Author: spaghetti PM
Shoes. Lust. Hockey. PoliSci midterms. Shoes. How one guy is vanquished by a really awesome pair of pumps. One-shot.Rated: Fiction T - English - Humor - Words: 1,737 - Reviews: 9 - Favs: 19 - Follows: 1 - Published: 06-30-09 - Status: Complete - id: 2691472
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
It's details, little things he first notices about her.
Well, okay, that's not entirely true.
What happens is this: it's the second POLS 250 lecture of the year and he's got his head in his backpack searching for a pen when the clip-clopping of high-heeled shoes stops next to him.
"Can I sit here?"
Of course, he sees her shoes first, God damn it. They're bright red open-toed pumps, showing off dainty ankles and polished nails.
All the blood leaves his brain. Fuck.
"Uh, yeah, sure," he says, leaning backward and getting a glance at the rest of her.
Slender legs, wider hips. White skirt with red trim, below the knee. Slim enough waist, big enough rack. White blouse, top button undone but not exposing much. Pleasant face, nice smile. White plastic earrings with little strawberries on them. Curly hair, fairly short.
"Thanks," she says, smiling, sitting down, crossing her ankles. His gaze is drawn back down to her shoes--no. Fuck. He needs to concentrate, get a good grade in this class.
She's looking away. Damnable hell. He wants her to pay attention to him again.
"You're very, uh, colour-coordinated today," he remarks, trying to sound nonchalant.
This makes her perk up and grin. She uncrosses her ankles--oh good God those shoes--and gestures to her outfit. "Thank you. I call it my strawberries and cream look."
"Nice," he says. Strawberries and cream, holy fuck. She is strawberries and cream, and he's kind of disturbed how much he wants to devour her.
Fortunately for his sanity, the lecture starts then, and he forces himself not to think about her delicious scrumptiousness. Or her shoes. Shit. Why is it always the shoes?
She sits next to him at the next lecture, too--this time, thank the Lord Almighty, she's wearing flats, shiny blue flats with bows on them, jeans, blue shirt, blue butterfly earrings. This time he barely looks at her feet--well, okay, he does look at them, but not as much as last time--and instead his attention is directed towards the fact that this shirt offers a pretty good view of her bra (not blue, surprisingly. Black. There's definitely some lace involved too. Oh, holy fuck).
"Feeling blue today, eh?" he asks, trying to distract himself.
"The lake is so pretty today, with the sun glinting off it, I just had to wear blue," she tells him seriously.
He laughs and they exchange a little more small talk.
It keeps on going like that--they sit together each lecture, talk, get to know more about each other. He gets to see a lot more of her concept outfits--but fortunately, it starts to get cold and rainy and she's usually wearing rainboots, which are almost unbearably cute but don't show off her feet, or old worn running shoes that he's ashamed to admit he's starting to find kind of hot.
And then midterms come around.
She's told him, in one of their many before-class chats, that she subscribes to the "look good, feel good, do good" philosophy. If you look good, you feel good, and if you feel good, you fucking kill that midterm dead.
Of course he hasn't realized that this means she's going to be writing the midterm sitting next to him looking fucking amazing.
At least not until she walks in wearing the shoes.
It's colder now, so she wears them with black tights, jean skirt, white blouse, red-black argyle sweater vest, red and gold bracelet, dangly gold earrings. Her hair's curled to perfection, her eyes lined, her lashes long and dark, her lips painted bright red.
And fuck, he's not going to pass this midterm.
Every time she's searching for a word, she taps her toe against the leg of her chair, drawing his attention again and again to the wonderful, awful, erotic spectacle that is her shoes.
Yeah, he's lucky she finishes the midterm within an hour, so he has thirty minutes without her to actually concentrate.
When he gets home afterwards, he's feeling frustrated and depressed.
"Yo. What's up?" Bryan seems to be relatively concerned, sitting beside him on the porch steps and hitting his shoulder. "How was your POLS midterm?"
Andy sits on his other side. "Think you passed?"
"Hell, no. Remember that chick I pointed out to you guys that one time at the library?"
They glance at each other and back at him. "The one who looked like an explosion at the Pepto-Bismol factory?"
"Hey, that was her bubble-gum outfit!" he starts to defend her, then stops and sighs, defeated. "Yeah, that's her. Well, today she showed up for the midterm looking completely like she just stepped out of a magazine or off a TV screen or something, and she was wearing these shoes--"
"Shoes?" Andy and Bryan ask in unison, exchanging another look.
