Imperfect Beginnings | NC17 | The Closer
Title: Imperfect Beginnings
Prompt: She’d try to convince herself that they weren’t just drunk.
Fandom: Brenda/Sharon, The Closer
Requested by: imustgofirst
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 1661
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: This is another incentive story for imustgofirst, who is busy being an academic BAMF. The prompt for this fic was “bartender.” My writing self-esteem is not as high as it could be these days, but I really hope that this is enjoyable for those who read it. I’d love to hear what you think.
-
Sharon would later try to piece together how it happened, if it had been the bartender’s generous hand when mixing their drinks or simply the product of too many years of simmering attraction. She’d try to convince herself that they weren’t just drunk-that maybe they were just sick and tired of putting off the inevitable.
She’ll think about it eventually, but now is not the time. Right now, she’s being pushed up against the wall in Brenda’s foyer, her skirt bunched up against her hips while the blonde’s clammy, insistent hands rub her through the lace of her panties. The world is spinning, tilting off its axis. This isn’t supposed to happen yet. In the recesses of Sharon’s inebriated mind, she knows she’s supposed to be waiting to do this until Brenda’s officially single - or at least until Fritz has moved out of the house. He’s away tonight, Sharon remembers Brenda saying. She hopes he won’t come back early. They’re taking a huge risk, but Sharon doesn’t give a damn. She should, but she doesn’t.
They’ve been teasing around this point for too long, flirting and coveting and waiting. Maybe it was the alcohol that did it. Maybe, with the help of a little too much whiskey, Sharon decided that she didn’t give a damn about waiting until Brenda’s a free agent. She wants her right fucking now.
She’s sick of the hot-cold, push-pull dance they’ve been doing. She’s sick of doing the right thing and she’s damn well sick of waiting.
Brenda, for her part, appears to be just as desperate as Sharon. She’s panting incoherent words in Sharon’s ear, a wailing chant that sounds like “yesohyesfucksohotwhyareyoulikethisohgod” - Sharon will tease her for it later, but right now the scratch of lace against her clit is driving her crazy. Brenda’s not quite in the right place, a few centimeters off. The tiny, smug voice that resides in the back of Sharon’s mind mocks Brenda’s sloppy fumblings, but who the hell is Sharon to judge? At least Brenda is finally touching her.
Even in a sober state, Sharon knew their first time wouldn’t be perfect. There’d be no smooth jazz playing over the stereo, no golden hues strewn about the room by candlelight, no perfectly scripted touches and endless orgasms. Sharon’s no fool. She knows reality doesn’t play out like a tacky Harlequin novel. She knows they’d get things wrong, that they’d touch too hard or not hard enough, that they’d be overconfident or too timid.
Maybe because of the alcohol, Sharon doesn’t think twice about gripping her fingers around Brenda’s wrist and wrenching her hand away, only to slide her fingers beneath the lace. She covers the other woman’s hand with her own and guides her into the correct place. She’s all molten heat down here, and she’s wetter than she expected to be. She didn’t know she could get this wet at her age without a little help, but she’s not that surprised, not when it comes to Brenda Leigh Johnson.
Brenda’s eyes widen, as if this is the first time she’s never felt a stiff, engorged clitoris before. Maybe it is; she can’t remember if Brenda has done this before with a woman, but Sharon doesn’t want to think about Brenda fucking anyone else but her ever again. Brown eyes dilate before being hidden away beneath closed eyelids. Brenda tilts her head back almost as if completely in rapture, sighing as she presses hard against Sharon’s clit. “Oh for heaven’s sake…”
Sharon is awed by Brenda’s reaction, but the aching between her legs is driving her mad. “Like this,” she coos in a low, throaty voice. She moves her hand and encourages Brenda to stroke her. Their fingers entangle, spreading the wetness in unison.
Brenda snaps her eyes open, peering down at the two hands stuffed into Sharon’s panties. She grins. “Let me,” she orders, donning her deputy chief voice, and Sharon complies. Who the hell is she to disobey a direct order? The sound of that particular tone makes her think of this happening in Brenda’s office, and she grows a little wetter at the thought. Imagining Brenda fucking her like this up against her desk or a wall or the door has been a secret little fantasy of hers, something she’d never let happen but something she imagines whenever she’s alone in bed with her vibrator-which is more often than she’d ever admit.
