Twister Finals - Office Gossip Challenge
Dec. 11th, 2015 11:14 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuContinued from Part 3
"You seem anxious, Napoleon.” Wanda said.
He relaxed his furrowed brow. “Only anxious to be entangled with you again,” he said smoothly.
“Where are they? They've sure disappeared together an awful lot today. People are joking that we should check the Map Room closet.”
“Clandestine clinches are not exactly Illya’s style.”
“Neither are the looks he's been giving Faustina.” She shivered. “He looks at her like he could eat her up. Nancy said it’s like she's Red Riding Hood and he's the wolf.”
She continued, heedless of Napoleon's aggrieved expression. “And did you notice? They only danced with each other. Nancy said when they slow danced, his hand was venturing awfully low.”
“It was on her hip,” Napoleon grated, obviously wishing Nancy to Jericho.
Wanda looked unconvinced. “If you say so. That's where it's been most of the rest of the day.”
The final match of the Twister Tournament had drawn a crowd, forcing them to move it into the gymnasium. The prospect of Mr. Waverly walking in on the match and calling it off only added to the spectators' excitement. People scrambled to place last minute bets. Most of the money was riding on Illya’s team, who had been cutting through opponents like a hot knife through butter. Their performance that day, on and off the mat, was the hot topic of conversation.
Some of their opponents fell prey to sweet distraction. The women had only dreamed of being that close to Illya, their resulting agitation deemed an unfair disadvantage by several male teammates. They would be even less pleased to know that the girls felt that Illya had somehow tapped into their private fantasies. Cheryl had long thrilled to the idea of Illya nibbling her ear. And there he was on the Twister mat, his lips continually within inches of her ear, his warm breath sending chills down her spine. Who could keep their balance under such provocation? she declared, and the other vanquished ladies heartily agreed.
The men shared similar war stories of Faustina. If they were chest fanciers, Faustina's cleavage was never far away. If they were leg men, a long, smooth limb was usually within an inch of their noses. Blood red nails. Perfectly pedicured feet. A sultry phrase in an exotic language. Whatever their pleasure, they found it on the Twister mat, stealing their attention and upsetting their equilibrium.
Several resentments were harbored into the coming weeks over weaknesses exploited. Mandy, who hated spiders, couldn't persist in the face of the arachnid-like jewelry Faustina wore during their match. Two opponents succumbed to sneezing fits and looked in vain for a cat in the room. Mark, who hated the smell of garlic, swore Illya must have lunched on raw cloves.
Wanda bit her nail. “I'm nervous, Napoleon. They say it’s like they get in your head.”
“Nonsense. They're not mind readers.”
The crowd stirred and parted. Wanda let out a squeak of alarm.
Illya had discarded his suit for the white denim and fitted t-shirt he sometimes wore undercover. His feet were bare. Wanda’s breathing quickened audibly, and her hand fluttered up to smooth her hair. “Pool cleaner,” she whispered.
“How did you know that?”
“I know a girl in the Los Angeles office. That look made quite an impression on her.”
"And you too, apparently,” Napoleon grumbled.
Faustina had also changed clothes. She now wore a halter top and a pair of high-waisted shorts. As she turned around to face her teammate, Napoleon received the full effect of the essentially backless top and the shorts that hugged her rounded derrière.
“You see?” Wanda hissed. “His hand.”
Illya’s left hand, which had been resting on Faustina's shoulder, slid slowly down her bare back to rest at her hip. Very low on her hip.
“And he’s not wearing the ring? What do you think it means?”
“I think it means we need to focus on winning this game,” he said.
The teams approached the mat. Napoleon looked Illya up and down. “Something happen to your suit?”
“I spilled champagne punch on it.”
"And on your shoes?"
“Black doesn't go with these pants.”
“What about you?” he asked Faustina.
“I was hot,” she replied. Illya leaned in to whisper in her ear, and she laughed, swatting him playfully. He captured her hand and kissed it.
Wanda and Napoleon watched this display, one mesmerized, one disgusted.
“If you’re quite through,” Napoleon said, “we have a tournament to finish.”
Illya nodded. “By all means, let’s begin. I wouldn't want to delay your downfall longer than necessary.”
Kitt Kittridge, the acting referee, reviewed the rules, which were few, and the final match began. Wanda was the first to fall. The pool cleaner ensemble, the stuff of many late night conversations with Los Angeles and a few vivid dreams, was too much to handle in such close proximity. The game almost finished soon after when Napoleon suddenly yelped in pain. He floundered momentarily, but kept his balance.
“What is in that knot?” he asked, eyeing the bow that held Faustina's halter top closed at the back.
“Pins. Why were you touching it?”
Fallen opponents in the crowd recognized the guerrilla tactics they had faced earlier in the day. Some maneuvers were more effective than others. Close contact with Faustina’s anterior and posterior produced only looks of appreciation from Napoleon. He looked less appreciative of their other antics. The two always managed to be touching, limbs skimming provocatively across each other with each spin Kitt called.
