first lines meme response
Sep. 13th, 2006 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chanter1944OK, I just have to say that for this one, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
medie made me do it. :)
Really though she did, as this is my answer to her first lines meme and also a reply to her five people Sam Carter met in 2265. It was her description of Delenn that sparked this, and I'm shamelessly playing with a B5/SG1-verse that she dreamed up--please don't kill me for this? It just had to be written.
Title: Who’s That Girl?
Author: Chanter
Series: B5/SG1
Characters/pairings: Susan/Janet
Rating: NC17
Summary: She’s never done anything like this before. A not so typical day in Ivanova’s life.
711 words
She’s never done anything like this before. That is, been tempted to dash out of a meeting because she can’t sit still for a reason other than being furious at the representative across the table. Or down the table. Or wherever the hell the person pissing her off is sitting. But she is, and she can’t, and for the better part of the hour-long briefing she clenches icy hands in her lap and quietly squirms.
“Who’s that girl?”
When she’s finally, mercifully free to get up and get the hell out, she catches fragments of conversations bouncing off walls and around corners. They’re all wondering, they’re curious in twenty languages and Susan isn’t surprised. And it’s not as though she doesn’t know who they’re talking about, or no the answers to the million questions filtering down the corridors and from sector to sector, interspecies wildfire even on over a five mile expanse. It might as well be fifty meters for all the good the relative secrecy’s done. Who’s that woman? Where did she come from?
Mars is the official answer, and ninety-nine percent of the people who hear it will take that answer at face value and run with it--she probably came with the blonde, that pretty physicist, the scientist on loan to Ivanova’s ship. You know, that one. Maybe she’s a girlfriend, or just a colleague, or who the hell knows? But in the middle of an interstellar seat of commerce you can’t ever really be sure, and Susan’s not taking any chances letting the truth get out beyond the senior staff. Even that was pushing it, what with Garibaldi’s past betrayal subconscious though it may have been and the psycops still drifting in and out of visibility. She’s not taking any chances.
None at all.
Who’s that girl? Who’s that dark-haired one? The heat has been building between her thighs since she laid eyes on the other woman, so much shorter and more delicate than susan ever was; no earrings, medical bag slung over one shoulder and that tiny crystal butterfly dangling on a hair-thin chain around her neck. Brown hair, red tinted. And brown eyes she could almost have drowned in and what a hell of an amazing way to go under.
She can’t get back to her quarters fast enough when the day’s over, and she’s tempted to change her lock code once she’s finally in the door the better to keep any peeping Tom Dick or Michael from accidentally walking into a room they’ve quietly figured out entry to and surprising her. She imagines a much softer pair of hands dealing with her uniform, warm breath against her neck and a deliciously audible accent murmuring soft encouragements in her ear. Relax. I know exactly what I’m doing.
She comes with a single name caught in her throat, teeth closed so tightly on the edge of her quilt that she’s surprised her mouth hasn’t sprouted feathers by the time she lets it go. She’s choking back half-hysterical sobs and stifling the urge to scream out her pleasure, forcing herself not to allow the ecstasy of the moment to carry through a wall or under a door, mentally replacing her own hands with far more skillful ones and riding out the intensity of the climax that grips her until she falls back, shivering, whimpering and trickling exhausted tears into the relative silence as she finally, completely relaxes.
It’s a single name she’s mumbling into the air, and if any of the telepaths on the station pick it up they won’t have a hard time guessing exactly who’s been on their commander’s mind in the throes of... whatever she’s just been in the throes of. She’s relying on their discretion with this one, and she has no doubt in some cloudy, spent corner of her mind that she’ll spend the better part of tonight thinking up colorful threats to use on anyone who does happen to let that single name slip.
“Janet.”
Somewhere between wakefulness and the heavy, dreamless sleep that seizes her once she’s worn herself silent and still and doesn’t dare move another inch or risk starting everything over, she resolves to get to know Dr. Janet Fraiser of Mars. Starting tomorrow.
