Small Reprieve | NC17 | Major Crimes
Title: Small Reprieve
Prompt: As Sharon’s psychiatrist often reminds her, self-care is not optional.
Fandom: Sharon/Brenda, Major Crimes
Requested by: imustgofirst
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 2122
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: This is another incentive story for i-must-go-first, who is still working hard on her dissertation. The prompt for this one was “opera.” I haven’t been able to do much writing lately, so please forgive me if I’ve lost my touch. Comments would be wonderful!
-
It strikes Sharon as odd that standing in the middle of her empty condo should evoke such a stark contrast of strangeness and liberation, but she’s not entirely surprised by the phenomenon. It has been long enough since she’s lived alone that the concept is now foreign to her, having grown accustomed to Rusty’s presence. What she had not been comfortable with, however, was having her husband camped out in her living room. He is now gone, his frustrating presence blissfully eradicated, leaving her with the sensation that her home has been fumigated of unwanted, middle-aged pests.
No longer covered in spare sheets, her sofa is now home to errant tube socks and stray crumbs. To be fair, now that Rusty is in possession of the couch once again, he has taken much greater care to refrain from eating on the sofa and to bring his laundry directly to his bedroom.
Tonight, however, the sofa is all hers, and she’s going to take advantage of it. She does not have many nights alone without Rusty cohabiting her space (she’d gladly give up her solitude to have to have him close by for her own peace of mind, especially now that these letters have been arriving) and, knowing he is in good hands with Buzz for the evening, she is determined to focus on doing all of the things she has forgone for his sake. It seems only right that she take advantage of her solitude; were she to forego these simple pleasures, she might spend the evening worrying and needlessly texting both Rusty and Buzz to the point of blatant irritation. Given his restricted freedom, Sharon knows that Rusty needs space…and so does she.
She fully intends on taking advantage of her space.
She pours herself a glass of whiskey instead of wine, enjoying the way it burns down her throat at the first sip. She knows that the sight of hard liquor makes Rusty nervous, conjuring ill-suppressed memories of the other Sharon’s bad habits, and so she keeps it locked away. Tonight, however, she’s poured herself a double, numbing the week’s stressors and irritations and easing the leftover frustration left behind by Jackson. There’s still plenty to worry about; a night off from work won’t make Emma Rios soften her ill-fitting rough edges, nor will it stop whomever has taken an interest in scaring an adolescent, nor will it ensure that Jackson won’t turn up again.
Sharon of all people knows how important it is to relax. As her psychiatrist often reminds her, self-care is not optional, even for women with such power and responsibility.
Taking another careful sip of her drink, Sharon pops open a long-neglected CD case, inserting the disc into her stereo. Within moments Jessye Norman begins to sing, and the captain closes her eyes and allows the beautiful, hauntingly melodious timbre of the woman’s voice to fill her soul. She’s neglected this simple pleasure in favor of avoiding hearing Rusty’s complaints, preferring not to listen to how much he can’t stand the “warbling and moaning of all those sad, old ladies.” Her opera CDs (and her Piaf collection, come to think of it) have been collecting dust, but not tonight.
Settling onto the sofa, she lays back and allows her eyes to drift closed. She takes in a deep breath, feeling more like herself than she has in weeks. She’s adapted to this new life of hers and genuinely enjoys it, but these quiet moments are a gift.
She takes in another deep breath, exhaling slowly through her nose. She’s enjoying this small reprieve, though she’d enjoy it much more if Brenda Leigh were here to enjoy it with her. Now that Rusty’s independence has been unfortunately constrained, Sharon doesn’t have as much time to spend with her lover. Their relationship is not a secret to Rusty, but they no longer have nights to themselves. In the past, they’d allowed themselves “sleepovers” at Brenda’s, but Sharon cannot and will not leave Rusty home alone…stifling as it may be for everyone involved.
It would figure, of course, that Brenda would have to work on this singular free evening, especially now that Jack is no longer loitering in Sharon’s sacred space.
The thought of the other woman fills Sharon with warmth, overpowering the irritating, lingering thoughts of her husband.
That warmth ignites a fire in Sharon’s belly. Though she may be verging on too old for sex anywhere other than on a bed, she can’t deny the allure of spreading Brenda Leigh out over her sofa, a throw pillow tucked beneath that glorious blonde hair. Oh the things she would do…
Smiling idly to herself, Sharon opens her eyes and reaches for her phone, which is never far out of reach. There are no new messages from Buzz or Rusty, though she perfunctorily checks the text history anyway. Buzz’s last message, sent an hour prior, stated that Rusty would be home at 10:30 as agreed.
