More beautiful male x rugged female tickling, bit shorter this time. Featuring: A mess of present and past tense. I think I've settled on a second Lion in Iron story after this, and after that who knows. Got lots of ideas that just sort of burn away in my head.
...
It was foolish to want. She was she and he was he.
She was chiseled from rock. A being of sharp edges and hardness, forged in hardship and left twice as tough. Born on a half-dead mine world, raised on physical labor, fled to the stars and found solace as a killer for coin. Burly. Grim. Towering. Muscle and armor and a face more scar than skin. She was intimidating, she knew, and ugly, she suspected.
He was painted canvas. A beautiful flower, cultivated in softness and color. Some silver-spooned scion who never wanted for anything and found his need for purpose in making himself desirable. And succeeded. Slender and curved, moving with elegance and grace, dressed in what was both almost nothing and worth everything. Full lips colored blue, purple flecked over his eyes that looked of an ocean, flowing blond hair that shown in the bar’s light with his porcelain skin. And his laugh. A laugh like candy, like everything sweet in the world.
She felt like a voyeur, sitting there in that dark corner hidden from the bright neon of the dancefloor and the main bar, where her the boy was prancing about with a flock of his equally pretty friends in their slutty outfits. But she had eyes only for him. Devouring him with her hungry, lonely eyes. To a bared chest, to a slim stomach where a jewel dangled from a golden piercing. Over smooth bare legs down to his…his feet.
Clad in black, strapped sandals, a long strip between his toes that attached to silver anklets. Three glittering toe rings, one gold upon his right index, one gold and one silver on left index and middle. So pampered, so light in their step…and when they stepped, she saw. The sole of the sandal didn’t quite fully cover the bottom of the foot. She caught only glimpses of the flesh, but every glance she did filled her with an uncontrollable desire to touch it. To touch him.
And that giggle. Why did he giggle so much, over there?
What arcane lore were they discussing that brought the sugary sound to his painted lips so often, with a hand up to his face and a sway of his hips? Or even, no discussion at all. He would just laugh and titter to himself while sashaying across the dance floor. So balletic in his dances, hypnotic even with the silly tipsy frolicking he did with that lithe little body. How that skin, from flat stomach to long legs, caught the light, how those feet proved themselves so dexterous and quick. She stared at a treasure far beyond her reach, and wanted for what she couldn’t have.
And then he stared back.
She’d been shot before. Twenty-two times, at her last count. None of those bullets hit her like his eyes did. Not only was he looking at her, he was looking directly into her eyes. He tilted his head, curiosity evident. He knew. He knew she’d been staring at him.
She felt herself go red. Ripped her one eye of flesh and one of crude lensed metal away from the prize she didn’t deserve, and gulped the rest of her beer down in one swift motion. Think of anything else. Think of unappealing things. Think of blood and guts and pain, and everything she’d seen, she’d done, and banish the heat in her bones.
She looked up again. He hadn’t turned away. And now, he was smiling. He gave her a coy little wave, and she felt her heart stop.
She’d fought military grade robots, monstrous alien beasts, the toughest and most ruthless crime syndicates. But she’d never felt her fight or flight response flair quite as bad as it did when he started to saunter over to her table. Waved off his friends, who gave knowing looks of familiarity. Just a look at her, and then to him, and they knew.
She had been a hunter for all her life, yet the look he gave her made her feel like prey.
As soft as his footfalls (and no doubt, his feet, a traitorous part of her mind suggested) were, they sounded like thunder to her ears. Or perhaps that was just the sound of her heartbeat, overwhelming the bar’s cheesy pop number on the speakers. She could no longer look away from him now. The flow of curves on that perfect body, every contour of the bejeweled belly, the dainty trot of shapely feet across the ground. If anything, he ate her gaze with eagerness. He liked being looked at. He liked watching her watch him.
And he giggled.
She was dead. He’d killed her.
