It's Just Paris--What Happened In Paris Option 2

This is a continuation of my last post. What if this happened instead? What if the insatiable lust they felt for each other was actually... Love? (just like i hope it is)

check it out and please comment or tweet me at @E_M_Zeray
This one is called: It's Just Paris

She entered the room, her fury about to tumble over onto her lips, and form into words…

Tony walked in behind her and she was hyper aware of him. Her anger was very obviously a displacement on passion or lust or incorrectly communicated—or hidden—emotions… Damn the time she’d spent with Ducky. That lovable man’s psycho babble was really starting to affect her…

Tony walked all the way into the room and, without a word, starting undressing. Swallowing past her misplaced anger, she cocked her head and said in her thick Israeli accent, (the one that appeared whenever she was either heavily intoxicated or extremely horny, and it was a little bit of both in this case thanks to the alcohol on the flight) “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting comfortable, Ziva. You might wanna do the same, seeing at how you’ll be sleeping on the couch.”

She scowled. “Why are you so…edible?”

He froze, looked up, caught in the middle of his stripping, down to his boxers, and said, “Well, I’ve always been this gorgeous, but I think you mean irritable. And I’m irritable because you bugged me the whole flight.”

But Ziva wasn’t listening. She was staring at his chest, his legs, his neck, his lips… Damn, how badly she wanted to kiss those lips. Yet, her being Ziva, she shook off the feeling and frowned. “I was mearly trying to understand those strange vampire novels you are reading. The boy loves the girl but the girl loves the hairy one?”

Tony smiled before he could help himself. Still, he ignored her, getting ready to climb into bed.

The tension in the room, with every word that Ziva wanted to say and every move Tony made that seemed to be lined with stress, could be cut with a knife. Shirtless, he closed his eyes and settled into the pillows. Paris was having an effect on him that he under no circumstances could even hope to understand.

He had spent hours on that flight with her and then another while trying to find the hotel room and get settled in. No reservations had been made so they were forced to share one room. Granted it was a spacious room, but Tony knew he had to fall asleep before her so that she would not bother him with her god-awful snoring.

Sleep drifted over him like a comforting blanket, but through the fog he heard, “Tony, we’re in Paris.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said sarcastically, keeping his heavy lids shut. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

The silence had convinced him that she was moving around in her normal, or rather abnormal depending on how you looked at it, way—silent Mossad trained assassin way. But instead she was looking out the window, praying that maybe her silent hope wouldn’t become so silent anymore… But she couldn’t do it.

Tony opened his eyes slightly and noticed her staring problematically out the window. “What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” Her hair whirled around her neck as she looked back at the bed. “Oh. Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Zee-vah, you’re not a thinking kind of person.”

“I am a person, Tony. That is reason enough to think.”

He sat up, instantly knowing he would regret what he was about to say. But then his thought process changed. A single tear ran down from the fearless female agent’s eye and he realized… “You thought something was going to happened between us tonight.”

“That is the most stupid thing I have ever heard, Tony.”

“Not when it’s true.”

“I… I did not assume anything. I have nothing but platonic…” she hesitated, hoping that was the correct word.

“Nothing but platonic feelings for me?” Tony asked, trying to keep his Adam’s apple from bobbing.

Ziva closed her eyes and resisted the urge to say what she wanted to…

Without acknowledging the fact that Tony had spoken, she sat on the couch and stared at the black television screen. Her tears fell silently and a sound was made that made it appear as if Tony had relaxed back against the pillows once more, but in truth, both of them were wide awake now—caught in the fear of maybe almost admitting feelings for each other that were much, much more than friendly.

“It’s just Paris,” Tony whispered to himself. There’s a reason I want to kiss her right now. It’s just Paris: The City of Love. I’m not in love. Not at all.

But it wasn’t. And he was. And so was she. For better or for worse. Mostly worse.

Btw, the little vampire piece in there is because Tony talked on the episode this fic is based on about how he's Team Edward for Twilight. Not my idea.

Comment or tweet me! Enjoy! Thanks.