Without Sharon’s hand for guidance, Brenda’s movements lack finesse-but at least now she’s in the right place. Sharon tells herself that this will be better when they’re sober, but when Brenda begins a rhythmic pattern of small circles around her clit, Sharon gives in and admits that the other woman is doing just fine.
Sharon suddenly feels lightheaded-(how much did she drink?)-but she can’t stop, not when she’s so close to the release she’s been aching for. The sounds of moans fill her ears, and she’s surprised to realize that they are not coming from her. She opens her eyes (when had she closed them?) and sees, to her surprise, that Brenda’s free hand is now between her own legs. She’s hitched up her dress and she’s rubbing herself the way that she’s rubbing Sharon.
The captain lets out a groan, her head thudding back against the wall when she can no longer keep her eyes fixed on the wanton display happening right in front of her. Is this the alcohol that’s infused Brenda Leigh with such boldness, or is she just as impatient to get off? Brenda’s teeth scrape against her throat and Sharon shudders, her knees buckling as they bow beneath her quivering body. She’s so close, embarrassingly close, and if she could just tell Brenda to-
--but Sharon doesn’t need to tell Brenda a damn thing, because those fingers pause against her clit for just a moment because Brenda’s made herself come, and the sight of the deputy chief shuddering in exquisite release is enough to prompt Sharon to do the same. Their climaxes are almost in sync, and Sharon would roll her eyes at the cliché if she didn’t feel so fucking good. Her body shakes and her tongue feels like sandpaper but her whole body tingles despite the strangeness and desperation of their first sexual encounter.
Brenda pulls her hands out of their respective panties and collapses her bodyweight against Sharon’s, crushing her against the wall as she inhales great, shuddering breaths. “Oh Sharon,” she whispers, and her voice is laden with so much raw emotion that Sharon nearly forgets that they’re drunk and still entirely clothed.
And really, when she thinks about it, it doesn’t matter that they haven’t done things according to plan. It doesn’t really matter that they’ve had a few too many and that they’ve had their first time in Brenda’s hallway. What matters, in the end, is that Sharon is here with Brenda. Brenda’s wrapping her arms now around Sharon’s waist, curling her wet fingers into fists in an attempt to prevent making a mess of Sharon’s silk blouse.
Sharon follows suit, hugging the smaller woman against her and stroking her hair. Her head spins. She’s still thirsty. She could stand to brush her teeth. But she wants nothing more than this moment, intertwined with the woman she cares about more than she ever thought possible.
It occurs to her that maybe it needed it happen this way to take the edge off, to slake the lustful thirst that had been driving them both to the point of distraction. It does, in a way, take the pressure off. Now that the awkwardness of the first time is over, they can spend their second time enjoying themselves without worrying so much about the details.
“Will you stay the night?” Brenda asks, her own voice low and raspy, her thick accent even sexier in orgasmic bliss. “I’d like to do this again when we’re sober. I wanna take my time with you, if you’ll let me.”
In that moment, Sharon’s head begins to clear. It’s as if the woman has read her mind, sharing this singular desire and proving to Sharon that they haven’t made a beast of a mistake. She smiles. “I’ll stay.”
Brenda threads their hands together-the arousal has dried on her fingers-and guides her through the house, showing her the way to the bedroom. Sharon is a little unsteady on her feet but she watches the sway of Brenda’s ass, already constructing images of what it will be like to peel away the layers until Brenda’s body is bare and at her disposal. When Brenda urges her to sit at the foot of the bed, Sharon wonders if round two will happen before the sobriety.
The blonde leans in to kiss her gently before stepping back with a smile, backing away until she disappears into the bathroom. She returns minutes later with a tall glass of water and some aspirin. “Drink.”
Again, Sharon does as she’s told. The water is a welcome relief to her parched throat. She sets the aspirin on the nightstand; she doesn’t need it yet, but she will in the morning.
“Let’s get some rest,” Brenda suggests, unzipping her dress while she kicks off her heels. “You’ll need it for what I’ve got planned for you in the mornin’.”
Sharon shivers. She thinks--no. She’s not going to think anymore tonight, not when Brenda is gloriously naked and crawling into bed beside her. Sharon hastily removes her own clothes, draping them against the foot of the bed, and slides beneath the covers. After Brenda shuts off the bedside lamp, she curls her body around Sharon’s and they both sigh. Sharon doesn’t want to miss a moment of this by focusing on her thoughts, not when she’s got Brenda in her arms.
In giving up trying to create the perfect beginning to their relationship, Sharon knows they’ve already created it.