He’d killed her to sidle up right next to her table, introducing himself with a pretty pout. Giggled more at her stuttered introductions and slipped into the seat across from her. Looked deep into her eyes with sultry half-lid, framing his face through the backs of his hands. She can barely register his small talk, his words, focusing only on the flirty cadence to his voice. How he speaks with that honeyed sound, how he idly sways his legs from side to side underneath the table.
She gives him curt, nervous answers to his questions. He doesn’t seem to mind. Calls her adorable. Adorable? She’s ugly, she’s brutish, she’s not even worth being in his dust, but she doesn’t say that aloud, and only flushes and nods. He hexes her with his laugh again, and he notices how she reacts to it. He has an angle now, and she begins to realize he has her trapped.
Her eyes dart away from ocean blue lips she imagines entwined with hers. This too, is a bad idea, because what they focus on instead strikes her mind even harder.
His feet have curled to the side of the booth, and she can see how they move. The shine of the rings against the light, how toes flick together and wiggle. Wiggle like a lure on a fishing pole, and she’s taken the bait (not coincidently she wanted them in her mouth). He sighs dreamily while those feet (are they ticklish?) curve and kick. She can see the tunnel of sole between sandal and foot (is that ticklish?) before it closes, and opens again. Is he ticklish, is he ticklish, is he ticklish her mind repeats over and over.
To her horror, she realizes he sees where she stares. And that smug, evil smile of his gets just a little smugger, a little eviler. In one smooth motion, his legs stretch taut to plant his sandaled feet straight into her lap. The world stops in her head. He doesn’t. He hasn’t mentioned it at all. He simply continues his inane flirty small talk. But she can tell by the way he moves them, idles them side to side, that his intentions here are far from innocent.
He has given her an invitation. She finds herself eager to take it.
She nervously darts a finger against the side of the left sole, just a tiny slash against the opening. A test. A shock to her system. She feels like her heart will burst. Just that little test felt like the softest of silk pillows. And it confirms, delightfully wonderfully terrifyingly, in a shudder that runs through the both of them, that he’s ticklish. A strangled giggle that’s just a musical to her as the practiced purposeful ones, a lurch of the foot that visibly restrains his instincts from pulling away.
He continues babbling away about his drinking habits without a single acknowledgment. Except for one. The look he gives her, deep in her eyes. Keep going. That’s what it tells her. Keep going, keep touching, I’m ticklish, I’m super ticklish, and I love it.
Maybe she’s paraphrasing.
But she obeys the unspoken wish. It’s not like it isn’t everything she wants. Into the in-between, the space between sandal and sole, her finger goes once more. Buries itself deeper this time, to spelunk for more ticklish flesh. She finds a goldmine of it. She can only marvel at how plush these pretty scions can make their feet. It doesn’t seem possible, to her, for a human being to have soles that feel this nice.
He tries his best to keep up the masquerade. It’s part of the game to him, that’s clear. But it gets increasingly hard for him to do, as she explores and pushes her way through every crease of his arch. Something about the annoying habits of his university professor turns into hisses of air and puffed cheeks. She runs circles around a twitchy heel and catty gossip about his peers transforms into snorts he has to wave from his face with deep breaths.
He catches his breath while fluttering his hand over the rise and fall of his chest. Can’t have that. When he clears his throat to enlighten her to his mother’s high company position, she digs in her second hand to his right foot. Makes of both soles her feast. Scribbles this way and that and turns his words to putty. Giggles bubble more and more, perfect feet shaking from side to side and almost vibrating in her lap. He can only get out every third word but bless his ticklish heart he tries.
He's taking big gulps to try and talk about mother’s promotion and the new belly ring he wants to buy with her money when she goes for the toes. That’s when she wins his game, he concedes to her, concedes through full throated deep belly laughter that drowns any words he could possibly say. As much as he seems to enjoy it, his reflexes do not, and he loses his battle to keep his feet in place. Luckily, she’s a strong arm to come to the rescue. She locks his ankles in place to mesmerize herself with rapidly undulating toes that smack against sandal surface with a slight but wonderful noise. His laugh is loud, louder, louder, but still such a sweet sound, his hands wild in the booth. The noise attracts the baffled attention of bystanders, but she doesn’t even care. All she cares about is him, his feet, and tickling.