Love, Alyssa

NCIS Fan Fiction: What Happened In Paris

I do not own any characters or anything else from NCIS. This is all my own fiction.

Last week on TV's #1 Show, NCIS, Tony and Ziva let a little bit of a implication out that MAYBE something happened in Paris while they were forced to share a hotel room while picking up a witness they needed to protect and take back to DC. After several smoking glances and a few hints as to who really took the couch--they both said it was them and at the end they asked each other why they lied...--many obsessed fans decided to write their version of what they would've wanted to happen. Here is mine.

Warning, this is rated T for suggestive lanuage.

What Happened In Paris: An NCIS FanFic

He stared at the back of her neck as she opened the hotel room door—the only room available since they’d neglected to make reservations—and what he saw was beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful. Enticing. Sexy. He let his thoughts wander as he walked into the hotel room.

The romantic city view, the wine by the bed…

He thought back to the night four years ago when they shared another hotel room. Granted it was under cover… But she’d been the most exciting woman he’d seen in nothing but a smile—and she was definitely smiling. Just the thought made a sly smirk break out on his lips and he had to readjust his pants as he watched her drop her suitcase on the floor by the bed and remove her jacket.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tony said, back to his normal self. “Who says you get the bed?” He gestured to the leather couch. “I’m the one with the bad back!”

She shrugged, a very, very small smile on her lips. “Well, you are the oldest,” she muttered.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Hey, that’s not fair. You’re young and fresh and pretty. You don’t need beauty sleep!”

“However pretty I am,” she said, stretching out the word and turning to him, “I have had a very frustrating flight and I need my sleep.” She punctuated her words by opening her suitcase and removing a pair of cobalt blue pair of silk shorts and matching cami, with little decorations of lace on both. Neither piece of clothing would conceal very much when it was on…

He stepped all the way into the room, the door closing behind him. She was taunting him.

“Those are your pjs?”

She shrugged.

Fine, his dick said, Seduction is a one person game. Let’s see how well she plays it.

But nothing of the sort happened. She went to the bathroom, showered, changed, and returned to the room. Tony was lying in the big, comfy bed, clad in a gray t-shirt and boxer shorts.

“My bed, Tony.”

“Not gonna happen, Zee-vah.”

She smirked and walked over to the bed, scooting under the covers and curling up to Tony, her leg thrown over his, her chin on his chest. “Fine. Then we will be forced to sleep like this, yes?”

Tony faltered momentarily. No stripping? No, “I’ve been watching you from afar,”?

He closed his eyes to recalculate and realized that he liked the feel of her next to him. So much in fact, that he needed more almost immediately. His recalculation was finished. He opened his eyes and…

She looked up and her chocolate eyes bore into his. With a piercing groan and a feminine sigh, their lips met and both of them saw fireworks. There was no neat, orderly discarding of clothing as they raced for the finish line. Somewhere during the wrestling match of passion involving annoying clothing, Tony faced the one-handed bra removal as his other was captured in hers and he felt no desire to remove it. But his efforts were wasted as she said the four words a man like Tony loves to hear and a woman like Ziva rarely gets to say: “It opens in front.”

Rule 12 burned in the back of her mind—the far back. Way back behind lust, passion, so much waiting… And maybe even a tiny bit of…caring? Like? …love?

The thought intruded her feel-good space and she had to concentrate hard on Tony’s mouth—which was now moving professionally and very wonderfully—against hers in order to distract herself from the impossible thought.

-------------

Tony soon discovered that Ziva was not gentle in her conquests, and that he didn’t mind one bit. He settled her body against his and tugged on her earlobe with his teeth.

“Now that was exactly what I needed,” he admitted in a whisper to her neck. “What’d you think?”

“Why? Feeling insecure, hairy butt?” Her delighted laugh made the tease fall off his shoulders.

“Not at all. I have ears. You weren’t kidding when you said you were a screamer.”

The casual teasing continued until she rolled over and fell asleep in his arms. He followed, but only after he’d contently relived the past hour in his head while staring at her beautiful sleeping face.

