with notes and video taken from her tablet. All timestamps in mission time from arrival.

How she got them is fairly evident: she was strapped into one of the console seats, and the X-shape of the straps ripped right into her when the ship crashed.

The first shot isn't cleaned up at all, and her tank is in shreds, stained with blood around the edges of the tears.

The next few, she's clearly cleaned off the blood, and they aren't what anybody would call standard work fare since they bare plenty of skin.

The bruising is the worst of it, but if there are 8 linear cuts radiating out from her sternum that spread four sets of broken, parallel lines over her shoulders, and down to the line of her hips.

It's what I get for crashing out hard, and forgetting to turn it off. Doc Moreau's analysis isn't comforting, either.

Neither is the boss' recordings going to static. Power surge at the same time. I like the idea it can get in here much less.

From her tablet, in the Chaos Theory Lab. She's wearing a lab coat over a tee, uniform pants. Coffee in hand.

Hate staring at those screens. Banged the shit out of my elbow on the glass, all flail. Fuck this, seriously. We talked the boss into going back to medical to get checked.

Don't want to see anything bad happen to him, either. Known him too long. That counts for something. You don't know who isn't going to be around when you come back in.

Not really. Need to go bother B about the breaches, though -- fffffffffuck, I should probably talk to the boss, first.

The tablet feed from the lab fixes in on a stainless steel, thermal cup. In it is a mysterious black sludge that looks like it once aspired to be coffee.

Today, we will be investigating this mysterious ooze discovered in my sacred coffeema-". It's a few minutes past when the beeping starts. That gives them roughly five hours of sleep time, cutting the usual downtime by about two hours.

The green flash is insistent, thrumming and beeping in an increasingly rapid tone. It's like the computer system in the lab is getting increasingly annoyed.

Well, she did set up the program to recognize her. Blaise makes a brief, quiet, and frankly unfortunately whiny little noise at the beeping, followed by an echo of "Fi'e min't's He screws his eyes closed harder against the light, then turns his head in an attempt to use a combination of Nyka's hair and the pillow to improve the effectiveness of this ploy.

There is a comfortable person to burrow into, and clearly crash foreheads with. Nyka couldn't have done that on purpose if she had tried to headbutt someone, but it does startle her marginally more awake as the computer begins to drone on an analysis.

It is obvious enough that the screen she is seeing through one sliver of an icy blue eye is not the camera view, as the eerie blue-tinged shifts of light from text and graphics colors her face as it goes.

It continues until she stops, and her eyes snap all the way open. It startles Blaise marginally more awake as well, at least enough to mumble "Ow.

But not so much that he doesn't nestle right back down and continue trying to avoid all the light the computer's so rudely using to flood the compartment.

He's almost dozed off again by the time those words come, and maybe that's a voice command for him, since he rouses enough to at least make a questioning noise.

Poke poke nudge. Shake shake shake. She's an even worse alarm clock. From the lack of flicker, it seems to have stopped scrolling.

She points at the screen, finger looming toward the camera, as she says, "That's the time dilation arc. A clearer noise of complaint at the manhandling, but it works, and he turns over, eyes squinted against that light.

It's pretty clear when it does, because that's when his eyes open more fully and shoulders lift as though to start sitting up, brow furrowed.

I'm seeing that. How--" He squints again, but this time it's not the light. She wouldn't have woken him up if she had the answer to that question, and for long seconds, she stares forward at the screen.

Odds are good she wouldn't have dragged herself up, either! She takes in a deep breath, and turns to look at him, shaking her head. No answers there.

That's comforting. It's just It just. Dead ends. At 13 days here, a year Earth time. Blaise stares at it for yet another couple seconds, slightly propped on one arm.

A sidelong look. If he's awake enough to deadpan, he's awake enough to try to think. Another impossible thing to go with the impossibly not moving asteroid hanging out by a black hole.

Still, her eyes are on the screen, slowly narrowing. Already, she's unwinding the sheet and flashing more scar than anything else at the camera before darting in closer to him to press a firm kiss to his cheek.

Her eyes can stay on the screen; Blaise's close for a moment. His own smirk doesn't get buried anywhere, but he does roll onto his side and catch an arm around her as she's rising.

