"It's Definitely The Shoes"
It's the details, the little things Flash Sentry first notices about her.
Well, okay, that's not entirely true.
It was only the third day of the new school 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?" said a sensual sounding voice.
Of course, he sees her shoes first, Hot damn. They're bright purple 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 (not so subtle) glance at the rest of her.
Slender legs, slightly wider hips. White skirt with purple trimmings, below the knee. Big enough rack to be enticing, but not overly so. Purple blouse, top button slightly but not exposing much. Beautiful face, and a smile that was more of a smirk than anything else and her eyes seem to glow almost. White plastic earrings with what appeared to some type of jewel, possibly amethyst embedded in them. Curly orange-hazel hair, fairly long as it reached towards the bottom of her back.
"Thanks," she says, smiling, sitting down, crossing her ankles. His gaze is drawn back down to her shoes--no. Damn it. He needs to concentrate, get a good grade in this class.
She was looking away. God damn it. He wants her to pay attention to him again.
"Hi there, name's Flash Sentry," he says, introducing himself to the admitedly sexy girl next to him, looking her in the eye.
"Adagio. Adagio Dazzle," God, the way she said that even sounds sexy. But, those shoes...
"So you're very, uh, color-coordinated," he nonchalantly remarks, trying to make conversation.
This makes her perk up and smirk. She uncrosses her ankles--oh good God those shoes--and gestures to her outfit. "Thank you. I call it my 'berries and cream' look."
"Nice," he says. Berries and cream, holy hell. She is berries and cream, and he's kind of disturbed how much he wants to devour her in more ways than one.
Fortunately for his sanity, the teacher's lecture starts then, and he forces himself not to think about her delicious scrumptiousness. Her eyes. Or her shoes. Shit. Why is it always the shoes?
She sits next to him the following day, too--this time, thank the Lord Almighty, she's wearing flats, shiny baby blue flats, tight-fitting black denim jeans, a baby blue blouse, 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, man...
"Feeling blue today, eh?" he asks, trying to distract himself by making conversation.
"Why, of course. The sky is so beautiful today, I just had to wear blue," she tells him seriously with a straight face.
He laughs and they exchange a more small talk.
It keeps on going like that--they sit together each class, talk, get to know more about each other. He gets to see a lot more of her concept outfits--but fortunately, winter comes as it starts to get cold and rainy and she's usually wearing rain boots, 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'll kill that midterm dead.
Of course, he hasn't realized that this means she's going to be taking the midterm next to him looking fucking amazing.
At least not until she walks in wearing those damn sexy shoes.
It's colder now, so she wears them with black tights, jean skirt, white blouse, crimson red sweater vest, gold neckless with a alluring scarlet jem, dangly gold earrings. Her hair's curled to perfection, her eyes lined, her lashes long and dark, emphasizing her glimmering red eyes.
Well fuck, he's definitely 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, terrible, erotic spectacle that is her shoes. Blood red open-toed pumps. God...
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.
"Damn it!"
"Yo. What's up, Flash?" His friend, Thunderlane, seems to be relatively concerned, sitting beside him on the porch steps and hitting his shoulder. "How was your midterm?"
His second buddy, Noteworthy, sits on his opposite 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. "You mean that one really hot girl who looked like she fell into vat of Pepto-Bismol?"
"Seriously, you think someone like Rarity would wear something like that," Noteworthy stated.
"Hey lay off, that was a awesome outfit! Pink looks good on her," he starts to defend her, then stops and then sighs, defeated. "Yeah, that's her. Well, today she showed up for the midterm looking completely like she just stepped out of a Playboy magazine or off a TV show or something, and she was wearing these shoes--"
"Shoes?" Noteworthy and Thunderlane asked in unison, exchanging another look.
"Yes, shoes. Bright red open-toed pumps."
Thunder looks rather concerned. "Um, bud, are you sure there's nothing you want to tell us? Like about your sexual orientation, or anything?"
"We won't judge, bro," Noteworthy chimmed in.
He didn't need this right now. "Fuck off. Look--remember that one girl I dated the beginning of last year? Roseluck? 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 that crazy no-chest Rose girl? Because you have a foot fetish?"
He glares at Thunder. "I don't have a foot fetish. I just think high heels are sexy. Okay? And besides, Roseluck was a very kind and intelligent person. It totally wasn't her fault about the generalized anxiety disorder, she couldn't control it."
"Dude." Note shakes his head, putting his hand on his shoulder. "You have a foot fetish." he says with a straight face.
Asshole.
"I don't have a freaking foot fetish, okay? I just--so this chick, she sits next to me in midterm 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 Note and Thunder 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--"
"Indeed, she does have an ample bosom," Note interjected.
Silence.
"Note, didn't you just have that 19th century lit class you took to meet chicks?"
"Um... yeah."
Thunder shakes his head and pushes Note off the steps onto the ground. "Anyway, man--this chick, is she hot from the ankles up?"
He doesn't even have to think about it. "Hell yes."
"So why not just go for it?"Noteworthy inquires from the ground.
Go for it? "I barely know her, we just sit next to each other in one class!" It was a poor excuse but, the only one he could think of.
"Oh, right, because she could be worse than Roseluck, the generally anxious flower girl," Thunder snorts .
"Screw you guys," he says as he slings his guitar over his shoulder and storms away.
But it's something he can't help thinking about as the weeks passed by.
The next lecture, she's wearing 'the shoes'.
She's wearing 'the shoes', with jeans, a white shirt, black jacket, violet scarf, gold bracelet, and the same golden necklace with the red gem within the center.
And when she looks at him, he can see the amusement in her eyes, and knowing smirk on her full lips 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, hmm?" she asks, him stretching out her legs and altogether putting her feet in a far too prominent position.
"Awesome shoes," he comments, because she can clearly see him looking at them.
"They're cute, eh? My sisters actually suggested them to me and I thought they matched these earrings perfectly," And then she shows him her earrings.
And there, dangling from her ears in all its miniature red and gold glory, is the design of a Siren .
Huh.
Now the Siren will always and forever be linked in his mind to those (awesome, incredidible, and mind-blowing) shoes.
And she knows it--he sees the self-satisfied smirk, the glimmer in her eyes. Her eyes appeared to flash red temporarily though he thought he was just seeing things.
"So," she says after a few minutes of silence. "Are you any good with that guitar?"
"Hell yeah I am!" he says confidently
"Wonderful. I hope I'll have the opportunity to hear you play then," she says smiling beautifully as her eyes flashes red once again and he suddenly wants to jump her right here, right now, in the middle of a crowded classroom. Then his lustful expression changes as his eyes instantly becomes dazed and devoid of life.
She then smirks sinisterly as she silently comments, "One more down." She gazed across the classroom, looking into her fellows classmates dazed, lifeless expressions. She grins viciously.
Victory is sweet, indeed.
Author's Note
So, that's it. In the fic, I tried to go with a more realistic approach to the Sirens, specifically Adagio. They're seductresses and I tried to make it more....subtle I suppose. I don't know, you guys tell me.
Oh and P.S, Flash definitely has a raging foot fetish. (Or shoe fetish in this case).
But that begs the question: Was it the truly Adagio charm magic or Flash fetish for pumps?
Eh, kinda both.