Harsh sunlight broke over her face as a soft snoring roused her from her sleep. A strong, tanned arm was around her waist and soft lips were on the back of her neck. Her eyes fluttered open slowly as her other senses awoke. Needs presented themselves and she gently removed herself from her lover’s grasp so she could use the restroom.

After dressing and flipping through the channels on the television—none of which she had any interesting in—she heard Tony sit up in bed. “Good morning, Zee-vah,” he said, a clear happiness in his smug voice. “You order breakfast yet?”

“I believe I’m going to try to find a café—get some reading done.”

“Oh, come on, Ziva! It’s Paris! There are sights to see!”

She shrugged off the invitation. “I’ve seen them all already. Multiple times.”

The insecure thought rolled through Tony’s head that she’s probably been with many men in Paris, as well. Just the first part alone made him angry. He shook off the ridiculous feeling and said, “Fine. I’ll go alone.”

When he stood, Ziva glanced at his body. She wanted to moan in delight. A bright red bite mark was still on his chest. But when he exited the room, he left a sour disposition of disappointment there. And sighing to herself, Ziva left the hotel room—and it’s memories and the wonderful, wonderful feelings she’d had there—behind. She feared for good.

Please comment! I hope you like it!
Love, Alyssa

My Muse

So two nights ago my muse was majorly picking at my brain and this was created:
NOTE: this is just a rough draft, and im not even sure this is gonna be used, but i really like it...
and i've been thinking that i need to change it around to something else, but idk. tell me what you think.

It was the picture perfect setting--they sat on the bridge, holding hands, starring at the snow falling down into the deep gulf below. The bridge was popular for first kisses, which is exactly what Madison was thinking about while she and Brian sat there, eyes lazily drifting with the white flakes and fingers whispering against each other.
"So are we gonna do this or what?" she asked, suddenly sounding much braver than she felt.
Brian smirked and turned to her, running his free hand over her stomach, down her thigh. She shuddered. "Alright. Your harness is secure. Let's jump."
She opened her eyes--hardly realizing she's closed them--and said, "I hate heights."
"Come on, Mad. It's bungee jumping. Totally safe."
Madison stood up, squeezing his hand for support. "But... Brian, it's snowing."
"Hardly."
She looked up at him, his green-blue eyes boring into hers and suddenly he was snaking his arms around her waist, pulling her against him, and they were kissing. Madison held on for dear life, her heart in her throat. The sensation was she was falling head first into something that took her breath away, the air pounding onto her cold cheeks... When she opened her eyes, she found she actually had fallen. He'd jumped with her in his arms.
He laughed joyously as they bounced and her tinkling voice echoed the noise. His lips went down on her neck, whispering words of encouragement, and suddenly, before Madison knew it, they were on the ground, sitting in the fresh snow, harnesses tossed away, her seated in his lap. Brian returned to kissing her neck and she closed her eyes and grasped at his jacket so she could ride out the feeling.
She shivered and he pulled back.
"Was that fun?"
"Which part? The jumping or the kissing?"
A smile spread on his lips and he said, "Jumping."
"Terrifying. But you distracted me perfectly."
And then he distracted her again, so she screamed into his mouth as the bullet hit her in the back, and he yelled, for about two seconds before the other bullet him in the forehead.
Madison held onto consciousness long enough to watch Brian's mouth foam with blood, and then she died.


This is just the first draft. Please comment!
Love, Alyssa

I AM TOTALLY BUYING THIS CD!!

So Emily Osment has this CD called "All The Right Wrongs" and I specifically love three songs on it. Here they are:

I Hate The Homecoming Queen:




Average Girl:




All The Way Up:




I've been listening to them ALL day.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Holidays....

So much love from me this holiday season. I am so greatful for everyone and everything in my life. I thank God so much for my family and my friends and all the amazing things that He has blessed my life with.

Love,
Alyssa

King of Hearts (preface)

gimmie some creative criticism

April 29^th, 2015

Ever since I was ten years old, I’d known I’d wanted to be a cop. Ten years ago, when I began my career in criminal justice, a young girl of mearly 23, I had been so preoccupied with making my name known and successful, that the only thing in my life I had let slip past my eye was my relationship.