It’s 8:43.
Sharon taps Brenda’s name in her list of recent texts and types a brief missive. It’s such a shame that I’ve got the apartment to myself tonight.
Several minutes later, Brenda responds. Don’t tease. You know it’s killing me that I’m stuck working overtime. Audits are the bane of my existence.
Sharon smirks. I’ll find a way to entertain myself. In allowing herself a wicked grin, Sharon feels the first tickle of pleasure curl along the base of her spine. She can just imagine the look on Brenda’s face-doe eyes wide and cheeks a cherry hue. She sets the phone down, reaching once more for her glass. After another sip, which she feels all the way down to her toes, she lies back against the cushions, relishing the feeling of stretching out her body.
Eyes closed, Sharon tenses her thighs, the tension deliciously taut. She’s almost surprised with herself-a night alone, a few sips of whiskey, and only flashes of fantasies has Sharon’s body humming in anticipation of release.
Her phone vibrates, and Sharon’s smirk deepens. It’s Brenda; she had known her girlfriend would be unable to resist the teasing implication of her last text message. She decides to leave it unanswered, instead drawing both hands beneath her t-shirt to stroke gentle fingertips over the bare skin of her abdomen. She takes special care to tease and caress her breasts, touching them the way that Brenda does-torturously light, drawing her nipples into stiff peaks.
Sharon knows her body. She’s no stranger to masturbation, and she knows exactly how she needs to be touched to get off. Easy does it, Sharon reminds herself. She’s not racing toward orgasm; she has the time, and she’s going to enjoy every minute of it.
How nice it would be if Brenda’s hands were doing the work-sweet, attentive Brenda, taking her time to soothe away all of Sharon’s tension and woes. If she concentrates, she can almost imagine that the touch is not her own, and that the fingers tracing the mounds of her breasts belong to Brenda.
The muscles in her thighs clench involuntarily and she shifts, rubbing her legs together. She remembers when she did this at the tender age of 13, conjuring thoughts of her school’s librarian. She doesn’t need blurry, watercolor images of a woman from decades past, not when the stark paleness of Brenda’s bare skin is a vivid, tangible memory from only weeks ago.
Sharon's fingertips graze the soft flesh of her torso, raising goosebumps in their wake. She feels as though her body is humming, and she cannot stop the smile from crossing her lips. The tension in her body is of a whole different sort, the kind that promises shattering release. The last time she felt like this was over two weeks ago, when she last spent the night with Brenda. They had been frantic for each other, making a desperate sort of love until the early hours of the morning. The memory is so clear, so startlingly real, that Sharon's body instantly reacts. She can tell without touching that she's wet and swollen. She can feel her engorged clitoris pulsing with need. Brenda had fucked her with her mouth and fingers, but Sharon's own hands will have to do.
Her phone vibrates again, and this time Sharon reaches for it. There are two messages from Brenda.
Are you trying to torture me?
You're an awful, awful person. What are you doing??
Sharon slips a hand beneath the waist band of her yoga pants, bypassing her underwear altogether. She cups herself, fingers pressed against puffy lips, and taps out a reply.
Lying on the couch. Listening to my favorite opera singer. Drinking whiskey. Keeping myself entertained.
She dips a finger between her folds and grazes her stiff clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through her body. She lets out a moan and the sound is so strangely foreign that she opens her eyes. It's been so long since she's moaned in her home that the very sound is freeing. She could laugh, but instead she flicks her clit and moans again. She bares her teeth in a feral sort of grin while she teases herself, slipping her finger inside for lubrication. She liberally spreads her arousal, gasping every time her finger passes over her clit. Her hips arch into her touch and when her fingers and sex are coated in slick wetness, she bites her lip and whimpers.
She doesn’t want to wait anymore. She can’t have Brenda, but she can have this.
Sharon spreads her legs a little wider, her hips rocking into the circular motions of her fingers. Were she to press a little harder or a little faster, she’d come within seconds. She keeps her rhythm steady, drawing herself closer and closer to the precipice of release. Her cell phone vibrates again, and she imagines Brenda sitting at that desk, her clever mind conjuring up image upon image of what Sharon might be doing.