---
Prompt: She’d try to convince herself that they weren’t just drunk.
Fandom: Brenda/Sharon, The Closer
Requested by: imustgofirst
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 1661
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: This is another incentive story for imustgofirst, who is busy being an academic BAMF. The prompt for this fic was “bartender.” My writing self-esteem is not as high as it could be these days, but I really hope that this is enjoyable for those who read it. I’d love to hear what you think.
-
Sharon would later try to piece together how it happened, if it had been the bartender’s generous hand when mixing their drinks or simply the product of too many years of simmering attraction. She’d try to convince herself that they weren’t just drunk-that maybe they were just sick and tired of putting off the inevitable.
She’ll think about it eventually, but now is not the time. Right now, she’s being pushed up against the wall in Brenda’s foyer, her skirt bunched up against her hips while the blonde’s clammy, insistent hands rub her through the lace of her panties. The world is spinning, tilting off its axis. This isn’t supposed to happen yet. In the recesses of Sharon’s inebriated mind, she knows she’s supposed to be waiting to do this until Brenda’s officially single - or at least until Fritz has moved out of the house. He’s away tonight, Sharon remembers Brenda saying. She hopes he won’t come back early. They’re taking a huge risk, but Sharon doesn’t give a damn. She should, but she doesn’t.
They’ve been teasing around this point for too long, flirting and coveting and waiting. Maybe it was the alcohol that did it. Maybe, with the help of a little too much whiskey, Sharon decided that she didn’t give a damn about waiting until Brenda’s a free agent. She wants her right fucking now.
She’s sick of the hot-cold, push-pull dance they’ve been doing. She’s sick of doing the right thing and she’s damn well sick of waiting.
Brenda, for her part, appears to be just as desperate as Sharon. She’s panting incoherent words in Sharon’s ear, a wailing chant that sounds like “yesohyesfucksohotwhyareyoulikethisohgod” - Sharon will tease her for it later, but right now the scratch of lace against her clit is driving her crazy. Brenda’s not quite in the right place, a few centimeters off. The tiny, smug voice that resides in the back of Sharon’s mind mocks Brenda’s sloppy fumblings, but who the hell is Sharon to judge? At least Brenda is finally touching her.
Even in a sober state, Sharon knew their first time wouldn’t be perfect. There’d be no smooth jazz playing over the stereo, no golden hues strewn about the room by candlelight, no perfectly scripted touches and endless orgasms. Sharon’s no fool. She knows reality doesn’t play out like a tacky Harlequin novel. She knows they’d get things wrong, that they’d touch too hard or not hard enough, that they’d be overconfident or too timid.
Maybe because of the alcohol, Sharon doesn’t think twice about gripping her fingers around Brenda’s wrist and wrenching her hand away, only to slide her fingers beneath the lace. She covers the other woman’s hand with her own and guides her into the correct place. She’s all molten heat down here, and she’s wetter than she expected to be. She didn’t know she could get this wet at her age without a little help, but she’s not that surprised, not when it comes to Brenda Leigh Johnson.
Brenda’s eyes widen, as if this is the first time she’s never felt a stiff, engorged clitoris before. Maybe it is; she can’t remember if Brenda has done this before with a woman, but Sharon doesn’t want to think about Brenda fucking anyone else but her ever again. Brown eyes dilate before being hidden away beneath closed eyelids. Brenda tilts her head back almost as if completely in rapture, sighing as she presses hard against Sharon’s clit. “Oh for heaven’s sake…”
Sharon is awed by Brenda’s reaction, but the aching between her legs is driving her mad. “Like this,” she coos in a low, throaty voice. She moves her hand and encourages Brenda to stroke her. Their fingers entangle, spreading the wetness in unison.
Brenda snaps her eyes open, peering down at the two hands stuffed into Sharon’s panties. She grins. “Let me,” she orders, donning her deputy chief voice, and Sharon complies. Who the hell is she to disobey a direct order? The sound of that particular tone makes her think of this happening in Brenda’s office, and she grows a little wetter at the thought. Imagining Brenda fucking her like this up against her desk or a wall or the door has been a secret little fantasy of hers, something she’d never let happen but something she imagines whenever she’s alone in bed with her vibrator-which is more often than she’d ever admit.