Now she’s the one to speak, to growl teasing words into his ears. Coochie coochie coo, she says, tickle tickle tickle. The power shifts into her favor, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems delighted…well, obviously he seems delighted, she’s tickling the snot out of him, but beyond that. The red on his face and lust in his eyes convinces her he wants this.
She can wait no longer. At last, she pops off the sandals to get his feet fully in her grasp. Let’s him have only a second to catch his breath and fan his face, before she cuts off his words again. Fingers spider into his soles, every bit of skin mined to nothing for the laughter they hid. He shrieks and buckles in the booth, a feral animal acting on instinct. She is, too. She tickles and tickles and tickles and tickles and tickles the-HER boy’s feet until they’re red and still jolting with phantom touches.
And then at last, she stops. She feels like her heart is going to beat straight out of her chest.
He’s a mess. His makeup is runny down his cheeks. His hair is frazzled, he pants like a dog. But by god, he looks happy. And she thinks he’s even more beautiful now than before.
She almost stops him from taking the feet from her lap. It feels unfair to deprive her of them now. But as he stands, gradually comes back to coherence, she finds herself back in his thrall. She’s so charming, he says, a great conversationalist (ha!). So dashing and strong (that makes her feel warm in a way she doesn’t always say. He would like to know her better.
He gingerly takes his sandals to dangle from his fingers. He elects to stay barefoot, let’s her see the stretch in every half-step, and turns around to ask if she wants to go find a room. Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes. He winks to his friends across the bar, who’s exasperated but accepting faces tell a tale of her boy. And her pied piper leads her away with and on his ticklish feet, and she is too hypnotized to resist.
That night, she took him. And she took him with fingers wherever they could reach, and he laughed all the way to sleep.
...
It was foolish to want. She was she and he was he.
She was chiseled from rock. A being of sharp edges and hardness, forged in hardship and left twice as tough. Born on a half-dead mine world, raised on physical labor, fled to the stars and found solace as a killer for coin. Burly. Grim. Towering. Muscle and armor and a face more scar than skin. She was intimidating, she knew, and ugly, she suspected.
He was painted canvas. A beautiful flower, cultivated in softness and color. Some silver-spooned scion who never wanted for anything and found his need for purpose in making himself desirable. And succeeded. Slender and curved, moving with elegance and grace, dressed in what was both almost nothing and worth everything. Full lips colored blue, purple flecked over his eyes that looked of an ocean, flowing blond hair that shown in the bar’s light with his porcelain skin. And his laugh. A laugh like candy, like everything sweet in the world.
She felt like a voyeur, sitting there in that dark corner hidden from the bright neon of the dancefloor and the main bar, where her the boy was prancing about with a flock of his equally pretty friends in their slutty outfits. But she had eyes only for him. Devouring him with her hungry, lonely eyes. To a bared chest, to a slim stomach where a jewel dangled from a golden piercing. Over smooth bare legs down to his…his feet.
Clad in black, strapped sandals, a long strip between his toes that attached to silver anklets. Three glittering toe rings, one gold upon his right index, one gold and one silver on left index and middle. So pampered, so light in their step…and when they stepped, she saw. The sole of the sandal didn’t quite fully cover the bottom of the foot. She caught only glimpses of the flesh, but every glance she did filled her with an uncontrollable desire to touch it. To touch him.
And that giggle. Why did he giggle so much, over there?