She could tell Brenda exactly what she’s doing, but Sharon knows that she’s already too far gone. Her hips undulate greedily. Is Brenda thinking about her now? Sharon’s face burns; she knows, somehow, that Brenda is imagining exactly this. In Brenda’s mind, Sharon is probably naked, and the acknowledgement of her lover’s richly detailed fantasies sends a shiver down her spine. Sharon imagines her lover sitting at her desk, reviewing a file, her own body slick with arousal. She thinks of Brenda’s toned thighs locking in that pleasure, squirming in her leather chair to contain the need that vibrates through her body. Would Brenda touch herself in the privacy of her office? Would those curious fingers sneak beneath her flowy skirt to touch herself the same way Sharon is?
“Oh,” Sharon cries, her throat dry as she drops her head back against the throw pillow. She fucks herself a little harder now, her fingers working tight circles around her clit. She digs her heels into the sofa, arching her back as she constructs one final image: Brenda’s head thrown back against her office chair while her fingers reach deep inside herself.
Sharon comes with a wail, her body shuddering in its climax. In her fantasy, Brenda comes too, her lips parted to emit quiet gasps and whimpers. Sharon can almost hear the sound echoing in her ears while the tension in her body ebbs away with each convulsion of pleasure.
She slumps back against the couch, withdrawing her fingers when she becomes too sensitive to touch. She rests her hands against her stomach as she takes a few deep breaths, attempting to slow her racing heart. “Les Chemins De L’Amour” begins to play on the stereo-a favorite-and she smiles lazily. The base of her spine tingles pleasantly in her afterglow.
After several moments of blissful relaxation, Sharon opens her eyes and reaches for her cell phone, which is wedged between her hip and the sofa cushion. She eyes the screen, smirking wickedly at her girlfriend’s texts.
I know what all that means.
Sharon Raydor, I can’t believe you’re having fun without me! You’re driving me completely crazy.
I’m leaving work now. I’ll be over in twenty-three minutes.
Sharon chuckles. It’s after 9pm now (damn, that was quick); they won’t have much time alone together before Rusty returns, but the captain suspects that neither of them will need it. Perhaps, if Brenda doesn’t get caught in traffic, there will be time for Sharon to realize her fantasies upon this very sofa.
Her body, though tired from the intensity of her release, tingles in renewed anticipation. Helping herself to her whiskey, Sharon settles back against the couch, listening to Jessye Norman and waiting for her lover to arrive.
---
Prompt: As Sharon’s psychiatrist often reminds her, self-care is not optional.
Fandom: Sharon/Brenda, Major Crimes
Requested by: imustgofirst
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 2122
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: This is another incentive story for i-must-go-first, who is still working hard on her dissertation. The prompt for this one was “opera.” I haven’t been able to do much writing lately, so please forgive me if I’ve lost my touch. Comments would be wonderful!
-
It strikes Sharon as odd that standing in the middle of her empty condo should evoke such a stark contrast of strangeness and liberation, but she’s not entirely surprised by the phenomenon. It has been long enough since she’s lived alone that the concept is now foreign to her, having grown accustomed to Rusty’s presence. What she had not been comfortable with, however, was having her husband camped out in her living room. He is now gone, his frustrating presence blissfully eradicated, leaving her with the sensation that her home has been fumigated of unwanted, middle-aged pests.
No longer covered in spare sheets, her sofa is now home to errant tube socks and stray crumbs. To be fair, now that Rusty is in possession of the couch once again, he has taken much greater care to refrain from eating on the sofa and to bring his laundry directly to his bedroom.
Tonight, however, the sofa is all hers, and she’s going to take advantage of it. She does not have many nights alone without Rusty cohabiting her space (she’d gladly give up her solitude to have to have him close by for her own peace of mind, especially now that these letters have been arriving) and, knowing he is in good hands with Buzz for the evening, she is determined to focus on doing all of the things she has forgone for his sake. It seems only right that she take advantage of her solitude; were she to forego these simple pleasures, she might spend the evening worrying and needlessly texting both Rusty and Buzz to the point of blatant irritation. Given his restricted freedom, Sharon knows that Rusty needs space…and so does she.
She fully intends on taking advantage of her space.
She pours herself a glass of whiskey instead of wine, enjoying the way it burns down her throat at the first sip. She knows that the sight of hard liquor makes Rusty nervous, conjuring ill-suppressed memories of the other Sharon’s bad habits, and so she keeps it locked away. Tonight, however, she’s poured herself a double, numbing the week’s stressors and irritations and easing the leftover frustration left behind by Jackson. There’s still plenty to worry about; a night off from work won’t make Emma Rios soften her ill-fitting rough edges, nor will it stop whomever has taken an interest in scaring an adolescent, nor will it ensure that Jackson won’t turn up again.