He was so handsome… A gorgeous man—only seven years older than me—had just been accepted to the FBI. I was so jealous, and incredibly attracted. Not only was he about a foot taller than me, which was rare considering my abnormal height for a woman: 6 foot 1; but he was also smart, dangerous, and sexy. He was ripped, had the most amazing brown eyes, and his hands were strong and his touch made me so weak. I could’ve sworn I was in love with him. Until…that all faithful moment where I was assigned a desk, a partner, and I had my ID and my badge. That exact moment, nothing else in my life mattered.

But it wasn’t really like that at the beginning. I’d hated him when I met him. But…after weeks of dinner invitations, flowers, emails and phone calls, I finally said yes. And after that, I didn’t exist anymore. He got a new girlfriend, he got obsessed with her and his work. I was invisible. It was all a game. He chased after girls he knew he couldn’t have, and after they took him—and they always did—he left them on his doorstep, half-dressed, shameful, and on the verge of tears. But with me, it took him six little dates to get that point. Drinks, dinner, dancing, and watching movies in his apartment…the platonic feeling I’d had for him had starting disappearing. So I fell into his arms and stumbled into his bedroom. And then I was on his doorstep, the door closed behind me, shocked.

And I always blamed him for it, even though I should’ve blamed myself. I hadn’t been there. I knew he would wander eventually…

Can you say “bullshit”? It was his fault. And we both knew it. Especially when he came down to the station to deal with us. And by “us,” I mean the Metro homicide detectives of Washington D.C. Every time, we avoided eye contact, and because of that, I’d become wonderful friends with another FBI agent:

29 years old, Owen Cassidy was a FBI bad-ass. He had blonde hair, blue eyes, tall, muscular, and looked like a model when he drew his gun. Damn. The first time I saw him, I melted. And, being the lustful, young girl I was, I’d dated him for almost a year before he declared we were being too official. Yet, we’d stayed friends. Because I had agreed. He was nice, he just…wasn’t my type.

Five other FBI agents had made my aquaintance—and eventually my friendship—while I was a cop. Andy Lawson—blonde hair, blue eyes, average build, not particularly muscular, thin-framed glasses perched on his average-sized nose… Average. The perfect word to describe Andy Lawson. And it wasn’t like I’d seen him much after the first time. He’d joined another team. Sarah Galligher—really quite beautiful when she let her hair down and scrubbed off the makeup she insisted on wearing. She was blonde and thin, but really strong. She had survived extraordinarily well as an older, African-American, woman. Sarah was 38, which was pretty old for a female FBI agent that wasn’t a team leader. Sam Morris—another junior agent with Andy, Owen, and Sarah. Big, strong, handsome. He was the poster boy for criminal law enforcement. Kicking down doors, kicking asses—no one wanted to cross him. Everyone knew he was going on to bigger and better things than lowly FBI agent. Then there was Ray Connelly—the team leader. He was 48 at the time I’d met him. He had brown hair with specks of gray peaking through, a rough outline of a beard that he kept at a five o’clock shadow, and blue eyes that made ur knees go weak. Not only was he strong and brave, but he taught the youngsters of the team without getting sappy. Finally, the FBI’s director—the person that made it all run—Michelle Stratz, was the woman that I looked up to, but never envied. I did not, under any circumstances, want that job. She was about the same age as Connelly and still just as gorgeous as she had been when I first met her. Stratz was my mother’s best friend before she—my mother—had fallen into the booze when my dad left…

But that’s a different story.

Derek Weatherly was yet another agent, but he was my closest friend. We lived next door to each other in Bethesda, Maryland when we were kids. His father had never been in the picture, mine had disappeared when I turned 13. Wonderful birthday gift. My mom started drinking that same year, and remained that way until I left for college—a luxury that had only been possible because of Derek. But his mom had been the absolutely picture perfect mother. And I was so envious.

But after all was said and done, we were just friends. There had never been any romantic tension. He was on a team that was taught by Agent William McCann, but he comes in later.