Go solve extra-special relativity. The very whiny grumble noise assures he's nailed the problem. He clearly knows Nyka far too well. Well enough to know that she turns into a limp noodle when dragged back toward bed, too, apparently.

At least long enough to return that kiss in earnest. For a while. Because-" Another noise, and her shoulders slump a little.

She is not going to go anywhere either unless she does it right then, and the noise says it all. Calling it the di Mercurio theorem, if I figure that shit out.

The feed from Nyka's tablet clicks on as she's headed into the lab in the morning. There's even the edge of a labcoat sleeve edging in and out of frame.

She might even be in uniform, though the initial shot doesn't focus on her. That fucking sucks," she says, out of breath as she's heading rapidly toward the lab.

The lab comes into view, but the usual display of fractals spilling across the bank of screens in Nyka's sector of the Chaos Theory lab has shifted to data.

This is another. What you're seeing here is the rate of time distortion between the Icarus asteroid, and Corporate Standard Time.

While it isn't as bad as it could be, our five years, by these numbers, come up to roughly days in Icarus asteroid time. Less dilation. It starts at 43 IAD to CSY, people.

Our second year CST, that was nearly cut in half: 23 IAD to the CSY. That means we've been gone for approximately CSD -- Earth days -- so far as the home office knows.

We won't know until we send out remote sensors. There is a pause, and she leans into frame, brows rising as her eyes widen pointedly. I know, right?

Putting all of this into layman's terms. Don't know how far up the chain this will translate-" Pause. Even if the higher ups get it, not everybody will, and I'd rather them spend their time making decisions than having to ask somebody what this all means.

I don't think he's going to agree with it, but it's really not my area, and I think cultural's tackling it head on. He's going to get salty, I'm sure, that we're not double-checking their work, but it's really not my expertise, and I need eyes on this problem.

Maybe it's the answers. The footage begins in the lab, though for once, the tablet is actually pointed at Nyka. The angle is a bit peculiar, and isn't very flattering, but it gets the job done.

She's as close to being 'in uniform' as anyone on mission has likely ever seen her, though the shirt has been replaced by a simple, plain tank top, due to the spray-skin sealed cuts still visible, rising out of the neckline.

There's also an embroidered patch of a smiley face, safety-pinned to her lab coat lapel. Sitting in a relatively posh office chair, holding a thermal cup, full of steaming, fresh espresso.

Let's start there. The review of the footage from Icarus I? It clearly observes, and likely learns, at least enough to know it required Stahlhut's print to get into the ship.

On the upside, when it mimics, it mirrors. Pro-tip: my fractal sleeve is on the right. Mine are on record, and uploaded to the database.

Chief of Engineering's on file, too. Try not to use up all the hand lotion on those, kids, nitrile gloves dry the skin something fierce, remember.

She spins the stylus around a finger, and sinks back into the chair. Back to science. Sorry, kids.

The Icarus Asteroid was still moving slowly toward KV" She's still strangely formal when it comes to the nomenclature on the data.

Director Davies is the only one with access, so far as I know. More on that in a moment. Her expression is flat, almost too serious.

That's our real freakshow, so far as the data is concerned. Everyone's worried about KV, but 'George' is behaving like any other black hole: it's sucking in everything around it.

Everything but one thing: this rock we're sitting on. It's this fucking rock we're sitting on, and I don't like that at all. Thinking seems to be that the mimic appeared then, but can't say.

What I want to know is whether or not that's when the time dilation -- which means the movement of the Icarus Asteroid into KV -- flatlined and stopped.

Me and Nick, anyway. I mean, he did want me to look into it, but the best I've got is what I gave him. He's not a man who is easily disquieted, and I don't like seeing that look on him at all.

Can't say I fault him, either. What happened, it shouldn't. Hope you never have to ask your boss about his robot eye, and if we can reverse engineer it somehow to turn that static into some kind of filter that would allow the seemingly inevitable away team to use to not bring a virus back on board.

It's not very convincing, but it's as good as anyone could likely manage. The feed starts on one Nyka Kolvek, in her coffin capsule. Tank top, arms crossed over her chest, hair slightly damp.

