One-shots, two-shots, and three-shots of all the LWA stuff that I've written. There's a variety of ships to enjoy. These are based off of dates of publication (which I will put), so the writing will see an increase in quality as the stories go on.
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| Third-Person, Switching (Amanda & Lotte); Themes of Demisexuality, Pining, First Relationships (kinda? i dunno) |
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. . .
Never in a million years did she believe, for a second, that her pining would go this far.
It started as a fleeting, curious thought—honest. Just a swift, What do her eyes look like actually? From behind those thick lenses. Without the glasses, really.
But then it leapt into How many freckles can I count? Can I trace constellations across them? Or, How fluffy is her hair? What's it look like without the headband?
Does she get mad? Like, real mad?
What songs does she sing? What's her voice like?
Innocent wonderings, truth be told. Things that she'd never admit aloud—because, damn, if anybody knew how much of a dork she actually was, she'd never hear the end of it. Or the beginning of it, if the talk started behind her back. Not like gossip, though. More like..., uh, quiet...observations. Which her friends were keen to make.
But not her. No.
Because she never gossiped. Seldom ever fretted her opinion on others.
...though she wanted to hear her voice. In and outside of song. Didn't matter. Everything about her was a melody. Every time she laid eyes on her, there they were, notes she couldn't sing—for those eyes behind the glasses; for the freckles she never would have the math to count; for the anger she wanted to ignite, just to see how perfect a wildfire she'd be.
Then.
After a rough evening, and all she wanted to do was slough the day off her shoulders, her curiosity festered.
What would she sound like in my bunk? Loud? Quiet? Probably quiet...
Would her glasses fog? Or would she lend them to the desk and follow my lead? Only for a little while.
Is there a universe to those freckles? Or is the rest of her body earthbound?
The rough evening dumped and left her in an aroused slog. Nothing to do about it—not with her teammates there, one above, and one to the left, in their respective bunks. Alleviating it that night wouldn't have done much anyway. Not really. Because her curiosity, those questions—all of it—followed her through each class, mugged her heart at gunpoint every time she so much as looked her way. Smile and all. With freckles to count, and a voice to swoon, and lips to capture...
Oh fuck the Nine. Amanda O'Neill had it bad for Lotte Jansson, didn't she?