"Yes, shoes. Bright red open-toed pumps."
Bryan looks concerned. "Um, bud, are you sure there's nothing you want to tell us? Like about your sexual orientation, or anything?"
This isn't what he needs. "Fuck off. Look--remember that chick I dated the beginning of last year? Sophie? The one you couldn't understand why I was into her?"
They nod, clearly unsure of where this is going.
"Well, it was really because she had these amazing feet--they were so, like, I don't know, nicely shaped, and graceful, and she painted her toenails pink and put little flowers on them, and she had this one pair of black stilettos--"
"Oh, my God. You have a foot fetish? That's why you dated crazy ugly no-chest Sophie? Because you have a foot fetish?"
He glares at Andy. "I do not have a foot fetish. I just think high heels are sexy. Okay? And besides, Sophie was a very kind and intelligent person. It totally wasn't her fault about the generalized anxiety disorder, she couldn't control it."
"Dude." Bryan shakes his head. "You have a foot fetish."
"I don't have a fucking foot fetish, okay? I just--so this chick, she sits next to me in POLS all the time, and she was wearing these shoes--don't laugh--and I kept looking at them, and every few minutes she would start tapping her toes and then I would look at them again and I couldn't concentrate on my midterm and--what?"
Both Andy and Bryan are falling over themselves laughing, and he's not entirely sure why.
"You could be distracted by so many things--her hair, or her legs, or her ass, or her boobs--"
"And she does have an ample bosom," Andy interjected.
"Andy, did you just have that 19th century lit class you took to meet chicks?"
Bryan shakes his head and pushes Andy off the steps. "Anyway, man--this chick, is she hot from the ankles up?"
He doesn't even have to think about it. "Fuck, yeah."
"So why not go for it?"
Go for it? "I barely know her, we just sit next to each other in one class!"
"Oh, right, because she could be worse than Sophie the generally anxious," Andy snorts from the ground.
"Fuck you," he says and storms away.
But it's something he can't help thinking about as the weeks wear by.
One afternoon in lecture, he doodles "Maple Leafs" on the corner of his notes.
"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," she says, reaching under his arm to scrawl "SUCK BALLS" under his favourite team's name.
"Hey." He pushes her arm away, kind of wishing he didn't have to. "Not a Leafs fan, eh?"
"Are you kidding me? When's the last time they made the Stanley Cup finals, like, the sixties or something? Face it--they suck, big-time."
"Balls, apparently. But, sucking or not, they're still my team."
She rolls her eyes. "You from Toronto?"
"Then why are they your team?"
"Sentimental favourites. They've always been my team, always will be."
Her smirk makes him a bit nervous. "We'll see."
The next lecture, she's wearing the shoes.
She's wearing the shoes, with jeans, a white shirt, black jacket, red scarf, gold bracelet, little dangly earrings he can't really see.
And when she looks at him, he can see the smirk in her eyes, and all he can think is that, damn it all to hell, she knows. Somehow, she knows.
"What do you think of my outfit today?" she asks, him stretching out her legs and altogether putting her feet in a far too prominent position.
"Nice shoes," he comments, because she can clearly see him looking at them.
"They're cute, eh? I bought them to match these earrings." And then she shows him her earrings.
And there, dangling from her ears in all its miniature red-black-gold glory, is the Sens logo.
Now the Sens will always and forever be linked in his mind to those (awesome, incredible, mind-blowing) shoes.
And she knows it--he sees the self-satisfied smirk, the glimmer in her eyes.
"So," she says after a few minutes of silence. "How'bout them Leafs, eh?"
She smiles and he wants to jump her right here, right now, in the middle of a crowded lecture hall. "Victory is sweet."
Okay, a couple of things:
1. GO SENS GO! I know, totally failed in the playoffs this year, but we will return. We will.
2. On the pronunciation of "Toronto": despite Sandra Bullock's performance in The Proposal (hilarious movie) the name is actually pronounced "trawno." Or "trawna" if you're really lazy.
3. Happy Canada Day guys! I figured I'd post this today due to th overwhelming amount of CanCon. Although I'm currently writing something about an OPP officer which contains a lot of Canada/Ontario references. Yeah.
4. So, I'm not sure how well I captured the male POV... it's something I have a little bit of trouble with... so if you guys can review and tell me how I did it would be awesome!