She looks grumpy enough she might have just swallowed a bee. Twice, she begins talking, and the feed rewinds the kludgy way, with glips and garbles and static over a lot of frenetic hand gestures until it stops.

It really is, and it's stupid, kids. This is like, text book 'why you don't do this sort of thing on mission' and, you know, fuck that book, because that book was right on this particular point, even if it's totally stuck in the fourteenth century on how you get there.

That's why you pay me the big bucks. We did the usual lecture on psychology. She smirks at the camera. And it appeared -- to us, anyway -- that anything that's going on more than three consecutive days is destined to become a dangerous habit.

No more than three days in a row on anything, period. More than three days, shit starts to get real. That makes shit a whole lot easier.

There are loopholes. Like any good bullshit you pull out of your ass and make a life-long philosophy when you're an idiot teenager, it was always full of loopholes.

Some people know that 'trick', too. I'm still here," comes grudgingly out of her mouth. There is another lingering pause, though not as long.

Similarly, not going to pretend it's not a stupid rule a teenager made up before she learned how to people properly. Those rules actually make some goddamned sense!

A hard swallow travels her throat, too visible. Which is it, Kolvek? Even she has to know that's a bad sign. There's a look of utter infuriated agony on her face before she makes a horrible noise of frustration, and mutters, "Oh, fuck me Most people don't have much cause to be smiling on the morning of the eighth day of the mission, but when the camera feed clicks on to focus on Nyka in the lab, she's doing precisely that.

With the feed confiscated, there's not as much to do as we could be doing today. Thinking of volunteering to help out with some of the chores around the ol' homestead, if there are any I'm suited to do.

The camera kicks on in the lab. Nyka is at her work station, the tablet set to the side. She's typing as she speaks, not looking at the camera.

Seriously, what in the actual fuck. I'm going to need to track down Doctor Rozgold from Cultural and see if I can talk to him.

It's a character replacement code. Bloom and I are both English native speakers. He isn't. The quote sounded precise, per English, but that'll be up to Father Riordan to verify for certain.

That doesn't happen with most translations from Doctor Aerglo. Pidgin doesn't work that way. There is more and more of it in her recordings.

She snatches up the stylus from her desk, and drums it in the air without looking at it, no longer looking at the camera. Her eyes are on the screen in front of her, out of frame, but the lack of visual tracking suggests she isn't actually reading anything on it.

While I'm reasonably sure they'd take volunteers instead of picking a name out of a hat or voluntelling someone to do it, sooner or later, if they want the hard facts on transmission, they're going to need someone.

Someone we probably won't have when this is all over and done with. The stylus slows, and she says, "Hopefully, we can get the data from the audio review of the data from Icarus I before it comes to that, or we're not just dipping a toe into the Weyland-Yutani bullshit any more.

Everybody's scrambling so hard to handle the effort to get us the fuck off this rock and keep Icarus II from going the way of the first mission, we aren't exactly doing what we came for.

Arguably, there's overlap, but it's oblique as hell. Her lips thin to a line, and she sets the stylus back down on the desk.

Something on the screen catches her attention enough for her to start typing again, and her tone, while tense, returns to a crisp, wry tone.

If that theory proves out regarding the code, there are a few basic implications -- and fuck Hark for telling me to think about this aspect of the problem, because now it's hard not to.

If the morse code sample was directly produced in English only We branch. Nyka is in the lab, leaning in over the tablet, but out of frame.

It means her voice is muffled as she says, "Same tracking data's coming back. Ran the numbers through the verification script. Tense, she listens for a voice over the comms, easing into her chair like she's aching to the bone.

She pulls off the earpiece, dropping it onto the workstation. Only then does she turn the chair to face the tablet. Tank top, tattoos. No lab coat.

She's visibly exhausted. She rests her forehead in her hand, propping up her head. B has access through research, so he was able to run the scan from the lab.

Unique signature, after all. Icarus II's parts are Near the center of the asteroid. Probably down in the original mission's mine shafts, which may not even still be open.

The feed clicks on in the Chaos Theory Lab, and Nyka drums lightly on the work station table, staring into the camera.

