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I hope I went out in a blaze of glory.
Really. I mean shouting, punching, drop-kicking, screaming "No one's gonna take me alive!" and all that stuff. I also hope they found my will. Creepy? Me? Hey, there's nothing wrong with being prepared. I left Wolborg most of my stuff, but I think I squeezed in $20 bucks for Rei somewhere in there. I wonder what he wore to my funeral... probably red. That bastard.
Why the preoccupation with my death?
Well, obviously, I'm dead.
How else could I be in heaven? No one alive, on earth, or within a one mile radius of me could possibly give such a good massage. But that's exactly what's happening.
Thus, logically, I must be dead.
And damn it feels good.
Warm, strong hands move over my back, my neck, and my shoulders. They move over my skin so slowly... so warm... I can't move. I don't ever want to move. If death always feels this good, then living was waaay overrated. His voice washes over me, deep and sexy and relaxing... Wait, he asked me something, didn't he?
"Tala?" he repeats.
Damnit.
"Mm? Sorry, didn't hear you. Did what you say involve more touching? In different places? Because the answer is yes."
Oh god, yes.
"N-no," he stutters, and I wonder at the fact that I can do that. Usually he is the epitome of calm, cool and in charge. Which is sexy.
But I can make him s-s-stutter.
I smirk, but then his hands still. That, my friend, warrants a frown. Bad hands. They have a job to do.
(Maybe not the exact job I'd prefer they were doing at the moment, but a very important one nonetheless.)
"Kidding," I sigh, "But not really. Keep going."
He half-sighs, half-chuckles, and I'm dead and in the clouds all over again. His hands resume their movements.
"I asked if you were feeling better," he clarifies.
I hum, considering. It took some effort to convince him that my back was really sore from dancing, and it would be a really good idea for him to give me a massage. Keyword there being effort, a word I do not use lightly in the event that it's actually me making said effort, you understand. I worked hard for this massage. I'm not about to ruin it.
"Maybe..."
"Because if you are, then there's something, I mean, I want- There's something I want show you."
Am I breathing? No? Oh, that's right. The whole dead thing. I guess that's for the best, 'cause that would have killed me all over again.
"Weeeell," I drawl, "I do feel a little better." Insert devious leer here, thank you very much.
"What are you going to show me?"
"Surprise."
Smirking, he removes his hands and makes me sit up. What makes him think he can smirk at me (although it's pretty sexy)? I huff, Not-Pouting fiercely. Why do I Not-Pout? Because I, Tala Ivanov, am a BAMF (Bad Ass Mother F), damnit! BAMFs do not pout. End of story.
"Well, where is it, then?"
"Wait here, I'll go get it."
With that, he leaves. I am left, puzzled, excited, and kind of horny (What? It could be something kinky) on the couch. Maybe I should put my shirt back on? Well, no. I want to encourage a very 'clothing-isn't-really-necessary' kind of environment in my house as long as he's here. I have to set a good example.
I hear him approach and look up. He's clutching several papers in his hands rather proudly.
Ummm... what?
It must show on my face, because he hands the papers to me with a partially nervous, partially hopeful expression.
"It's a police report on Ilea Jimme. He was recently caught with a quarter pound of cocaine and a fake ID. He also resisted arrest."
My eyes widen. It all fits. Late for rehearsals, high strung, perpetually bitchy to the Nth degree- it all makes sense!
My eyes widen even more. Crackhead Jimmy obviously won't be playing the lead part from a jail cell. So. I-
"HELL YES!"
-scream and glomp Bryan like there's no tomorrow. No, scratch that, like there's a lot of tomorrows, with a raise and a huge dressing room, and $20 bucks out of Rei who foolishly bet there was no way I was ever gonna get a part this big, and... and Bryan. Bryan in a front row seat, watching me dance. For him.
"Tala," he gasps, "Can't- breathe-"
"Sorry," I apologize, loosening my maybe a little-too-tight-around-the-windpipe embrace, "I've been known to have that effect on people."
"I don't doubt it," he replies.
Oooh, I love a smartass.
"Are you sure?" I ask, bringing my mouth close to his ear. So he can hear better, of course.
"I can prove it, if you want," I whisper, my breath hot on his ear, and I smirk when I see color leak onto his cheeks.
I hear him swallow, and he opens his mouth to reply-
Bring! Bring! Bring! Bring!
-and suddenly, I'm seeing red. Who the hell is interrupting my moment? Who has the nerve to call me when I'm right in the middle of-
Bring! Bring!
"Sorry, Bryan, this will only take a second," I mutter, reluctantly dragging myself away from him to answer my phone. And it will, too.
