Author's Note: Ok, so , I'm really, really new at this. First ever fanfic and it's far more fluffy than I will ever be. I have a couple of ideas on the go at the moment - some more angsty, definitely - so any feedback is appreciated! I'll also look at writing things based on prompts :) Apologies for any mistakes!
Just as he feels himself finally giving in to sleep, the mattress jostles and Andy Flynn is wide awake once more. It's been the same all night: his eyes will droop, his body, heavy and sated, will press further into the bed, and then the woman in his embrace – the beautifully mussed woman currently numbing a new spot on his right arm – will turn and Andy will smirk and the whole process starts again. He's not irritated; he finds it all rather wonderful. Sharon Raydor, fearless Captain of the LAPD's most prestigious department, is a wriggler in bed.
She sighs in sleep and he smiles into the soft mass of curls that have once again begun to tease the sensitive skin of his chin and throat. He's lost count of the times she has turned from facing him to away and back again (he hasn't really; it's six both ways) and he can't decide whether he prefers the smell of the jasmine of her hair, tousled and wild, or the feel of her gentle breath on his neck. Either is good. Both.
Her warm calf rubs between his, a contrast to the ice-cold toes that flick at his heel. The shift of her legs brings another tilt of her pelvis, this time behind her and across the top of his bare thighs. She settles briefly but then, again, her legs slide more forcefully between his. Her hip juts into the mattress, her shoulder blade rising momentarily parallel with his mouth, and the curve of her ass brushes his groin. There's a split second of stirring, a quick return to his younger days when more than twice a night was a given. His open eyes squeeze shut with, well, he's not quite sure, because then they're open again and he's looking at her like he has been for most of the night.
You make me feel so young, his mind hums without thought and he softly kisses the wrinkle between her eye and her temple. He feels ridiculous, he knows it's ridiculous, but he doesn't care and every millimetre of contact is a gift as far as he sees it. His nose gently nuzzles the shell of her ear as he silently laughs at himself, at how giddy he feels and how he's thinking of how in one night she has taken the crushing pressure of his chest and head and made him light as a feather. Suddenly, fiercely, he's glad he's not young.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting – sure, he'd fantasised, the kissing, the sex, the holding – but he'd never had a real, solid idea, something that he kept returning to. She's the enigmatic, exquisite Sharon Raydor, after all, and he knows she'd slap him silly for putting her on a pedestal like this but he can't help it, he really can't help it. Maybe before, maybe way back when he was the aggressive ass of the LAPD and she was the IA ice-maiden (or so he thought, he corrects himself) he'd have thought she'd be uninterested in intimacy, distant once it was all done and dusted. He scowls at himself, squirming into the mattress with how angry he is at how wrong he was.
The arm clutching his own to her breasts squeezes his elbow and he stops, turning more into her. He worries that he's woken her (she gets so little sleep as it is) and it's only the now familiar rhythm of her breathing, the slight press of her nipples into his forearm muscle, that tells him she's still out for the count. A shiver runs up and down his spine as in sleep her nails move through the hairs on his arm, the light scratches on his skin a pale imitation of the ones scoured into his sides and back from earlier in the evening but no less pleasant.
The way she calms and excites him is the most power and beautiful paradox he has ever encountered. The fractured relationship between them over the years might have built up out of territory battles and pissing contests and nothing more than goddamn misunderstandings and a difference of opinion but it didn't take long for the two of them to find common ground when in the same department, to have each other's back as surely as he has the bone and flesh of hers against his chest right now.
He knows he has a possessive streak and he's trying to control it, no matter how well she fits in his embrace. Still, he knows he'll have a job; it already rises up with jealousy whenever they run into Jack, the damn sonofabitch. He's finding it harder and harder to keep his temper in check whenever Jack turns on Sharon and tries to humiliate her in front of the guys, either by attempting to outsmart her (fat chance, buddy) or flirt with her (the strain he puts on his pant pockets with the balling of his fist when that happens…and he knows she'd chastise him for that), and harder still to accept that he used to like the guy and be drinking pals with him on occasion.
Andy, you need to let it go with Jack, she'd said during one of their non-dates.
But Sharon, he –
No, I mean it. She'd sighed softly, almost as soft as the ones she makes in sleep and he'd been worried a little bit until she'd smiled and reached for his hand. I appreciate it, Andy, I really do. In fact, you probably don't know how much. The weight of her thumb on his knuckle kept the reply in his throat. It's just that…well, with Jack…he responds to it. He knows he's successful in winding you up and he gets a kick out of it and I like seeing that look on his face even less than when he thinks he's got one up on me.