Sharon of all people knows how important it is to relax. As her psychiatrist often reminds her, self-care is not optional, even for women with such power and responsibility.
Taking another careful sip of her drink, Sharon pops open a long-neglected CD case, inserting the disc into her stereo. Within moments Jessye Norman begins to sing, and the captain closes her eyes and allows the beautiful, hauntingly melodious timbre of the woman’s voice to fill her soul. She’s neglected this simple pleasure in favor of avoiding hearing Rusty’s complaints, preferring not to listen to how much he can’t stand the “warbling and moaning of all those sad, old ladies.” Her opera CDs (and her Piaf collection, come to think of it) have been collecting dust, but not tonight.
Settling onto the sofa, she lays back and allows her eyes to drift closed. She takes in a deep breath, feeling more like herself than she has in weeks. She’s adapted to this new life of hers and genuinely enjoys it, but these quiet moments are a gift.
She takes in another deep breath, exhaling slowly through her nose. She’s enjoying this small reprieve, though she’d enjoy it much more if Brenda Leigh were here to enjoy it with her. Now that Rusty’s independence has been unfortunately constrained, Sharon doesn’t have as much time to spend with her lover. Their relationship is not a secret to Rusty, but they no longer have nights to themselves. In the past, they’d allowed themselves “sleepovers” at Brenda’s, but Sharon cannot and will not leave Rusty home alone…stifling as it may be for everyone involved.
It would figure, of course, that Brenda would have to work on this singular free evening, especially now that Jack is no longer loitering in Sharon’s sacred space.
The thought of the other woman fills Sharon with warmth, overpowering the irritating, lingering thoughts of her husband.
That warmth ignites a fire in Sharon’s belly. Though she may be verging on too old for sex anywhere other than on a bed, she can’t deny the allure of spreading Brenda Leigh out over her sofa, a throw pillow tucked beneath that glorious blonde hair. Oh the things she would do…
Smiling idly to herself, Sharon opens her eyes and reaches for her phone, which is never far out of reach. There are no new messages from Buzz or Rusty, though she perfunctorily checks the text history anyway. Buzz’s last message, sent an hour prior, stated that Rusty would be home at 10:30 as agreed.
It’s 8:43.
Sharon taps Brenda’s name in her list of recent texts and types a brief missive. It’s such a shame that I’ve got the apartment to myself tonight.
Several minutes later, Brenda responds. Don’t tease. You know it’s killing me that I’m stuck working overtime. Audits are the bane of my existence.
Sharon smirks. I’ll find a way to entertain myself. In allowing herself a wicked grin, Sharon feels the first tickle of pleasure curl along the base of her spine. She can just imagine the look on Brenda’s face-doe eyes wide and cheeks a cherry hue. She sets the phone down, reaching once more for her glass. After another sip, which she feels all the way down to her toes, she lies back against the cushions, relishing the feeling of stretching out her body.
Eyes closed, Sharon tenses her thighs, the tension deliciously taut. She’s almost surprised with herself-a night alone, a few sips of whiskey, and only flashes of fantasies has Sharon’s body humming in anticipation of release.
Her phone vibrates, and Sharon’s smirk deepens. It’s Brenda; she had known her girlfriend would be unable to resist the teasing implication of her last text message. She decides to leave it unanswered, instead drawing both hands beneath her t-shirt to stroke gentle fingertips over the bare skin of her abdomen. She takes special care to tease and caress her breasts, touching them the way that Brenda does-torturously light, drawing her nipples into stiff peaks.
Sharon knows her body. She’s no stranger to masturbation, and she knows exactly how she needs to be touched to get off. Easy does it, Sharon reminds herself. She’s not racing toward orgasm; she has the time, and she’s going to enjoy every minute of it.
How nice it would be if Brenda’s hands were doing the work-sweet, attentive Brenda, taking her time to soothe away all of Sharon’s tension and woes. If she concentrates, she can almost imagine that the touch is not her own, and that the fingers tracing the mounds of her breasts belong to Brenda.
The muscles in her thighs clench involuntarily and she shifts, rubbing her legs together. She remembers when she did this at the tender age of 13, conjuring thoughts of her school’s librarian. She doesn’t need blurry, watercolor images of a woman from decades past, not when the stark paleness of Brenda’s bare skin is a vivid, tangible memory from only weeks ago.