She has a few new cuts and scrapes, and bruises in a few spots starting to show. I'm not essential personnel on that one, but they were supposed to notify him to keep eyes on.

Didn't happen. Her lips purse, and the stylus she's twirling in her other hand swings into frame briefly. She watches the screens beyond the tablet, her face impassive.

She is quiet again for some time. The reflections of light from the screens beyond the tablet cast her features in blue and green.

The clever ones, the ones who only imagine themselves to be clever Put the ones who only imagine themselves to be clever together, and you'll find out quickly just how dangerous they are as they tear everything -- including one another -- to pieces trying to prove they're clever.

She sets the stylus down on the table with a quiet clack. Cancel noise on track 8. Her voice is still elevated as she begins to speak, talking over the music that she presumably hears, stretching with a long sweep of her arms.

Whatever she's doing looks like some odd fusion of yoga and tai chi. Biometrics should check in on this one: are we looking at something that infects through the visual cortex alone?

If Moreau is running with pure audio, and we don't have any ill effects, that's thus far supported. Still talking over the music.

Not seeing anything any stranger than the shit we've been dealing with all wee-" Pausing mid-bend, briefly, she sucks in a breath and continues to move before she continues to actually speak.

Friends absolutely do not let friends make flowcharts! She breathes out completely, her face lightly flushed. See no evil, hear no evil. Speak no evil.

It's gonna come around to bite us in the ass eventually. She's moving again, voice still elevated to carry over the music, even if it's erased from the recording itself.

She still compensates for it, no matter how unconsciously. It's almost possible to detect the rhythm of the piece from the way she moves.

If you ever. Figure out how to not stress the shit out of a psych eval. When you know you probably. Wouldn't pass a fucking Turing Test.

On a good day. You tell me how, yeah? Still trying. To figure out if that was a bad idea. But it was good to know I wasn't. The only one with. That particular sinking feeling.

That project. With the dream team. With the. Impossible bullshit. So shiny you go blind. She deflates more than she stops, sinking slowly to her knees before landing hard on her ass.

Only then does she look up at the camera again. Still out of breath for a moment more -- gravity is hard -- she slowly shakes her head.

She heaves herself up from the floor, walking toward the tablet, at which point the feed comes to an end.

The feed clicks on to Nyka, leaning over her tablet with a slightly less stressed out look on her face. The lab is visible at an angle, though mostly the ceiling over her head.

So, the whole place just tried to shimmy. That's pretty fucked up, kids. You don't even want to know what was coming through over the radio.

This has got to be hell on MacLeod. Heading down to Engineering now, dragging along lunch and coffee. B's gotta be going out of his head over this.

And things seemed to be going so well last night, right? Fuck, at least the interns got the net up earlier.

Hopefully it's still stable. Break needed. None of it. Like there's time for any of this, right now? She glances away from the camera, and the stylus falls flat against the desktop.

In some ways. Hand-written notes, near the back end of an old journal in which various similar entries are collected. The script varies, and the dates span over a century, as though many people have added to it over time.

I've ignored almost every piece of advice written in this book at one time or another. I would like to say I was somehow ignorant of the lot of it, but this is the first book I ever committed entirely to memory, word for word.

In-depth records of this mission exist. They can never be read. I know what you're thinking: that only makes it more tempting.

I know, because it's what I would think, if I was the one reading this. I would want to know. It would raise the hairs on the back of my neck until it itched, until it burned.

I know you won't listen. You won't listen any more than I did. I understand; I really do. If you're reading this now, you know that 'don't go on that mission' isn't in you.

And I'm sorry. I wish I had the words that would make a difference, words none of the others whose words come before mine did.

We may all die here. It's likely. It's even advisable, in most respects, in order to safeguard humanity. I hope that won't happen.

There are too many people here who don't deserve it. Too many people I care about. I couldn't tell you if I'm one of the ones deserving or not, but I can never leave here.

While I show no symptoms, I have been exposed. Viktor is the first to break the silence that had fallen over them, clapping his hands on his lap and rising to his feet.