What arcane lore were they discussing that brought the sugary sound to his painted lips so often, with a hand up to his face and a sway of his hips? Or even, no discussion at all. He would just laugh and titter to himself while sashaying across the dance floor. So balletic in his dances, hypnotic even with the silly tipsy frolicking he did with that lithe little body. How that skin, from flat stomach to long legs, caught the light, how those feet proved themselves so dexterous and quick. She stared at a treasure far beyond her reach, and wanted for what she couldn’t have.
And then he stared back.
She’d been shot before. Twenty-two times, at her last count. None of those bullets hit her like his eyes did. Not only was he looking at her, he was looking directly into her eyes. He tilted his head, curiosity evident. He knew. He knew she’d been staring at him.
She felt herself go red. Ripped her one eye of flesh and one of crude lensed metal away from the prize she didn’t deserve, and gulped the rest of her beer down in one swift motion. Think of anything else. Think of unappealing things. Think of blood and guts and pain, and everything she’d seen, she’d done, and banish the heat in her bones.
She looked up again. He hadn’t turned away. And now, he was smiling. He gave her a coy little wave, and she felt her heart stop.
She’d fought military grade robots, monstrous alien beasts, the toughest and most ruthless crime syndicates. But she’d never felt her fight or flight response flair quite as bad as it did when he started to saunter over to her table. Waved off his friends, who gave knowing looks of familiarity. Just a look at her, and then to him, and they knew.
She had been a hunter for all her life, yet the look he gave her made her feel like prey.
As soft as his footfalls (and no doubt, his feet, a traitorous part of her mind suggested) were, they sounded like thunder to her ears. Or perhaps that was just the sound of her heartbeat, overwhelming the bar’s cheesy pop number on the speakers. She could no longer look away from him now. The flow of curves on that perfect body, every contour of the bejeweled belly, the dainty trot of shapely feet across the ground. If anything, he ate her gaze with eagerness. He liked being looked at. He liked watching her watch him.
And he giggled.
She was dead. He’d killed her.
He’d killed her to sidle up right next to her table, introducing himself with a pretty pout. Giggled more at her stuttered introductions and slipped into the seat across from her. Looked deep into her eyes with sultry half-lid, framing his face through the backs of his hands. She can barely register his small talk, his words, focusing only on the flirty cadence to his voice. How he speaks with that honeyed sound, how he idly sways his legs from side to side underneath the table.
She gives him curt, nervous answers to his questions. He doesn’t seem to mind. Calls her adorable. Adorable? She’s ugly, she’s brutish, she’s not even worth being in his dust, but she doesn’t say that aloud, and only flushes and nods. He hexes her with his laugh again, and he notices how she reacts to it. He has an angle now, and she begins to realize he has her trapped.
Her eyes dart away from ocean blue lips she imagines entwined with hers. This too, is a bad idea, because what they focus on instead strikes her mind even harder.
His feet have curled to the side of the booth, and she can see how they move. The shine of the rings against the light, how toes flick together and wiggle. Wiggle like a lure on a fishing pole, and she’s taken the bait (not coincidently she wanted them in her mouth). He sighs dreamily while those feet (are they ticklish?) curve and kick. She can see the tunnel of sole between sandal and foot (is that ticklish?) before it closes, and opens again. Is he ticklish, is he ticklish, is he ticklish her mind repeats over and over.
To her horror, she realizes he sees where she stares. And that smug, evil smile of his gets just a little smugger, a little eviler. In one smooth motion, his legs stretch taut to plant his sandaled feet straight into her lap. The world stops in her head. He doesn’t. He hasn’t mentioned it at all. He simply continues his inane flirty small talk. But she can tell by the way he moves them, idles them side to side, that his intentions here are far from innocent.
He has given her an invitation. She finds herself eager to take it.
She nervously darts a finger against the side of the left sole, just a tiny slash against the opening. A test. A shock to her system. She feels like her heart will burst. Just that little test felt like the softest of silk pillows. And it confirms, delightfully wonderfully terrifyingly, in a shudder that runs through the both of them, that he’s ticklish. A strangled giggle that’s just a musical to her as the practiced purposeful ones, a lurch of the foot that visibly restrains his instincts from pulling away.