Sharon's fingertips graze the soft flesh of her torso, raising goosebumps in their wake. She feels as though her body is humming, and she cannot stop the smile from crossing her lips. The tension in her body is of a whole different sort, the kind that promises shattering release. The last time she felt like this was over two weeks ago, when she last spent the night with Brenda. They had been frantic for each other, making a desperate sort of love until the early hours of the morning. The memory is so clear, so startlingly real, that Sharon's body instantly reacts. She can tell without touching that she's wet and swollen. She can feel her engorged clitoris pulsing with need. Brenda had fucked her with her mouth and fingers, but Sharon's own hands will have to do.
Her phone vibrates again, and this time Sharon reaches for it. There are two messages from Brenda.
Are you trying to torture me?
You're an awful, awful person. What are you doing??
Sharon slips a hand beneath the waist band of her yoga pants, bypassing her underwear altogether. She cups herself, fingers pressed against puffy lips, and taps out a reply.
Lying on the couch. Listening to my favorite opera singer. Drinking whiskey. Keeping myself entertained.
She dips a finger between her folds and grazes her stiff clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through her body. She lets out a moan and the sound is so strangely foreign that she opens her eyes. It's been so long since she's moaned in her home that the very sound is freeing. She could laugh, but instead she flicks her clit and moans again. She bares her teeth in a feral sort of grin while she teases herself, slipping her finger inside for lubrication. She liberally spreads her arousal, gasping every time her finger passes over her clit. Her hips arch into her touch and when her fingers and sex are coated in slick wetness, she bites her lip and whimpers.
She doesn’t want to wait anymore. She can’t have Brenda, but she can have this.
Sharon spreads her legs a little wider, her hips rocking into the circular motions of her fingers. Were she to press a little harder or a little faster, she’d come within seconds. She keeps her rhythm steady, drawing herself closer and closer to the precipice of release. Her cell phone vibrates again, and she imagines Brenda sitting at that desk, her clever mind conjuring up image upon image of what Sharon might be doing.
She could tell Brenda exactly what she’s doing, but Sharon knows that she’s already too far gone. Her hips undulate greedily. Is Brenda thinking about her now? Sharon’s face burns; she knows, somehow, that Brenda is imagining exactly this. In Brenda’s mind, Sharon is probably naked, and the acknowledgement of her lover’s richly detailed fantasies sends a shiver down her spine. Sharon imagines her lover sitting at her desk, reviewing a file, her own body slick with arousal. She thinks of Brenda’s toned thighs locking in that pleasure, squirming in her leather chair to contain the need that vibrates through her body. Would Brenda touch herself in the privacy of her office? Would those curious fingers sneak beneath her flowy skirt to touch herself the same way Sharon is?
“Oh,” Sharon cries, her throat dry as she drops her head back against the throw pillow. She fucks herself a little harder now, her fingers working tight circles around her clit. She digs her heels into the sofa, arching her back as she constructs one final image: Brenda’s head thrown back against her office chair while her fingers reach deep inside herself.
Sharon comes with a wail, her body shuddering in its climax. In her fantasy, Brenda comes too, her lips parted to emit quiet gasps and whimpers. Sharon can almost hear the sound echoing in her ears while the tension in her body ebbs away with each convulsion of pleasure.
She slumps back against the couch, withdrawing her fingers when she becomes too sensitive to touch. She rests her hands against her stomach as she takes a few deep breaths, attempting to slow her racing heart. “Les Chemins De L’Amour” begins to play on the stereo-a favorite-and she smiles lazily. The base of her spine tingles pleasantly in her afterglow.
After several moments of blissful relaxation, Sharon opens her eyes and reaches for her cell phone, which is wedged between her hip and the sofa cushion. She eyes the screen, smirking wickedly at her girlfriend’s texts.
I know what all that means.
Sharon Raydor, I can’t believe you’re having fun without me! You’re driving me completely crazy.
I’m leaving work now. I’ll be over in twenty-three minutes.
Sharon chuckles. It’s after 9pm now (damn, that was quick); they won’t have much time alone together before Rusty returns, but the captain suspects that neither of them will need it. Perhaps, if Brenda doesn’t get caught in traffic, there will be time for Sharon to realize her fantasies upon this very sofa.
Her body, though tired from the intensity of her release, tingles in renewed anticipation. Helping herself to her whiskey, Sharon settles back against the couch, listening to Jessye Norman and waiting for her lover to arrive.
---