Title - Too Sexy
Author - MidKnight2501
E-Mail address - MidKnightslair@juno.com
Rating - G
Category - Humor. Horror.
Pairing (if needed) - None.
Warnings - Kenneth Irons stripping and singing about his ‘sexiness’
Spoilers - None, AU.
Summary - Somethings in the Witchblade universe are so arcane, dark, and mind-wrenchingly evil that they should never be seen. Kenneth Irons dancing for instance.
Ian Nottingham squatted on the window ledge surveying the surrounding blocks. All was silent in the night. He’d gone off on a training sojourn the day before and was now returning from it. Jumping silently he landed on a window ledge twenty feet distant just as quietly.
A stereo blared on, causing the assassin to tense in anticipation of a sudden attack.
I’m too sexy for my love, too sexy for my love, love’s going to leave me…
Peering into the window of his employer, Kenneth Irons, he saw a sight and heard a song he would never have thought possible in conjunction with the man previously mentioned. Kenneth stood in the middle of the large and ornate living room with the stereo blaring.
I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts…
To Ian’s utter horror Kenneth began to gyrate his lean hips to the old 80’s tune. With his eyes closed his hands drifted to his shirt, unbuttoning it slowly with the tune of the song. A pale, but hard muscled chest was revealed along with a killer six-pack.
And I’m too sexy for Milan, too sexy for Milan, New York, and Japan…
Ian watched his employer prance about the room, shimmying to the music, and whirling his shirt around in the air like a cheap stripper.
I’m too sexy for your party, too sexy your party, no way I’m disco dancing…
Despite what the music said he would not do Kenneth spun on the polished floor, in a move reminiscent of Saturday Night Fever, and pointed one hand into the air, the other on his hip. He then executed a split to envy any ballet dancers, sliding to the floor and then sliding back up to his feet in time for the next line.
I’m a model, you know what I mean, and I do my little turn on the catwalk, on the catwalk, on the catwalk, I do my little turn on the catwalk…
Watching Kenneth Irons primp his hair with one hand and slide the other along his hip seductively as he shook his hips and ‘catwalked’ was too much for Ian.
The assassin fled screaming into the night.
