Post by Alliecat on Apr 14, 2013 7:01:15 GMT 10
Title: Blinders On
Rating: PG
Word Count: 693
Pairing: Alanna/Jonathan
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Jon is too good looking for his own good.
:::
It is ridiculously difficult not to stare at Jon when he talks.
There, she said it.
It isn’t necessarily his face, the way his mouth quirks up at the corners or how his deep blue eyes demand attention. No, it’s his regal authority, his rich velvet voice, his sharp—
Okay, it’s his face.
Alanna blushes briefly and curls her toes before forcing her face blank. Focus, she mutters inside her head. You’re at a meeting. There are people here. They’re probably watching you. Biting the inside of her cheek, she turns her face away from the front of the room to smile at Gary.
Jonathan sits at the head of a long mahogany table, his hands folded on the table and a large stack of papers to his left. He clears his throat and Alanna’s gaze is sent spinning back towards him. She tries watching the man to his left (Lord Portbrut? Portabella? Potbelly? She can’t remember.) but it’s futile.
Listen, Alanna scolds herself. They’re talking about flooding in the South. It must be very important.
Not as important as Jonathan’s eyes. He’s scratching his head now, and she can’t help but wonder if his hair is still as full as it was years ago. Alanna remembers the time she convinced him that she had found a grey hair (He had gone ballistic, his hands shaking in a nervous panic as he tried to peek at the back of his head through a mirror. Alanna spent hours laughing afterwards as Jon glared and kept repeating “it’s not funny.”) The memory causes a bubble of laughter to rise in her throat, and she barely manages to catch it in time.
He could call on you, she tries, still fighting giggles. Jon could turn to you at this very moment and ask you a blatant question in front of all these people. And you won’t know the answer, because you’re too busy ogling.
The thought of public humiliation is slightly sobering, but his eyes.
Jonathan turns the discussion over to the man to his left (Lord Portbaunt, she recalls), and it’s really no surprise that it’s ridiculously difficult not to stare at Jonathan even when he isn’t speaking. In fact it’s easier, because she doesn’t have to feel like she’s drowning in both his eyes and his voice.
Stop it, she told herself. You love George. You chose him, not Jon.
But.
Well, there’s really no harm in staring.
People stare at all sorts of things. You stare at breakfast as it’s being served. That’s not dangerous. Jon is going to notice, and it will be awkward. No he won’t, because he’s used to people staring at him all the time.
They’re talking about education now, and even though that’s something Alanna truly cares about, today nothing seems to matter.
It matters. Focus.
But.
It’s Friday. Clearly Alanna isn’t the only one focusing because today is Friday, and no one focuses on anything important on Friday.
Right.
You’re being ridiculous.
So?
Her vision drops to his hands, and she remembers how they felt on her arms, across her back, in her hair. She wonders if you can still see the small scar on his thumb, the one he got that night they were hiking in the woods, one of their stolen, silent, secret moments. Jon had been overeager to skin a duck, and, in the dark, had hit his own hand with a blade. He’d left the rest of the hunting to Alanna for that weekend.
Inhaling sharply, Alanna shuts her eyes. I am going to count to three, and then I am going to look at Raoul.
One. Two. Three. She smiles at Raoul, who stares back, clearly bored senseless.
I wonder if Jon—
No.
Focus.
But—
Eyes on Raoul.
There’s sounds of shifting, and Alanna looks back to the head of the table. Jon has risen, and, after struggling to get her legs out from under the table, Alanna rises as well, exhaling softly.
“Do you have plans for later?” Raoul asks once they’ve stepped away from the table.
“You know,” Alanna says, grinning, “I could really use a drink right now.”
Rating: PG
Word Count: 693
Pairing: Alanna/Jonathan
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Jon is too good looking for his own good.
:::
It is ridiculously difficult not to stare at Jon when he talks.
There, she said it.
It isn’t necessarily his face, the way his mouth quirks up at the corners or how his deep blue eyes demand attention. No, it’s his regal authority, his rich velvet voice, his sharp—
Okay, it’s his face.
Alanna blushes briefly and curls her toes before forcing her face blank. Focus, she mutters inside her head. You’re at a meeting. There are people here. They’re probably watching you. Biting the inside of her cheek, she turns her face away from the front of the room to smile at Gary.
Jonathan sits at the head of a long mahogany table, his hands folded on the table and a large stack of papers to his left. He clears his throat and Alanna’s gaze is sent spinning back towards him. She tries watching the man to his left (Lord Portbrut? Portabella? Potbelly? She can’t remember.) but it’s futile.
Listen, Alanna scolds herself. They’re talking about flooding in the South. It must be very important.
Not as important as Jonathan’s eyes. He’s scratching his head now, and she can’t help but wonder if his hair is still as full as it was years ago. Alanna remembers the time she convinced him that she had found a grey hair (He had gone ballistic, his hands shaking in a nervous panic as he tried to peek at the back of his head through a mirror. Alanna spent hours laughing afterwards as Jon glared and kept repeating “it’s not funny.”) The memory causes a bubble of laughter to rise in her throat, and she barely manages to catch it in time.
He could call on you, she tries, still fighting giggles. Jon could turn to you at this very moment and ask you a blatant question in front of all these people. And you won’t know the answer, because you’re too busy ogling.
The thought of public humiliation is slightly sobering, but his eyes.
Jonathan turns the discussion over to the man to his left (Lord Portbaunt, she recalls), and it’s really no surprise that it’s ridiculously difficult not to stare at Jonathan even when he isn’t speaking. In fact it’s easier, because she doesn’t have to feel like she’s drowning in both his eyes and his voice.
Stop it, she told herself. You love George. You chose him, not Jon.
But.
Well, there’s really no harm in staring.
People stare at all sorts of things. You stare at breakfast as it’s being served. That’s not dangerous. Jon is going to notice, and it will be awkward. No he won’t, because he’s used to people staring at him all the time.
They’re talking about education now, and even though that’s something Alanna truly cares about, today nothing seems to matter.
It matters. Focus.
But.
It’s Friday. Clearly Alanna isn’t the only one focusing because today is Friday, and no one focuses on anything important on Friday.
Right.
You’re being ridiculous.
So?
Her vision drops to his hands, and she remembers how they felt on her arms, across her back, in her hair. She wonders if you can still see the small scar on his thumb, the one he got that night they were hiking in the woods, one of their stolen, silent, secret moments. Jon had been overeager to skin a duck, and, in the dark, had hit his own hand with a blade. He’d left the rest of the hunting to Alanna for that weekend.
Inhaling sharply, Alanna shuts her eyes. I am going to count to three, and then I am going to look at Raoul.
One. Two. Three. She smiles at Raoul, who stares back, clearly bored senseless.
I wonder if Jon—
No.
Focus.
But—
Eyes on Raoul.
There’s sounds of shifting, and Alanna looks back to the head of the table. Jon has risen, and, after struggling to get her legs out from under the table, Alanna rises as well, exhaling softly.
“Do you have plans for later?” Raoul asks once they’ve stepped away from the table.
“You know,” Alanna says, grinning, “I could really use a drink right now.”