As early as possible.
medie made me do it. :) Really though she did, as this is my answer to her first lines meme and also a reply to her five people Sam Carter met in 2265. It was her description of Delenn that sparked this, and I'm shamelessly playing with a B5/SG1-verse that she dreamed up--please don't kill me for this? It just had to be written.
Title: Who’s That Girl?
Author: Chanter
Series: B5/SG1
Characters/pairings: Susan/Janet
Rating: NC17
Summary: She’s never done anything like this before. A not so typical day in Ivanova’s life.
711 words
She’s never done anything like this before. That is, been tempted to dash out of a meeting because she can’t sit still for a reason other than being furious at the representative across the table. Or down the table. Or wherever the hell the person pissing her off is sitting. But she is, and she can’t, and for the better part of the hour-long briefing she clenches icy hands in her lap and quietly squirms.
“Who’s that girl?”
When she’s finally, mercifully free to get up and get the hell out, she catches fragments of conversations bouncing off walls and around corners. They’re all wondering, they’re curious in twenty languages and Susan isn’t surprised. And it’s not as though she doesn’t know who they’re talking about, or no the answers to the million questions filtering down the corridors and from sector to sector, interspecies wildfire even on over a five mile expanse. It might as well be fifty meters for all the good the relative secrecy’s done. Who’s that woman? Where did she come from?
Mars is the official answer, and ninety-nine percent of the people who hear it will take that answer at face value and run with it--she probably came with the blonde, that pretty physicist, the scientist on loan to Ivanova’s ship. You know, that one. Maybe she’s a girlfriend, or just a colleague, or who the hell knows? But in the middle of an interstellar seat of commerce you can’t ever really be sure, and Susan’s not taking any chances letting the truth get out beyond the senior staff. Even that was pushing it, what with Garibaldi’s past betrayal subconscious though it may have been and the psycops still drifting in and out of visibility. She’s not taking any chances.
None at all.
Who’s that girl? Who’s that dark-haired one? The heat has been building between her thighs since she laid eyes on the other woman, so much shorter and more delicate than susan ever was; no earrings, medical bag slung over one shoulder and that tiny crystal butterfly dangling on a hair-thin chain around her neck. Brown hair, red tinted. And brown eyes she could almost have drowned in and what a hell of an amazing way to go under.
She can’t get back to her quarters fast enough when the day’s over, and she’s tempted to change her lock code once she’s finally in the door the better to keep any peeping Tom Dick or Michael from accidentally walking into a room they’ve quietly figured out entry to and surprising her. She imagines a much softer pair of hands dealing with her uniform, warm breath against her neck and a deliciously audible accent murmuring soft encouragements in her ear. Relax. I know exactly what I’m doing.
She comes with a single name caught in her throat, teeth closed so tightly on the edge of her quilt that she’s surprised her mouth hasn’t sprouted feathers by the time she lets it go. She’s choking back half-hysterical sobs and stifling the urge to scream out her pleasure, forcing herself not to allow the ecstasy of the moment to carry through a wall or under a door, mentally replacing her own hands with far more skillful ones and riding out the intensity of the climax that grips her until she falls back, shivering, whimpering and trickling exhausted tears into the relative silence as she finally, completely relaxes.
It’s a single name she’s mumbling into the air, and if any of the telepaths on the station pick it up they won’t have a hard time guessing exactly who’s been on their commander’s mind in the throes of... whatever she’s just been in the throes of. She’s relying on their discretion with this one, and she has no doubt in some cloudy, spent corner of her mind that she’ll spend the better part of tonight thinking up colorful threats to use on anyone who does happen to let that single name slip.
“Janet.”
Somewhere between wakefulness and the heavy, dreamless sleep that seizes her once she’s worn herself silent and still and doesn’t dare move another inch or risk starting everything over, she resolves to get to know Dr. Janet Fraiser of Mars. Starting tomorrow.
As early as possible.