He plasters a smile onto his face, looking slightly sheepish. After talking to Yakov, even if it was brief, Viktor feels like a weight had been somehow lifted off of his chest.

He makes his way several floors down to the fourth floor, to where just some of the sets in the studio are.

The moment the elevator doors open, he immediately picks up on the familiar, heady scent of sex and sweat. Chris and Mila are here, filming on the same floor but not in the same video.

Viktor checks his phone for a moment and decides to visit Chris first. When he opens the door, the rest of the set is dark save for the lights focussed on the makeshift massage parlour.

The smell of sex is stronger now, more concentrated. One of the cameramen behind the magnum dolly turns to look at him, a look of recognition passing his face, but he returns his attention to filming straight after.

The director follows suit and casts a glance at Viktor, raising a finger to his lips to signal Viktor to keep quiet. Viktor nods in acknowledgement, gently closing the door behind him.

He makes his way into the room, footfalls silent, and he can see Emil and Chris lying on top of the white spa bed, soaked with massage oil and revealing the blue mattress underneath.

Chris is lying on his stomach, his face buried into the foam ring at the head of the massage bed. As soon as Viktor exits the room, everything is quiet in the hallway again.

He makes his way a bit further down the hall, and as soon as he opens the door, loud moaning spills out into the hall. He quickly gets in and closes the door behind him.

In a way, he feels like the ghost, flittering in and out of rooms filled with people having sex. As they both reach their orgasm, they take a few minutes to catch their breath.

Not long after, an assistant immediately approaches the both of them with their robes and a pack of baby wipes so they can wipe themselves down.

Mila pulls her baby blue silk robe on and smiles at Viktor when she sees him, giving a small wave in greeting. Viktor grabs a bottle of water from one of the coolers and hands it to her.

She smiles at him gratefully before twisting the cap open and downing half the bottle in mere seconds. I am so gay. Automatically, they make their way out of the room, Mila giving Sara a wave and a quick goodbye.

Is he done filming yet? Which is, like, amazing. Not yet. Viktor bites his bottom lip, unable to keep the smile from spreading across his cheeks. He absolutely beams and flushes a light red.

He lets out a laugh, feeling his heart race at the very thought of Yuuri. I know it. Chris knows him, by the way. She ducks behind one of the wooden dividers and her blue silk robe is haphazardly tossed over the top of it.

Viktor pauses to think of all the people Chris probably knows in this city alone and he laughs. Mila walks into view, a white towel draped around her body, and she steps into the en suite.

Not long after the door closes behind her, he hears the shower running. He sighs, checking his phone for the umpteenth time that day.

No reply from Yuuri yet— last he heard from him was earlier this morning, before Yuuri had his ballet class. Yuuri made sure Viktor could just come during his regular time slot and rehearse if he wanted to though.

I will, ttyl! Like the smitten man he is, he goes through his previous texts with Yuuri with a lovesick smile on his face. Eventually he scrolls back down and closes his phone screen.

He leans back into the couch and glances around the room. There are different costumes and props everywhere, drawers filled with all sorts of pornographic paraphernalia.

There are splashes of lace and leather around the room, the singular best combination of naughty and nice. Over a coat rack, Viktor sees a twist of pink shibari rope and a red leather whip coiled up and hung over one of the hooks.

After a few minutes of waiting around, Mila finally exits the en suite, dressed in a fit tank top and skinny jeans. She has the same towel in her hair, the curls a darker shade of red and dripping droplets of water onto the floor with every minute movement she makes.

What did he say? Come on, I need the details! Mila looks at him, mouth agape as they stare at each other in silence. No way! Viktor shrugs his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck.

Plus it was a complex thing, being a sugar baby. Like, sure, they had arrangements and all. For a long time, it had been up to debate and personal interpretation of what makes one a sex worker.

But still, when it came to sugaring, there was that level of personal and emotional involvement. Meanwhile, when it came to porn, it was strictly business.

The living legend of modern-day porn, at that! Would Yuuri get upset? Would he think that Viktor had been purposely hiding it from him?

Would he think Viktor had been deceiving him? She nods, and they take a moment to step in the elevator going all the way down to the ground floor.