Bri-
"What?" I hiss, picturing the pure venom in my voice seething across telephone lines and dripping out of this bastard's receiver. Don't ever say I have no imagination.
"T-Tala, Tala I need your help!"
I deflate, the righteous hellfire anger rushing out of me in a heartbeat. That's Rei's voice.
"Rei? What's wrong? Is someone after you? Have you been kidnapped? Is the government-"
"No! I- He- Kai!"
"...Is after your blood?"
"Yes! I mean no! No! Man, Tala, what kind of question is that?"
"Well, you are kind of freaking out," I point out. Poor kitty doesn't seem to realize.
"He's not after my blood. I think. Uhm, he asked me f-for my number, and I gave it to him and I-"
"Rei, baby, darling," I interrupt, "As fascinating as your back-from-the-dead love life is-"
"Ouch."
"-I was kind of in the middle of something. So do me a favor. Tell me- what does this have to do with me?"
"He asked me out. What do I do?"
I ponder the question. The way I see it, I can do the Good Friend thing, or I can do the Well Isn't Payback a Bitch thing. Hmmm; choices, choices.
"Okay, calm down. When he calls you, this is what you say: I don't want to know your name, I just want to bang bang-"
"TALA!"
"Damn straight. Look, you'll be fine, just don't do anything I wouldn't do. Now bye."
I hang up, shaking my head. Silly Rei-Rei. I'm having second thoughts about my little plan- Judging from that call, I think it'd actually be more amusing to watch him muddle through it on his own. And there is the whole "Not having to go through the trouble of formulating and putting into motion a plan that, ultimately, would yield neither fame, fortune, or ahem for Tala Ivanov" aspect of it.
"Now where were we?" I ask, a devious smile already on my face.
I am answered by a low, thundering growl. God. Hates. Me.
"Wolborg Misha Nicolai Yelena!" I snap, spinning around to see my baby, hackles raised (adorably), snarling at Bryan, who is standing absolutely still.
"Get your furry butt over here! Now!"
He turns two large, gleaming, bright orange puppy dog eyes to me and whimpers. Then turns back to Bryan and growls again.
"Wolborg," I warn.
Whimper. Puppy dog eyes.
"That is not going to cut it, Mister. You get over here right now."
Large tail between his legs, he lopes over to me, sharp claws clacking against the floor. He nuzzles his snout against my waist (he's kind of tall), large, knife like teeth flashing as he continues to whimper. I feel myself melt a little- the manipulative thing. If only he wasn't so darn cute! I sigh, exasperated.
"Go to your bad corner," I order, pointing to a rug at the corner of the room.
He goes.
"You do know you're not supposed to keep wolves as pets, right?"
I turn to Bryan, smirking. For having faced a huffy Wolborg (which, by normal, whussy standards is a terrifying, nightmare inducing experience), he's remarkably calm. Damn. And after all the hard work I put in to make him blush. I walk over to him and poke him in the stomach.
"Wolborg is a mutt. He has husky blood in him... just a very small amount."
He raises a brow.
Translation: Suuure. You keep telling yourself that, sexy.
How do I know this? Because I'm psychic, bitch.
"Don't be jealous Bryan, Wolborg's my precious little baby, but you're a close second."
He frowns briefly before a wicked light begins to shine in his eye. My psychic powers have abandoned me. What the hell is he up to? He moves closer, and part of me wants to take a step back, but the BAMF in me quickly overrides it. He takes my finger, which is still poking the flight plane of muscle that mortals refer to as his stomach, and takes it in his hands.
Have I mentioned how much his hands turn me on? No? I won't bother. You'd need mind soap.
Slowly, so slowly, he takes the finger (and the hand it's attached to- if you needed that clarification, however, kudos to for you for being literate) and drags it up, up, up, pressing so slightly against the ever-so clingy fabric of his shirt, now trailing against skin, up the side of his neck, so slow, too slowly, up to his jaw-
Eyes locked with mine, he turns his head to the side and kisses my finger.
I... can't do anything but stare.
At the same painfully slow speed, he twines his fingers with mine, bringing our hands to rest at his neck as he leans in. Heat rushes up and down my spine, across my skin, and his lips are getting closer, closer. I'm not a patient person- I dart in for my kiss, but he pulls just out of reach.
"I don't do second place, Tala," he whispers, low and husky.
His. Voice. Makes. Me. Want.
I try and reassemble the pathetic remains of my mind in an attempt to reply. My efforts are meaningless. Any possible words are silenced by his lips suddenly pressing against mine, rough and electric. Blood rushes inside of me and I'm dizzy, hypnotized by the faint feel of his pulse, and it's too slow, too slow, I need more.
His tongue brushes against my bottom lip, and I'm in heaven.
But hey- at least I went out in a blaze of glory.
