FIC: "Rock Bottom Outside PJ Calamity's," Mean Girls, Ms. Norbury/Mrs. George
Title: Rock Bottom Outside P.J. Calamity's
Author: geonncannon
Fandom: Mean Girls
Claimed Pairing: Sharon Norbury/Denise George
Word Count: 1,332
Category: Pre-Movie
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Notes: Mrs. George's first name is made-up by me... This could be read as a standalone, if you haven't seen the movie.
Rating: NC17
Summary: Bartender meets barfly at midnight.
Another Wednesday night, the dregs have come out to play. Her students are outside, within earshot, wandering past the door and only a few ever come in. Imagine the horror when they realize their fake IDs are useless because the woman behind the bar grades their midterms. The looks on their faces are almost worth the humiliation she feels at being discovered. She always sends them back out to the promenade and then goes back to wiping down the bar.
Another Wednesday night and Denise is back, at the end of the bar, singing along too loudly with the radio and trying desperately to keep from seeing the bottom of her glass. Sharon takes up a position nearby every time Denise was in the bar; she drank like a beached fish and always tipped double. She wasn't overly generous, just a little tipsy and unwilling to count very high. "Here," she'd say, pushing a handful of bills across the bar. "That should be enough. Nah, nah, keep it, keep it."
Sharon never told her, but she knew Denise's last name was George. Knew the 'royalty' in the barfly's family. Regina George, queen bee of North Shore High. Sharon refills Denise's drink and Denise makes eyes at people who sit within her orbit. She winks, flirts, makes promises no one will take her up on.
The bar is closing, the last few diners in the restaurant making motions towards the check. Last call, don't have to go home but you can't stay here, shoo-barfly-don't-bother-me. The last one to leave, the last one always to leave, is Denise. Sharon wraps her arm around her and eases her from the stool. "One more, lady," she says quietly, barely opening her eyes. "Come on, you know I can handle it."
"Sorry, Denise," Sharon says, guiding her to the door. "I'll call you a cab."
"You're a cab!" she shouts before throwing her head back and laughing hysterically.
Sharon ignores the joke and walks Denise past the hostess. Motioning at the door, Sharon explains, "I'm going to get her a cab."
"Okay, Sharon," the girl says, young enough to be one of Sharon's students. "If you want, you can just go on home. I can clock you out."
"Thanks," Sharon mutters. She carries Denise out of the restaurant, using the side access door rather than attempt traipsing down the mall promenade with a drunken accessory hanging off of her. The access door leads to a narrow, rarely-seen corridor where supplies are brought in, stacked, unloaded and distributed to their stores. This late at night, it's stocked only with boxes, shadows and blind corners.
"Wait, wait, wait," Denise says, pushing away from her.
"Come on, Denise, it's just down here."
She leans against the wall, sighing heavily. She starts to slip and Sharon catches her, hooking her hands under the shorter woman's arms and pushing her back up. They're pressed together now, close enough for Denise's acrid breath to wash over her. Denise sighs and puts her arms around Sharon's shoulders, closing her eyes. "I'm ruining her."
"Who?" Sharon asks, trying not to be dragged down with Denise.
"My daughter."
Sharon looks up into Denise's hazy eyes. There are tears there, threatening to pour free. She refuses to meet Sharon's eyes, refuses to look directly at her. Instead, she focuses on the far end of the hall, where the only light is burning. "You're not," Sharon says quietly.
"I give in to her every demand. I made her a monster. You should hear some of the stories other parents tell me about her."
'I don't have to,' Sharon thinks, looking down with guilt.
"When I was in high school, I was... ugly. Unpopular. But my husband... is rich. I mean, he's rolling in money."
Sharon smiled, knowing Denise wanted her to be impressed.
"So. I can't say no to my little Regina. Clothes? Shoes? Car?" She sniffled and closed her eyes. "I'm such a terrible person."
"You're not."
"Please. I can't even stand to be around myself."
Sharon bites her lip and hesitates before stepping forward, hugging Denise.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"You obviously needed it," Sharon says.
"Get off me," she says, pushing Sharon back. "God, what is your problem?" She exhales, brushing her hands down her blouse. When it's straight, she looks up and lunges forward, kissing Sharon.
Sharon, shocked, pushes her back but their lips stay together. "What..." Sharon manages before her mouth is again commandeered. She closes her eyes, wishing for her glasses so she could make sure what she was seeing was real. After a long moment, Denise breaks the kiss and leans back against the wall.
"My husband calls fucking his secretary 'working late.' I call drinking 'social.' Everybody wins."
Sharon leans in and kisses Denise, mostly to shut her up. Does she think she's the only one hurting? The only one who wants to dull everything so that it won't hurt so bad when you run into it. Selfish bitch. Denise does shut up and it's a moment before Sharon realizes how long they've been kissing. Denise is holding onto Sharon's vest, fingers wrapped around the stupid silly buttons she was forced to wear.