The guy's an ass, Sharon. He can't just…strut into our department and treat you like – Her laughter had cut him off. He'd rolled his eyes, exasperated, and she'd just laughed
harder, snorting and then covering her mouth and he'd given in, as he always did when she laughed, and chuckled too, knowing he was a being a bit of a fool.
She'd dabbed the corner of her eyes with her napkin, smiling half-apologetically at the couple on the next table, half with the hums of laughter that continued to escape her.
Oh, I'm sorry, but honey, Jack hasn't 'strutted' anywhere since 1978.
He'd snorted then too, laughing hard but also trying to catch his breath. Honey.
She'd called him that tonight as well, lips pressed to his throat and her fingers stroking his cheek. Goodnight, honey. The words had practically danced along his collar bones, the cadence of her voice a heavy, husky melody of contentment. Sharon had fallen asleep soon after and he'd basked in the echoes.
She moans, breaking him out of his reverie, and shifts, wriggling further down the bed as she presses the base of her back against his belly. He moves to stroke her own, the sensitive parts around her navel tensing as his fingers pad across. Her breathing catches and he thinks that if he tries hard enough he can see the ghost of her smile in the shadows of his room. It was early on in the evening that Andy had discovered how ticklish and sensitive his Captain was and had taken great pleasure – as had she – in dwelling on all those little spots. She'd been so confident in the kissing on the couch, in the hall, on the bed, but as soon as it came to undressing she'd come over shy, the flush on her cheeks changing from arousal to embarrassment.
I'm not…I'm not as young as, you know, well, what…the type of girl that you're, that you usually…like.
His usually composed and articulate Captain struggling to find words was adorable but her self-doubt was a gutpunch. He'd kissed her hard at that, caressed every curve, every part of her that she'd winced at when she'd unbuttoned or unzipped.
You're beautiful, Sharon. A kiss. You're so, so beautiful. Below her navel. You're perfect. On the top of her thigh.
She'd slapped his shoulder playfully – oh shut up, idiot – and he'd looked up to see an arched eyebrow and a cheeky scowl. Without her glasses she was far less intimidating and he'd winked and kissed her inner thigh again. Her head had fallen back then and there hadn't been much shyness after that.
He moves his thigh against hers and marvels at the softness. I love every inch of you, he thinks and then he stops. The thought stuns him with ferocity of emotion and protectiveness, the taste of it on his tongue as sweet as her, and it catches a little in his throat. He dips his forehead into the back of her neck, moves his leg further in between hers. He feels the light squeeze on his arm again and he replies in kind, snuggling into her.
He'd wondered if Sharon would be the one to cuddle in more; she's a wonderfully intimate person, both professionally (which is one hell of a talent, he thinks, to judge the boundaries of her colleagues so accurately and respectfully) and emotionally. And he's held her when she's cried (her clutching him and his shirt on her couch after Provenza had taken Rusty to stay with him is not a favourite memory but one he still considers momentous in this slow-burn of a relationship) and hugged and kissed her cheek when she's happy. She fit perfectly tucked under his chin and when she'd fallen asleep in that position he'd thought both nothing and everything of it.
As though he's thinking out loud, Sharon turns again, bringing herself back into the position they'd started with, drawing a quiet chuckle from him. One long leg – and boy do they go on forever – drapes over his and his breathing quickens as their pelvises meet again. He can't help but moan and the sound is met by one of her hums. He looks down, down at the brunette locks, curling wildly in the aftermath of sex, the ivory Irish skin of her body, the soft red of her still kiss-swollen lips. He's surprised to see her stirring.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her even more wonderfully husky with sleep. Her eyelids flutter but don't open as her fingers move up to stroke his jaw. "I'm not a great person to share a bed with, huh?"
Her mumbles on his chest turn into a soft kiss and he breathes out the release he didn't know he needed. It feels the same as last night as she drifted off and yet so novel, a shift to the now-familiar, another development to their growing story.
"Are you kidding me?" He kisses the top of her head and she looks up. Her green eyes – eyes that he has seen emerald with emotion, jade with anger, and as dark as forests when she's passionate and aroused – those green eyes twinkle at him, despite the blurriness of waking up. He kisses her lazy smile. "It's been great, Sharon."
She hums, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.
"Really." His thumb just feels so right rolling over bottom lip, almost as right as the tip of her tongue quickly and cheekily swiping at it.
She kisses the pad of it, before humming again, this time more in thought than doubt. "But you've been restless all night."
And he laughs at that and she raises her head in surprise, amusement at her lips though her brow knits in confusion. It makes him laugh harder and she slaps his shoulder, a move he now knows will be routine, a thing, and then he kisses her, kisses her hard, smiling around the tongue that moves with his, because really, what else can he do?