Really. I mean shouting, punching, drop-kicking, screaming "No one's gonna take me alive!" and all that stuff. I also hope they found my will. Creepy? Me? Hey, there's nothing wrong with being prepared. I left Wolborg most of my stuff, but I think I squeezed in $20 bucks for Rei somewhere in there. I wonder what he wore to my funeral... probably red. That bastard.
Why the preoccupation with my death?
Well, obviously, I'm dead.
How else could I be in heaven? No one alive, on earth, or within a one mile radius of me could possibly give such a good massage. But that's exactly what's happening.
Thus, logically, I must be dead.
And damn it feels good.
Warm, strong hands move over my back, my neck, and my shoulders. They move over my skin so slowly... so warm... I can't move. I don't ever want to move. If death always feels this good, then living was waaay overrated. His voice washes over me, deep and sexy and relaxing... Wait, he asked me something, didn't he?
"Tala?" he repeats.
Damnit.
"Mm? Sorry, didn't hear you. Did what you say involve more touching? In different places? Because the answer is yes."
Oh god, yes.
"N-no," he stutters, and I wonder at the fact that I can do that. Usually he is the epitome of calm, cool and in charge. Which is sexy.
But I can make him s-s-stutter.
I smirk, but then his hands still. That, my friend, warrants a frown. Bad hands. They have a job to do.
(Maybe not the exact job I'd prefer they were doing at the moment, but a very important one nonetheless.)
"Kidding," I sigh, "But not really. Keep going."
He half-sighs, half-chuckles, and I'm dead and in the clouds all over again. His hands resume their movements.
"I asked if you were feeling better," he clarifies.
I hum, considering. It took some effort to convince him that my back was really sore from dancing, and it would be a really good idea for him to give me a massage. Keyword there being effort, a word I do not use lightly in the event that it's actually me making said effort, you understand. I worked hard for this massage. I'm not about to ruin it.
"Maybe..."
"Because if you are, then there's something, I mean, I want- There's something I want show you."
Am I breathing? No? Oh, that's right. The whole dead thing. I guess that's for the best, 'cause that would have killed me all over again.
"Weeeell," I drawl, "I do feel a little better." Insert devious leer here, thank you very much.
"What are you going to show me?"
"Surprise."
Smirking, he removes his hands and makes me sit up. What makes him think he can smirk at me (although it's pretty sexy)? I huff, Not-Pouting fiercely. Why do I Not-Pout? Because I, Tala Ivanov, am a BAMF (Bad Ass Mother F), damnit! BAMFs do not pout. End of story.
"Well, where is it, then?"
"Wait here, I'll go get it."
With that, he leaves. I am left, puzzled, excited, and kind of horny (What? It could be something kinky) on the couch. Maybe I should put my shirt back on? Well, no. I want to encourage a very 'clothing-isn't-really-necessary' kind of environment in my house as long as he's here. I have to set a good example.
I hear him approach and look up. He's clutching several papers in his hands rather proudly.
Ummm... what?
It must show on my face, because he hands the papers to me with a partially nervous, partially hopeful expression.
"It's a police report on Ilea Jimme. He was recently caught with a quarter pound of cocaine and a fake ID. He also resisted arrest."
My eyes widen. It all fits. Late for rehearsals, high strung, perpetually bitchy to the Nth degree- it all makes sense!
My eyes widen even more. Crackhead Jimmy obviously won't be playing the lead part from a jail cell. So. I-
"HELL YES!"
-scream and glomp Bryan like there's no tomorrow. No, scratch that, like there's a lot of tomorrows, with a raise and a huge dressing room, and $20 bucks out of Rei who foolishly bet there was no way I was ever gonna get a part this big, and... and Bryan. Bryan in a front row seat, watching me dance. For him.
"Tala," he gasps, "Can't- breathe-"
"Sorry," I apologize, loosening my maybe a little-too-tight-around-the-windpipe embrace, "I've been known to have that effect on people."
"I don't doubt it," he replies.
Oooh, I love a smartass.
"Are you sure?" I ask, bringing my mouth close to his ear. So he can hear better, of course.
"I can prove it, if you want," I whisper, my breath hot on his ear, and I smirk when I see color leak onto his cheeks.
I hear him swallow, and he opens his mouth to reply-
Bring! Bring! Bring! Bring!
-and suddenly, I'm seeing red. Who the hell is interrupting my moment? Who has the nerve to call me when I'm right in the middle of-
Bring! Bring!
"Sorry, Bryan, this will only take a second," I mutter, reluctantly dragging myself away from him to answer my phone. And it will, too.
Bri-
"What?" I hiss, picturing the pure venom in my voice seething across telephone lines and dripping out of this bastard's receiver. Don't ever say I have no imagination.