She steps back, not breaking the kiss but undoing her vest. It hits the concrete floor, the pieces of flair tinkling like wind chimes at her feet. She has her hands on Denise's chest, squeezing them, knowing from Regina's gossip that she was considering getting a boob job. Fortunately she hadn't gone through with it yet; the flesh was still pliant, human underneath Sharon's groping fingers.
"God, God," Denise breaths, running her hands through Sharon's hair. Sharon steps back and begins to loosen buttons. Denise's eyes, still foggy, focus a bit more on the undershirt as it's revealed. Sharon tosses the blouse back and peels the tank top over her head. Denise drops her head, pressing lip to collar and licking Sharon's sweat.
Sharon puts her leg up, knee against the bare drywall and pressing herself against Denise's thigh. She bucks her hips, grinding her jeans against the smooth field of Denise's cotton sweatpants. She closes her eyes tightly, imagining someone else she could be with, someone else she could be doing this to, but the alcohol stench in the air prevents her from forming any coherent fantasy.
Denise George, Regina George's mother, the mother of a student, dear God, how did she end up so wrong, dry-humping in a fucking storage closet? Her hair is in her eyes and she thanks the veil for hiding some of the reality of the moment. "I don't know your name," Denise pants. "Tell me. What do I..."
"Don't say my name," Sharon pleads.
"I'm going to come."
"It's not about you," Sharon says, tightening her arms around the warm body, feeling it tighten, holding on as it bucks against her. She bites down on the body's shoulder as she writhes herself to orgasm, coming in her jeans, tears flowing from the corner of her right eye. She pulls back and Denise reaches for her. Sharon grabs her wrist, pushing it away and Denise cries out. Sharon licks her own fingers and slides them under the waistband of Denise's sweatpants, touching her. Denise arches her back, moans and rides her fingers, lifting her hand to Sharon's breast.
"Don't touch me," Sharon breathes. "Please, don't touch me."
Denise moves her hand at the last second, squeezing her own breast as she cries out her orgasm. Sharon pulls her hand free and wipes it on her jeans, stepping back, refusing to look at Denise.
Denise stands and looks down at herself.
"Can you make it the rest of the way," Sharon asks under her breath. "It's just down there."
"I'll be fine," Denise says. "Thank you."
Sharon waves half-heartedly over her shoulder and turns around, going back the way they'd come in. Denise watches her go and then, after adjusting her clothes, turns and heads out to find a cab.
Author: geonncannon
Fandom: Mean Girls
Claimed Pairing: Sharon Norbury/Denise George
Word Count: 1,332
Category: Pre-Movie
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Notes: Mrs. George's first name is made-up by me... This could be read as a standalone, if you haven't seen the movie.
Rating: NC17
Summary: Bartender meets barfly at midnight.
Another Wednesday night, the dregs have come out to play. Her students are outside, within earshot, wandering past the door and only a few ever come in. Imagine the horror when they realize their fake IDs are useless because the woman behind the bar grades their midterms. The looks on their faces are almost worth the humiliation she feels at being discovered. She always sends them back out to the promenade and then goes back to wiping down the bar.
Another Wednesday night and Denise is back, at the end of the bar, singing along too loudly with the radio and trying desperately to keep from seeing the bottom of her glass. Sharon takes up a position nearby every time Denise was in the bar; she drank like a beached fish and always tipped double. She wasn't overly generous, just a little tipsy and unwilling to count very high. "Here," she'd say, pushing a handful of bills across the bar. "That should be enough. Nah, nah, keep it, keep it."
Sharon never told her, but she knew Denise's last name was George. Knew the 'royalty' in the barfly's family. Regina George, queen bee of North Shore High. Sharon refills Denise's drink and Denise makes eyes at people who sit within her orbit. She winks, flirts, makes promises no one will take her up on.
The bar is closing, the last few diners in the restaurant making motions towards the check. Last call, don't have to go home but you can't stay here, shoo-barfly-don't-bother-me. The last one to leave, the last one always to leave, is Denise. Sharon wraps her arm around her and eases her from the stool. "One more, lady," she says quietly, barely opening her eyes. "Come on, you know I can handle it."
"Sorry, Denise," Sharon says, guiding her to the door. "I'll call you a cab."
"You're a cab!" she shouts before throwing her head back and laughing hysterically.
Sharon ignores the joke and walks Denise past the hostess. Motioning at the door, Sharon explains, "I'm going to get her a cab."
"Okay, Sharon," the girl says, young enough to be one of Sharon's students. "If you want, you can just go on home. I can clock you out."
"Thanks," Sharon mutters. She carries Denise out of the restaurant, using the side access door rather than attempt traipsing down the mall promenade with a drunken accessory hanging off of her. The access door leads to a narrow, rarely-seen corridor where supplies are brought in, stacked, unloaded and distributed to their stores. This late at night, it's stocked only with boxes, shadows and blind corners.