Viktor is rendered speechless before he bursts out laughing. Together, they step out of the elevator and walk out of the building, the sun high up in the sky now.

Viktor shoves his hands into his pockets and squints at the sudden influx of sunlight, shrugging his shoulders in response.

But there just had to be something, something more that made a part of him afraid to fuck this up. He thinks of their first date together, how Yuuri had been so open yet so closed off.

A paradox, beautiful and devastating all the same. When Yuuri had, quite literally, danced into his life, he brought about with him a range of emotions Viktor never thought he could feel again, and with such a burning bright intensity , it left Viktor feeling breathless in the best possible way.

It was the fact that he just was. Another waiter comes and sets two menus in front of them, and Mila busies herself with it despite always ordering the same thing whenever she comes here.

Without missing a beat, Viktor fumbles for his phone and unlocks it, immediately going to his pictures. How can he not have any pictures of Yuuri? But he continues scrolling up and down his album anyway, and amidst pictures of Makkachin eating a chew and sleeping beside Viktor, there are no pictures of Yuuri at all.

Viktor takes a moment to mentally berate himself for not even bothering to at least take one 1 selfie with Yuuri, despite majority of his day consisting posting selfies on Snapchat.

Yuuri looks absolutely stunning in each and every one of them, which makes it a bit hard for Viktor to choose which one to show Mila.

His hair is slicked back, a few stray black strands falling over his eyes, and there are flecks of amber and gold in his eyes. I look at him and I feel like my heart is about to burst.

But, like, in a good way. How do people take selfies like these? Teach me your ways, Yuuri. They share a laugh, only managing to put the phone down when a waiter comes to take their order.

Mila sighs, turning to look at Viktor with a soft smile. You deserve to be happy. He lets out a raspy laugh, pulling away so he could somehow fathom his emotions.

She understands. He pauses and squints at his phone, double-tapping on a photo of the poster Yuuri had sent him.

Of course I would! I think Jamie did a few striptease performances there. He mentioned it once. Viktor leans back in his chair and mulls over it. He pays the driver and gets out of the car posthaste, and the first thing he sees is the long line in front of the building.

He warily eyes the long line wrapping around the block and walks up to the bouncer standing in front of the black double-doors.

Viktor discreetly makes his way into the club, following the narrow and dimly lidded path leading to the rest of the night club. Where are you?

I want to see you [kissy-face emoji] [kissy-face emoji] [kissy-face emoji] [kissy-face emoji]. Not even a few seconds later, Viktor gets a text from Yuuri.

I guess you'll have to sit up front and wait for me then. Viktor casts a glance at the very front of the room, where the stage is.

There are already a lot of people occupying the tables around it, all except for a leather armchair right in front of the stage.

Just as Viktor is about to walk towards it, he gets another text from Yuuri. And Viktor? Yes, baby? He licks his lips and his hands are trembling when he types in his reply.

He picks the card up and takes his seat, making himself comfortable in the leather armchair. In the back, he can see two pole dancers writhing to the beat of the music.

Not too long after, the server comes back with his drink. Even though Viktor wishes he could see Yuuri right now, he absolutely adores how passionate Yuuri is about his dancing.

Viktor goes through their texts for a bit longer, a moony smile on his face, but just for a moment, he feels off. Viktor knits his brows together and glances around.

He can barely make anything out, but he knows he can feel someone staring at him. Which is weird , right? That was really weird.

Several minutes later, the lights onstage dim down and a hush falls over the room for a quick second before promptly bursting into raucous hoots and cheers.

Viktor cheers too, knowing the show is about to start. His heart starts to race at the very thought of seeing Yuuri. Strobe lights flitter over the crowd, darting across the stage as if searching for something— some one.

Upbeat EDM music plays on the speakers and along with it is a burst of colour— a kaleidoscope of pinks and purples and blues that have come to life, matching the tempo of the music.

The music changes to a slow sultry tune, and she twists and winds her way around the pole. Dollar bills start falling, and within minutes, the stage is covered with all sorts of dollar bills.

He checks his phone again and goes through his notifications, only to see none of them are from Yuuri. Viktor huffs a small sigh and closes his phone.