"T-Tala, Tala I need your help!"
I deflate, the righteous hellfire anger rushing out of me in a heartbeat. That's Rei's voice.
"Rei? What's wrong? Is someone after you? Have you been kidnapped? Is the government-"
"No! I- He- Kai!"
"...Is after your blood?"
"Yes! I mean no! No! Man, Tala, what kind of question is that?"
"Well, you are kind of freaking out," I point out. Poor kitty doesn't seem to realize.
"He's not after my blood. I think. Uhm, he asked me f-for my number, and I gave it to him and I-"
"Rei, baby, darling," I interrupt, "As fascinating as your back-from-the-dead love life is-"
"Ouch."
"-I was kind of in the middle of something. So do me a favor. Tell me- what does this have to do with me?"
"He asked me out. What do I do?"
I ponder the question. The way I see it, I can do the Good Friend thing, or I can do the Well Isn't Payback a Bitch thing. Hmmm; choices, choices.
"Okay, calm down. When he calls you, this is what you say: I don't want to know your name, I just want to bang bang-"
"TALA!"
"Damn straight. Look, you'll be fine, just don't do anything I wouldn't do. Now bye."
I hang up, shaking my head. Silly Rei-Rei. I'm having second thoughts about my little plan- Judging from that call, I think it'd actually be more amusing to watch him muddle through it on his own. And there is the whole "Not having to go through the trouble of formulating and putting into motion a plan that, ultimately, would yield neither fame, fortune, or ahem for Tala Ivanov" aspect of it.
"Now where were we?" I ask, a devious smile already on my face.
I am answered by a low, thundering growl. God. Hates. Me.
"Wolborg Misha Nicolai Yelena!" I snap, spinning around to see my baby, hackles raised (adorably), snarling at Bryan, who is standing absolutely still.
"Get your furry butt over here! Now!"
He turns two large, gleaming, bright orange puppy dog eyes to me and whimpers. Then turns back to Bryan and growls again.
"Wolborg," I warn.
Whimper. Puppy dog eyes.
"That is not going to cut it, Mister. You get over here right now."
Large tail between his legs, he lopes over to me, sharp claws clacking against the floor. He nuzzles his snout against my waist (he's kind of tall), large, knife like teeth flashing as he continues to whimper. I feel myself melt a little- the manipulative thing. If only he wasn't so darn cute! I sigh, exasperated.
"Go to your bad corner," I order, pointing to a rug at the corner of the room.
He goes.
"You do know you're not supposed to keep wolves as pets, right?"
I turn to Bryan, smirking. For having faced a huffy Wolborg (which, by normal, whussy standards is a terrifying, nightmare inducing experience), he's remarkably calm. Damn. And after all the hard work I put in to make him blush. I walk over to him and poke him in the stomach.
"Wolborg is a mutt. He has husky blood in him... just a very small amount."
He raises a brow.
Translation: Suuure. You keep telling yourself that, sexy.
How do I know this? Because I'm psychic, bitch.
"Don't be jealous Bryan, Wolborg's my precious little baby, but you're a close second."
He frowns briefly before a wicked light begins to shine in his eye. My psychic powers have abandoned me. What the hell is he up to? He moves closer, and part of me wants to take a step back, but the BAMF in me quickly overrides it. He takes my finger, which is still poking the flight plane of muscle that mortals refer to as his stomach, and takes it in his hands.
Have I mentioned how much his hands turn me on? No? I won't bother. You'd need mind soap.
Slowly, so slowly, he takes the finger (and the hand it's attached to- if you needed that clarification, however, kudos to for you for being literate) and drags it up, up, up, pressing so slightly against the ever-so clingy fabric of his shirt, now trailing against skin, up the side of his neck, so slow, too slowly, up to his jaw-
Eyes locked with mine, he turns his head to the side and kisses my finger.
I... can't do anything but stare.
At the same painfully slow speed, he twines his fingers with mine, bringing our hands to rest at his neck as he leans in. Heat rushes up and down my spine, across my skin, and his lips are getting closer, closer. I'm not a patient person- I dart in for my kiss, but he pulls just out of reach.
"I don't do second place, Tala," he whispers, low and husky.
His. Voice. Makes. Me. Want.
I try and reassemble the pathetic remains of my mind in an attempt to reply. My efforts are meaningless. Any possible words are silenced by his lips suddenly pressing against mine, rough and electric. Blood rushes inside of me and I'm dizzy, hypnotized by the faint feel of his pulse, and it's too slow, too slow, I need more.
His tongue brushes against my bottom lip, and I'm in heaven.
But hey- at least I went out in a blaze of glory.