Despite these efforts, Napoleon was a worthy opponent, and many minutes later, they were locked in a stalemate. Illya was crouched at one side of the mat, his chin resting in the hollow above Faustina's knee. Napoleon balanced face up on the other side of the mat, trapping Faustina between them. Though she was sustaining a very awkward pose with grace, the crowd predicted she would not last past another spin.
“Ready to give in?” Napoleon challenged her. “I could do this all day. Games are how I stay fit.”
Kitt flicked the spinner and called Napoleon’s next move. “Right foot green.” It was a minor shift of his leg, and Napoleon smiled in satisfaction.
Mark, still annoyed by the garlic ploy, called out to Napoleon. “It's in the bag, mate.”
“Don't worry, Faustina darling,” April countered, sticking with her sex despite their earlier defeat. “You can do this.”
“Thank you, April,” she replied, breathless from sustaining her pose. “Mark, as they say in Hong Hong—“ She pronounced a phrase that provoked snickers from members of Language Translation. Mark took it with his good-natured, elfin grin.
Illya’s spin came next. “Right hand yellow.” It could have been an easy move, but Illya chose to stretch toward the top of the mat, displaying the gymnastic skills that had served him well all day. He whispered in Faustina's ear, and she nodded.
“Left hand blue,” Kitt announced for Faustina. The crowd groaned. The closest blues were practically underneath Napoleon. Even if she could reach one, she'd be aiming blind.
Faustina tensed her muscles and drew breath. Napoleon watched her from the corner of his eye.
“Napoleon,” Illya called, “do you recall what I first said of this game when you showed it to me?”
Napoleon twisted slightly to see him, grinning in amusement. “You compared it to Human Chess.”
Illya smiled triumphantly in return. “Checkmate.”
At the word, Faustina swung her arm up and over Napoleon. She curved its trajectory at the last moment, managing to plant her hand on the blue circle under his ribs. The move left her poised above him, her face inches from his.
“For Benjamin,” she purred and kissed him.
It was a kiss that would be talked about for weeks to come. Napoleon's eyes widened at her uninhibited assault on his mouth. Finding the reality far better than his imaginings, Napoleon reciprocated with the full force of his talents. He sank onto the mat, burying his hand in her hair and pulling her down with him. The crowd hooted and clapped in appreciation.
Suddenly it was over. Faustina broke away as Kitt declared her team tournament champions.
Napoleon lay on the mat, slightly dazed. “I think that constitutes a foul,” he complained half-heartedly.
“Nothing in the rules against kissing,” Kitt cheerfully declared.
April was the first to give Faustina a hug. “I've always wondered what a kiss of death looked like. Now I know.”
Mark gave Illya a congratulatory slap on the back, his earlier resentments forgotten. "And what a way to go.”
"You seem anxious, Napoleon.” Wanda said.
He relaxed his furrowed brow. “Only anxious to be entangled with you again,” he said smoothly.
“Where are they? They've sure disappeared together an awful lot today. People are joking that we should check the Map Room closet.”
“Clandestine clinches are not exactly Illya’s style.”
“Neither are the looks he's been giving Faustina.” She shivered. “He looks at her like he could eat her up. Nancy said it’s like she's Red Riding Hood and he's the wolf.”
She continued, heedless of Napoleon's aggrieved expression. “And did you notice? They only danced with each other. Nancy said when they slow danced, his hand was venturing awfully low.”
“It was on her hip,” Napoleon grated, obviously wishing Nancy to Jericho.
Wanda looked unconvinced. “If you say so. That's where it's been most of the rest of the day.”
The final match of the Twister Tournament had drawn a crowd, forcing them to move it into the gymnasium. The prospect of Mr. Waverly walking in on the match and calling it off only added to the spectators' excitement. People scrambled to place last minute bets. Most of the money was riding on Illya’s team, who had been cutting through opponents like a hot knife through butter. Their performance that day, on and off the mat, was the hot topic of conversation.
Some of their opponents fell prey to sweet distraction. The women had only dreamed of being that close to Illya, their resulting agitation deemed an unfair disadvantage by several male teammates. They would be even less pleased to know that the girls felt that Illya had somehow tapped into their private fantasies. Cheryl had long thrilled to the idea of Illya nibbling her ear. And there he was on the Twister mat, his lips continually within inches of her ear, his warm breath sending chills down her spine. Who could keep their balance under such provocation? she declared, and the other vanquished ladies heartily agreed.
The men shared similar war stories of Faustina. If they were chest fanciers, Faustina's cleavage was never far away. If they were leg men, a long, smooth limb was usually within an inch of their noses. Blood red nails. Perfectly pedicured feet. A sultry phrase in an exotic language. Whatever their pleasure, they found it on the Twister mat, stealing their attention and upsetting their equilibrium.
Several resentments were harbored into the coming weeks over weaknesses exploited. Mandy, who hated spiders, couldn't persist in the face of the arachnid-like jewelry Faustina wore during their match. Two opponents succumbed to sneezing fits and looked in vain for a cat in the room. Mark, who hated the smell of garlic, swore Illya must have lunched on raw cloves.
Wanda bit her nail. “I'm nervous, Napoleon. They say it’s like they get in your head.”
“Nonsense. They're not mind readers.”
The crowd stirred and parted. Wanda let out a squeak of alarm.