Six years into my detective career, I’d been offered the lieutenant job which I’d taken and carried out for two years. Then, I became a P.I. Note, a very unsuccessful P.I. for the first year. After that painful experience, I’d gotten proactive. I’d searched every newspaper within a 50 mile radius every change I got; I’d called my old partners and team leaders from Metro and asked about cases they needed help with and were willing to pay for… My first job, my bank account swelled approximately $2,500 at 100 bucks an hour—the client’s suggested price, not mine. That had handled so much that was wrong in my life, it felt really, really good. Then, Metro paid me $400 an hour for a case that I consulted on that took about two weeks. I was working for myself and making a fair amount of cash.

Now, I reside in the busy city life of Washington D.C., a bar underneath my office—actually just a 20 foot by 20 foot room with a desk and a ton of old files. But it wasn’t just my office. It was also the office of two other P.I.s who hold no importance in this story. They were more successful than me, but not by much, so they didn’t exactly bother me. I made enough money to keep my ad in the local newspaper, a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and a bed for me to sleep on. That’s all that mattered.

My apartment was pretty nice. The first thing you saw when you walked in was my kitchen—a small counter right in front of a sink, a microwave, a couple storage cabinets, and a medium-sized fridge. A hallway led past the kitchen, separating the study from the kitchen, and leading to the bathroom and, across the hall, my bedroom. That was pretty much it. I didn’t have a T.V. If I wanted to watch a movie, I used my laptop.

It was in that tiny apartment, in that study, where I’d started working the strangest case in my career, and where I would receive news of the next victim.

tell me wat u think

Owl City, Jay Asher, and a poem

wow! its almost the 2nd quarter of the year!
lately, i've been listening to a lot of Owl City and Say Anything and Taylor Swift and Demi Lovato... just a lot of music.

Owl City, if you don't know, is awesome!

"If My Heart Was A House"



"The Bird and The Worm"



"Fireflies"



"Hello Seattle"





"Strawberry Avalanche"



<3<3<3<3<3
I was gonna post a Taylor Swift song called "Permanent Marker" but my blog wont let me cuz of the formatting or something. But I sincerely suggest you check it out. It's awesome!

So, i read this book a couple years ago, called "13 Reasons Why" and i recently reread it. WARNING: it's not for the faint of heart. and im not talking about gore or smut. no, i'm talking teen suicide. so, if u want, go ahead and check it out, cuz it really is heart-wreching.

now, this is the only place where i feel like i can be myself, so i wanna post a poem i wrote in Mrs. Castillo's fifth period today becuz a couple kids who will not be named made my day even worse. to start, i was being compared to my sister all day, ppl saying that if i was just a little more like her i'd have more friends or i'd be remotely tolerable. and that just sucked. cuz no one likes to be compared to their sibling.
and then these kids in Science decided that it would be funny for joke about suicide, cutting, and depression. that was the olive on the crap sandwich that was my day. wawho.
so, i wrote this poem while they were pretending to cut with rulers and saying "only a retarded person would cut" and shit like that. oh, and groaning and moaning all over the place sarcastically, like cutting isn't that painful. HA!

Here it is:

Today

Today makes me want
to curl up and die,
to forget about everything,
to live without pain and
hatred and
sorrow.
Today makes me cry
silent and fury filled tears,
for those who didn't make it
through today,
and those who won't make it
through tomorrow.

Today makes my heart shrivel
just a little more
with the sadness that i've seen,
and the sadness that i've felt.
Today makes me ashamed to be
alive
with the anger and the
untrustworthy people
that parade around,
thinking they are justified.
Today is killing me,
just a little more...than yesterday.

Today will become yesterday,
and tomorrow will become today.
The days won't stop.
The days won't stop.
And because
the days won't stop,
i might.
Because everyday,
one
after
the
other,
feels the same.
It all feels the same.

The same heart-wrenching
feelings,
the same sickening realizations,
and the same thoughts.
The thoughts of suicide,
the thoughts of blood,
the thoughts of pain.
That is today.
That is everyday.