Without Sharon’s hand for guidance, Brenda’s movements lack finesse-but at least now she’s in the right place. Sharon tells herself that this will be better when they’re sober, but when Brenda begins a rhythmic pattern of small circles around her clit, Sharon gives in and admits that the other woman is doing just fine.
Sharon suddenly feels lightheaded-(how much did she drink?)-but she can’t stop, not when she’s so close to the release she’s been aching for. The sounds of moans fill her ears, and she’s surprised to realize that they are not coming from her. She opens her eyes (when had she closed them?) and sees, to her surprise, that Brenda’s free hand is now between her own legs. She’s hitched up her dress and she’s rubbing herself the way that she’s rubbing Sharon.
The captain lets out a groan, her head thudding back against the wall when she can no longer keep her eyes fixed on the wanton display happening right in front of her. Is this the alcohol that’s infused Brenda Leigh with such boldness, or is she just as impatient to get off? Brenda’s teeth scrape against her throat and Sharon shudders, her knees buckling as they bow beneath her quivering body. She’s so close, embarrassingly close, and if she could just tell Brenda to-
--but Sharon doesn’t need to tell Brenda a damn thing, because those fingers pause against her clit for just a moment because Brenda’s made herself come, and the sight of the deputy chief shuddering in exquisite release is enough to prompt Sharon to do the same. Their climaxes are almost in sync, and Sharon would roll her eyes at the cliché if she didn’t feel so fucking good. Her body shakes and her tongue feels like sandpaper but her whole body tingles despite the strangeness and desperation of their first sexual encounter.
Brenda pulls her hands out of their respective panties and collapses her bodyweight against Sharon’s, crushing her against the wall as she inhales great, shuddering breaths. “Oh Sharon,” she whispers, and her voice is laden with so much raw emotion that Sharon nearly forgets that they’re drunk and still entirely clothed.
And really, when she thinks about it, it doesn’t matter that they haven’t done things according to plan. It doesn’t really matter that they’ve had a few too many and that they’ve had their first time in Brenda’s hallway. What matters, in the end, is that Sharon is here with Brenda. Brenda’s wrapping her arms now around Sharon’s waist, curling her wet fingers into fists in an attempt to prevent making a mess of Sharon’s silk blouse.
Sharon follows suit, hugging the smaller woman against her and stroking her hair. Her head spins. She’s still thirsty. She could stand to brush her teeth. But she wants nothing more than this moment, intertwined with the woman she cares about more than she ever thought possible.
It occurs to her that maybe it needed it happen this way to take the edge off, to slake the lustful thirst that had been driving them both to the point of distraction. It does, in a way, take the pressure off. Now that the awkwardness of the first time is over, they can spend their second time enjoying themselves without worrying so much about the details.
“Will you stay the night?” Brenda asks, her own voice low and raspy, her thick accent even sexier in orgasmic bliss. “I’d like to do this again when we’re sober. I wanna take my time with you, if you’ll let me.”
In that moment, Sharon’s head begins to clear. It’s as if the woman has read her mind, sharing this singular desire and proving to Sharon that they haven’t made a beast of a mistake. She smiles. “I’ll stay.”
Brenda threads their hands together-the arousal has dried on her fingers-and guides her through the house, showing her the way to the bedroom. Sharon is a little unsteady on her feet but she watches the sway of Brenda’s ass, already constructing images of what it will be like to peel away the layers until Brenda’s body is bare and at her disposal. When Brenda urges her to sit at the foot of the bed, Sharon wonders if round two will happen before the sobriety.
The blonde leans in to kiss her gently before stepping back with a smile, backing away until she disappears into the bathroom. She returns minutes later with a tall glass of water and some aspirin. “Drink.”
Again, Sharon does as she’s told. The water is a welcome relief to her parched throat. She sets the aspirin on the nightstand; she doesn’t need it yet, but she will in the morning.
“Let’s get some rest,” Brenda suggests, unzipping her dress while she kicks off her heels. “You’ll need it for what I’ve got planned for you in the mornin’.”
Sharon shivers. She thinks--no. She’s not going to think anymore tonight, not when Brenda is gloriously naked and crawling into bed beside her. Sharon hastily removes her own clothes, draping them against the foot of the bed, and slides beneath the covers. After Brenda shuts off the bedside lamp, she curls her body around Sharon’s and they both sigh. Sharon doesn’t want to miss a moment of this by focusing on her thoughts, not when she’s got Brenda in her arms.
In giving up trying to create the perfect beginning to their relationship, Sharon knows they’ve already created it.
---