Illya had discarded his suit for the white denim and fitted t-shirt he sometimes wore undercover. His feet were bare. Wanda’s breathing quickened audibly, and her hand fluttered up to smooth her hair. “Pool cleaner,” she whispered.
“How did you know that?”
“I know a girl in the Los Angeles office. That look made quite an impression on her.”
"And you too, apparently,” Napoleon grumbled.
Faustina had also changed clothes. She now wore a halter top and a pair of high-waisted shorts. As she turned around to face her teammate, Napoleon received the full effect of the essentially backless top and the shorts that hugged her rounded derrière.
“You see?” Wanda hissed. “His hand.”
Illya’s left hand, which had been resting on Faustina's shoulder, slid slowly down her bare back to rest at her hip. Very low on her hip.
“And he’s not wearing the ring? What do you think it means?”
“I think it means we need to focus on winning this game,” he said.
The teams approached the mat. Napoleon looked Illya up and down. “Something happen to your suit?”
“I spilled champagne punch on it.”
"And on your shoes?"
“Black doesn't go with these pants.”
“What about you?” he asked Faustina.
“I was hot,” she replied. Illya leaned in to whisper in her ear, and she laughed, swatting him playfully. He captured her hand and kissed it.
Wanda and Napoleon watched this display, one mesmerized, one disgusted.
“If you’re quite through,” Napoleon said, “we have a tournament to finish.”
Illya nodded. “By all means, let’s begin. I wouldn't want to delay your downfall longer than necessary.”
Kitt Kittridge, the acting referee, reviewed the rules, which were few, and the final match began. Wanda was the first to fall. The pool cleaner ensemble, the stuff of many late night conversations with Los Angeles and a few vivid dreams, was too much to handle in such close proximity. The game almost finished soon after when Napoleon suddenly yelped in pain. He floundered momentarily, but kept his balance.
“What is in that knot?” he asked, eyeing the bow that held Faustina's halter top closed at the back.
“Pins. Why were you touching it?”
Fallen opponents in the crowd recognized the guerrilla tactics they had faced earlier in the day. Some maneuvers were more effective than others. Close contact with Faustina’s anterior and posterior produced only looks of appreciation from Napoleon. He looked less appreciative of their other antics. The two always managed to be touching, limbs skimming provocatively across each other with each spin Kitt called.
Despite these efforts, Napoleon was a worthy opponent, and many minutes later, they were locked in a stalemate. Illya was crouched at one side of the mat, his chin resting in the hollow above Faustina's knee. Napoleon balanced face up on the other side of the mat, trapping Faustina between them. Though she was sustaining a very awkward pose with grace, the crowd predicted she would not last past another spin.
“Ready to give in?” Napoleon challenged her. “I could do this all day. Games are how I stay fit.”
Kitt flicked the spinner and called Napoleon’s next move. “Right foot green.” It was a minor shift of his leg, and Napoleon smiled in satisfaction.
Mark, still annoyed by the garlic ploy, called out to Napoleon. “It's in the bag, mate.”
“Don't worry, Faustina darling,” April countered, sticking with her sex despite their earlier defeat. “You can do this.”
“Thank you, April,” she replied, breathless from sustaining her pose. “Mark, as they say in Hong Hong—“ She pronounced a phrase that provoked snickers from members of Language Translation. Mark took it with his good-natured, elfin grin.
Illya’s spin came next. “Right hand yellow.” It could have been an easy move, but Illya chose to stretch toward the top of the mat, displaying the gymnastic skills that had served him well all day. He whispered in Faustina's ear, and she nodded.
“Left hand blue,” Kitt announced for Faustina. The crowd groaned. The closest blues were practically underneath Napoleon. Even if she could reach one, she'd be aiming blind.
Faustina tensed her muscles and drew breath. Napoleon watched her from the corner of his eye.
“Napoleon,” Illya called, “do you recall what I first said of this game when you showed it to me?”
Napoleon twisted slightly to see him, grinning in amusement. “You compared it to Human Chess.”
Illya smiled triumphantly in return. “Checkmate.”
At the word, Faustina swung her arm up and over Napoleon. She curved its trajectory at the last moment, managing to plant her hand on the blue circle under his ribs. The move left her poised above him, her face inches from his.
“For Benjamin,” she purred and kissed him.
It was a kiss that would be talked about for weeks to come. Napoleon's eyes widened at her uninhibited assault on his mouth. Finding the reality far better than his imaginings, Napoleon reciprocated with the full force of his talents. He sank onto the mat, burying his hand in her hair and pulling her down with him. The crowd hooted and clapped in appreciation.
Suddenly it was over. Faustina broke away as Kitt declared her team tournament champions.
Napoleon lay on the mat, slightly dazed. “I think that constitutes a foul,” he complained half-heartedly.
“Nothing in the rules against kissing,” Kitt cheerfully declared.
April was the first to give Faustina a hug. “I've always wondered what a kiss of death looked like. Now I know.”
Mark gave Illya a congratulatory slap on the back, his earlier resentments forgotten. "And what a way to go.”
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Date: 2015-12-12 01:14 pm (UTC)