"Wait, wait, wait," Denise says, pushing away from her.
"Come on, Denise, it's just down here."
She leans against the wall, sighing heavily. She starts to slip and Sharon catches her, hooking her hands under the shorter woman's arms and pushing her back up. They're pressed together now, close enough for Denise's acrid breath to wash over her. Denise sighs and puts her arms around Sharon's shoulders, closing her eyes. "I'm ruining her."
"Who?" Sharon asks, trying not to be dragged down with Denise.
"My daughter."
Sharon looks up into Denise's hazy eyes. There are tears there, threatening to pour free. She refuses to meet Sharon's eyes, refuses to look directly at her. Instead, she focuses on the far end of the hall, where the only light is burning. "You're not," Sharon says quietly.
"I give in to her every demand. I made her a monster. You should hear some of the stories other parents tell me about her."
'I don't have to,' Sharon thinks, looking down with guilt.
"When I was in high school, I was... ugly. Unpopular. But my husband... is rich. I mean, he's rolling in money."
Sharon smiled, knowing Denise wanted her to be impressed.
"So. I can't say no to my little Regina. Clothes? Shoes? Car?" She sniffled and closed her eyes. "I'm such a terrible person."
"You're not."
"Please. I can't even stand to be around myself."
Sharon bites her lip and hesitates before stepping forward, hugging Denise.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"You obviously needed it," Sharon says.
"Get off me," she says, pushing Sharon back. "God, what is your problem?" She exhales, brushing her hands down her blouse. When it's straight, she looks up and lunges forward, kissing Sharon.
Sharon, shocked, pushes her back but their lips stay together. "What..." Sharon manages before her mouth is again commandeered. She closes her eyes, wishing for her glasses so she could make sure what she was seeing was real. After a long moment, Denise breaks the kiss and leans back against the wall.
"My husband calls fucking his secretary 'working late.' I call drinking 'social.' Everybody wins."
Sharon leans in and kisses Denise, mostly to shut her up. Does she think she's the only one hurting? The only one who wants to dull everything so that it won't hurt so bad when you run into it. Selfish bitch. Denise does shut up and it's a moment before Sharon realizes how long they've been kissing. Denise is holding onto Sharon's vest, fingers wrapped around the stupid silly buttons she was forced to wear.
She steps back, not breaking the kiss but undoing her vest. It hits the concrete floor, the pieces of flair tinkling like wind chimes at her feet. She has her hands on Denise's chest, squeezing them, knowing from Regina's gossip that she was considering getting a boob job. Fortunately she hadn't gone through with it yet; the flesh was still pliant, human underneath Sharon's groping fingers.
"God, God," Denise breaths, running her hands through Sharon's hair. Sharon steps back and begins to loosen buttons. Denise's eyes, still foggy, focus a bit more on the undershirt as it's revealed. Sharon tosses the blouse back and peels the tank top over her head. Denise drops her head, pressing lip to collar and licking Sharon's sweat.
Sharon puts her leg up, knee against the bare drywall and pressing herself against Denise's thigh. She bucks her hips, grinding her jeans against the smooth field of Denise's cotton sweatpants. She closes her eyes tightly, imagining someone else she could be with, someone else she could be doing this to, but the alcohol stench in the air prevents her from forming any coherent fantasy.
Denise George, Regina George's mother, the mother of a student, dear God, how did she end up so wrong, dry-humping in a fucking storage closet? Her hair is in her eyes and she thanks the veil for hiding some of the reality of the moment. "I don't know your name," Denise pants. "Tell me. What do I..."
"Don't say my name," Sharon pleads.
"I'm going to come."
"It's not about you," Sharon says, tightening her arms around the warm body, feeling it tighten, holding on as it bucks against her. She bites down on the body's shoulder as she writhes herself to orgasm, coming in her jeans, tears flowing from the corner of her right eye. She pulls back and Denise reaches for her. Sharon grabs her wrist, pushing it away and Denise cries out. Sharon licks her own fingers and slides them under the waistband of Denise's sweatpants, touching her. Denise arches her back, moans and rides her fingers, lifting her hand to Sharon's breast.
"Don't touch me," Sharon breathes. "Please, don't touch me."
Denise moves her hand at the last second, squeezing her own breast as she cries out her orgasm. Sharon pulls her hand free and wipes it on her jeans, stepping back, refusing to look at Denise.
Denise stands and looks down at herself.
"Can you make it the rest of the way," Sharon asks under her breath. "It's just down there."
"I'll be fine," Denise says. "Thank you."
Sharon waves half-heartedly over her shoulder and turns around, going back the way they'd come in. Denise watches her go and then, after adjusting her clothes, turns and heads out to find a cab.