He looks absolutely gorgeous , much like the personification of desire itself. His hair is slicked back, lips glossy, and his brown eyes smoky with dark eyeshadow.

Yuuri turns so his back is facing the crowd, and with a shrug of his shoulders, the edges of the robe slip off his shoulders.

He slowly lowers it down, gradually revealing the expanse of his skin, and the crowd cheers in encouragement and anticipation. When his hands are level with his slim waist, he drops the rest of the robe, falling straight down to the floor and pooling at his feet.

He turns his head to the side before the rest of his body follows, facing the audience. Yuuri saunters over to the spin pole at the front of the stage, one foot in front of the other as if walking along an invisible tightrope, his hips swaying as he does so.

He twists his legs upwards, body pressed up against the pole as he switches to an invert before he pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his torso around the pole in a crouch spin.

Within seconds, it begins to rain money. Without ever looking away, he rips the strips of thin white paper wrapped around the stacks of bills before he pulls a couple of bills out, tossing them onstage as high as he can.

He takes a second to adjust his grip on the pole before climbing up, the spin pole spinning him around as he does so.

With his shoulder pressed against the pole, he lifts his legs up into an aerial invert, head tipping downwards with his legs above his head.

Yuuri presses his legs against the pole and straightens his position from a V-invert to a basic one, legs pressed against the pole by his ankles.

He bends one of his legs down into a split invert and the cheers of the crowd only grow louder as he holds that position for a few more seconds before lowering himself back down to the floor.

He runs his hands all the way down his body, slowly crouching down as he spreads his legs apart. He caresses his inner thigh with one hand, the other hand brought up to his lips, suggestively licking his middle and index finger.

He circles the area a bit more, hips swaying as he does so, before he makes his end destination known. With eyes half-mast meeting his, Yuuri grinds down on him in small figures of eight, the friction between them building and his own arousal growing.

He uses that same hand to push himself away from Viktor for a moment, hands reaching behind him as he unclasped his bralette, shrugging it off in a fluid motion and haphazardly tossing it aside, revealing two heart-shaped hologram pasties on his chest.

He sinks down to his knees for a moment and moves the thick layer of dollar bills surrounding the pole aside, clearing just enough space for him to use the pole properly.

He grips the pole with a regular two-hand grip and climbs up, slowly spinning as he does so. He has the pole in-between his arm and the side of his thigh, using that as his grip, before tipping backwards and twisting into a scorpio, still spinning around the pole.

He transitions from a scorpio to an aerial invert before carefully lowering himself back down on the floor. Yuuri climbs up the pole again, before he lets his arms carry his weight in an astonishing display of strength as he slowly moves around the pole, a leg straightened and pointing down, while the other is bent at the knee.

Yuuri lingers there for a moment, seemingly revelling in the applause. Yuuri casts Viktor one last glance, an almost serene smile on his lips, before he heads through the door leading backstage.

Viktor ensconces himself in his seat, slightly nonplussed. He glances away for a moment, poring over what had just happened, before reaching for his drink and downing it all in one go.

Several minutes into the next performance, the bouncer from earlier comes over and taps Viktor on the shoulder. He requested I serve it to you after his performance.

As the server and bouncer left, he eyed the drink and bit back a laugh at the sheer cheekiness of it. With one last song as the show comes to a close, Viktor takes it as his cue to meet Yuuri backstage.

He rises to his feet and makes his way to the narrow doorway leading backstage.

Twice, she begins talking, and the feed rewinds the kludgy way, with glips and garbles and static over a lot of frenetic hand gestures until Votze Dehnen stops. There's a look of utter infuriated agony on her face before she makes a horrible noise of frustration, and mutters, "Oh, fuck me Nick's alive. Someone we probably won't have when Sexanzeigen is Fotzen In Der Sauna over and done with. Mila walks into view, a white towel draped around her body, and she Sie Wird Geil into the en suite. Yes, baby? Call it a curse, call it fate, call it karma, it is ultimately who they are: a flash of brilliance, and then the dark. The next 23 days in mission time composed the next CSY. I've ignored almost every piece of advice written in this book ScheuNe Enge Muschi one time or another. That's right: they converted their minder.
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