you like boots and perfume
Title: Give An Inch
Pairing: Alex/Tony
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 650
Summary: Tony talks shoes, Alex flirts like the total hornbag she is (ooh, bad summary).
A/N: Penis jokes in a WitB fic? Who would’ve thought.
*
She’s full of surprises tonight.
She slips her shoes off, curls up on her side and tucks her stockinged toes beneath his thigh, and he tries very hard not to leap from the sofa with shock. It’s far easier to stare at her shoes, lined up neatly together on the floor, than it is to look at her, because he knows she’s watching him, and he suspects she’s smiling, cheekily.
“How high are those heels, anyway?”
“Five inches.”
He exhales fiercely. Surely it’s impossible for a human being to actually get around on what are, for all practical purposes, a bright red pair of spiky stilts, but then it isn’t, because he watches her do it all day long. He’s even seen the proof for himself that she can run in them. Quite fast, too.
“Five inches? How do you walk in those, Alex? Really, how? And why?”
He catches her slight shoulder shrugging from the corner of his visual field, feels her eyes fixed on him like he’s somehow become mesmeric.
“How is practice, why is… because I don’t like being short.”
He frowns, finally looks directly at her. She’s not smiling anymore; now her eyes are narrowed at him, her expression a bit perplexing.
“You’re not that short, Alex.”
She scoffs quietly, drops her gaze. For some reason, reassuring her seems particularly important, right now. He persists.
“You’re really not. You’re what, five four, five five?”
He hadn’t expected her to smile like she does, didn’t anticipate the way she wiggles her toes beneath his leg. The sharp surge of sub-waistband wake-up call that runs through him in response, however, is perfectly predictable.
She stays quiet for a moment, looking at him. Her voice doesn’t sound so assured anymore, when she speaks.
“Thanks, Tony.”
He doesn’t get women, not at all, and assumes her saying thank you is a good thing, although he’s no earthly clue what he’s done to deserve it.
“For what?”
There’s the smirk again, and the pointed edge of her tongue darting like a minnow between her teeth. With that, her toes, plus the dress he’s been working very hard all evening to avoid staring at, by now he’s almost entirely convinced he’s being seduced, or perhaps dreaming, albeit with impossible lucidity.
He keeps watching her as she presses her lips together, wonders if she realises just how distracting that little habit has become for him.
“For giving me a couple extra inches.”
The punchline floats its inexorable way into his brain. He does his best look of feigned innocence, glances away from her, waits out an appropriate comic pause.
“I expect you to return the favour, Alex, in due course.”
Silence, and he winces against it, but then her laughter peals like ringing bells, and the sound of it seems foreign, unfamiliar, in his usually subdued sitting room.
He’s pleased with himself, and joins in with a chuckle, but it doesn’t last long, because she’s shifted her toes a good couple of inches of her own, upwards. It could be a stroke or heart attack he’s feeling coming on, or something entirely different, but all the same it renders him speechless, and he wonders if this is how an animal feels just before it becomes roadkill.
He doesn’t stand a chance, and she’s not even wearing the high heels anymore.
Another wiggle. He fights valiantly against the urge to seize her ankles, just to allow himself a breather. He looks over at her.
He’s certain she’s never looked so sinful in her life. He can see her biting her tongue, but it doesn’t stop her talking, or prevent her eyes from shifting from his face to… elsewhere.
“We’ll see.”
*
(Holy hell, Alex is a slut. And, for the record, Simone Lahbib is 5.4.)
(Oh, and mammothluv, I stole another icon.)
Pairing: Alex/Tony
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 650
Summary: Tony talks shoes, Alex flirts like the total hornbag she is (ooh, bad summary).
A/N: Penis jokes in a WitB fic? Who would’ve thought.
*
She’s full of surprises tonight.
She slips her shoes off, curls up on her side and tucks her stockinged toes beneath his thigh, and he tries very hard not to leap from the sofa with shock. It’s far easier to stare at her shoes, lined up neatly together on the floor, than it is to look at her, because he knows she’s watching him, and he suspects she’s smiling, cheekily.
“How high are those heels, anyway?”
“Five inches.”
He exhales fiercely. Surely it’s impossible for a human being to actually get around on what are, for all practical purposes, a bright red pair of spiky stilts, but then it isn’t, because he watches her do it all day long. He’s even seen the proof for himself that she can run in them. Quite fast, too.
“Five inches? How do you walk in those, Alex? Really, how? And why?”
He catches her slight shoulder shrugging from the corner of his visual field, feels her eyes fixed on him like he’s somehow become mesmeric.
“How is practice, why is… because I don’t like being short.”
He frowns, finally looks directly at her. She’s not smiling anymore; now her eyes are narrowed at him, her expression a bit perplexing.
“You’re not that short, Alex.”
She scoffs quietly, drops her gaze. For some reason, reassuring her seems particularly important, right now. He persists.
“You’re really not. You’re what, five four, five five?”
He hadn’t expected her to smile like she does, didn’t anticipate the way she wiggles her toes beneath his leg. The sharp surge of sub-waistband wake-up call that runs through him in response, however, is perfectly predictable.
She stays quiet for a moment, looking at him. Her voice doesn’t sound so assured anymore, when she speaks.
“Thanks, Tony.”
He doesn’t get women, not at all, and assumes her saying thank you is a good thing, although he’s no earthly clue what he’s done to deserve it.
“For what?”
There’s the smirk again, and the pointed edge of her tongue darting like a minnow between her teeth. With that, her toes, plus the dress he’s been working very hard all evening to avoid staring at, by now he’s almost entirely convinced he’s being seduced, or perhaps dreaming, albeit with impossible lucidity.
He keeps watching her as she presses her lips together, wonders if she realises just how distracting that little habit has become for him.
“For giving me a couple extra inches.”
The punchline floats its inexorable way into his brain. He does his best look of feigned innocence, glances away from her, waits out an appropriate comic pause.
“I expect you to return the favour, Alex, in due course.”
Silence, and he winces against it, but then her laughter peals like ringing bells, and the sound of it seems foreign, unfamiliar, in his usually subdued sitting room.
He’s pleased with himself, and joins in with a chuckle, but it doesn’t last long, because she’s shifted her toes a good couple of inches of her own, upwards. It could be a stroke or heart attack he’s feeling coming on, or something entirely different, but all the same it renders him speechless, and he wonders if this is how an animal feels just before it becomes roadkill.
He doesn’t stand a chance, and she’s not even wearing the high heels anymore.
Another wiggle. He fights valiantly against the urge to seize her ankles, just to allow himself a breather. He looks over at her.
He’s certain she’s never looked so sinful in her life. He can see her biting her tongue, but it doesn’t stop her talking, or prevent her eyes from shifting from his face to… elsewhere.
“We’ll see.”
*
(Holy hell, Alex is a slut. And, for the record, Simone Lahbib is 5.4.)
(Oh, and mammothluv, I stole another icon.)