He continues babbling away about his drinking habits without a single acknowledgment. Except for one. The look he gives her, deep in her eyes. Keep going. That’s what it tells her. Keep going, keep touching, I’m ticklish, I’m super ticklish, and I love it.
Maybe she’s paraphrasing.
But she obeys the unspoken wish. It’s not like it isn’t everything she wants. Into the in-between, the space between sandal and sole, her finger goes once more. Buries itself deeper this time, to spelunk for more ticklish flesh. She finds a goldmine of it. She can only marvel at how plush these pretty scions can make their feet. It doesn’t seem possible, to her, for a human being to have soles that feel this nice.
He tries his best to keep up the masquerade. It’s part of the game to him, that’s clear. But it gets increasingly hard for him to do, as she explores and pushes her way through every crease of his arch. Something about the annoying habits of his university professor turns into hisses of air and puffed cheeks. She runs circles around a twitchy heel and catty gossip about his peers transforms into snorts he has to wave from his face with deep breaths.
He catches his breath while fluttering his hand over the rise and fall of his chest. Can’t have that. When he clears his throat to enlighten her to his mother’s high company position, she digs in her second hand to his right foot. Makes of both soles her feast. Scribbles this way and that and turns his words to putty. Giggles bubble more and more, perfect feet shaking from side to side and almost vibrating in her lap. He can only get out every third word but bless his ticklish heart he tries.
He's taking big gulps to try and talk about mother’s promotion and the new belly ring he wants to buy with her money when she goes for the toes. That’s when she wins his game, he concedes to her, concedes through full throated deep belly laughter that drowns any words he could possibly say. As much as he seems to enjoy it, his reflexes do not, and he loses his battle to keep his feet in place. Luckily, she’s a strong arm to come to the rescue. She locks his ankles in place to mesmerize herself with rapidly undulating toes that smack against sandal surface with a slight but wonderful noise. His laugh is loud, louder, louder, but still such a sweet sound, his hands wild in the booth. The noise attracts the baffled attention of bystanders, but she doesn’t even care. All she cares about is him, his feet, and tickling.
Now she’s the one to speak, to growl teasing words into his ears. Coochie coochie coo, she says, tickle tickle tickle. The power shifts into her favor, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems delighted…well, obviously he seems delighted, she’s tickling the snot out of him, but beyond that. The red on his face and lust in his eyes convinces her he wants this.
She can wait no longer. At last, she pops off the sandals to get his feet fully in her grasp. Let’s him have only a second to catch his breath and fan his face, before she cuts off his words again. Fingers spider into his soles, every bit of skin mined to nothing for the laughter they hid. He shrieks and buckles in the booth, a feral animal acting on instinct. She is, too. She tickles and tickles and tickles and tickles and tickles the-HER boy’s feet until they’re red and still jolting with phantom touches.
And then at last, she stops. She feels like her heart is going to beat straight out of her chest.
He’s a mess. His makeup is runny down his cheeks. His hair is frazzled, he pants like a dog. But by god, he looks happy. And she thinks he’s even more beautiful now than before.
She almost stops him from taking the feet from her lap. It feels unfair to deprive her of them now. But as he stands, gradually comes back to coherence, she finds herself back in his thrall. She’s so charming, he says, a great conversationalist (ha!). So dashing and strong (that makes her feel warm in a way she doesn’t always say. He would like to know her better.
He gingerly takes his sandals to dangle from his fingers. He elects to stay barefoot, let’s her see the stretch in every half-step, and turns around to ask if she wants to go find a room. Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes. He winks to his friends across the bar, who’s exasperated but accepting faces tell a tale of her boy. And her pied piper leads her away with and on his ticklish feet, and she is too hypnotized to resist.
That night, she took him. And she took him with fingers wherever they could reach, and he laughed all the way to sleep.
