soft as velvet (thick as sin) -- a Lost Girl fic
Title: soft as velvet (thick as sin)
Author: sweetjamielee
Fandom: Lost Girl
Pairing: Bo/Lauren
Word Count: ~1700
Genre: Romance? Mostly just sexiness.
Rating: strong T
Summary: Bo rediscovers the fact that Lauren’s help comes with distracting consequences. Written for greyfan1bill and the Winter Holiday Fanworkstravaganza at bo_lauren.
A/N: The one that completely ignores canon complications (Nadia who? Slave to the Ash what?) and somehow came out in second person POV, even though I don’t particularly LIKE second person POV. I apologize for all the things.
--
It’s just surveillance tonight - determining if the target is indeed the dangerous incubus your client believes he is, or just an overly-successful Lothario - but the problem with surveilling in a nightclub is that when you’re there alone, no one wants to give you space to do it. Every time you turn around there’s someone else asking you to dance, offering you drinks, suggesting you go somewhere more private - trying to get in your appropriately tight leather pants. You dismiss them all politely, tell them you’re waiting for someone, but it’s distracting you from your goal and it’s more suspicious the longer you’re here by yourself.
You need a prop. Someone to keep the would-be suitors at bay, and allow you to focus on your target without being too obvious in the ruse. Kenzi is awful at play-acting attraction, and Dyson would try to make it cop-business, and also… no. Just no.
It’s times like these you realize how pitifully few friends you have.
“Don’t wear your doctor clothes,” you tell Lauren over the phone from the ladies’ room, a finger plugging your other ear while the music reverberates off the walls. “The point is to not stand out.”
You haven’t seen her for awhile. Things are complicated; they always are, but Lauren makes you feel things, want things that confuse you. Things you aren’t sure you should want. But she promised to always help you, and as much as you hate to admit it there are some situations where you can’t turn down help from someone you can trust.
And sometimes, you just can’t turn down Lauren.
Your eye firmly on your mark (he’s at the bar, leaning in too close and schmoozing two girls who appear to be wearing little more than shoestrings), you almost don’t recognize Lauren when she arrives. It’s partly because of your preoccupation, and also partly because of how distinctly un-Lauren is the woman standing in front of you. There is this shimmery tank top, and this eye makeup, and these heels… but the skirt gets you the most.
It is black, and it is tiny, and it is nothing compared to the miles of slim, pale legs beneath it. It feels like you may have lost an hour in the time it takes for your eyes to travel up her body to her questioning eyes.
She extends a greeting that doesn’t even register. You have get close so she can hear you; so close that your lips nearly brush her ear. “I didn’t even know you owned clothes like that.”
“There was a trip to the very back of my closet, I promise you.” She smells like flowers and spice and every delicious thing.
Being a succubus means that horny is permanent state for you. You’re perpetually hot for it, and you’ve had some damn good sex with a great many people, some of whom you actually remember their names afterward. It’s hard to express just the way that’s always made Lauren different - when want of the sex and want of the person intersect at a perfect juncture and become this aching, sweet need, this distracting dilemma. There are dozens of women in the club more scantily clad than this one in front of you; dozens of men oozing testosterone that you could smell from a mile away. But all you can see is Lauren.
It isn’t at all helpful, but she’s here now, and you have to be professional.
You lead her to one of the couches by the bar; to the left of you is a couple who appear to be comfortably taking residence on second base. “It’s that guy over there.” You gesture toward Casanova. “I need you to talk to me and pretend we’re together while I watch him over your shoulder, okay?”
She nods. “I can do that.” She crowds in closer, looking intent, knees brushing yours - and yes, she was the right person to call for a realistic-looking nightclub hookup, maybe not so much the right person to help you stay distraction-free. “What should I talk about?”
A too-warm flush is coming over you, a hunger pulling at your insides. “Whatever. Just… tell me about your day, it doesn’t matter.” You keep your eyes firmly planted over her ear and absolutely refuse to look at those too-warm eyes right now.
Lauren starts talking, and it’s all doctor-y, science-y things that you don’t understand, something about genotyping markers in molecular monitoring. But her hand is familiar as it strokes your arm as if to make a point; you laugh like she’s told a particularly funny joke, and anyone would think you found your companion for the night. Your target is plying one of the shoestring girls with another drink, and he’s pretty smooth but so far you’ve seen nothing that seems Fae-worthy. There’s something low and dangerous thrumming in your belly, Lauren’s touch seeming to penetrate skin and bone and reach something for deeper.
“Don’t,” you rasp, capturing her hand. You mean to push it away, but instead clasp it to your chest.
You don’t have to see her face to know her forehead’s wrinkling in the too-adorable way it does when she’s confused. “But I thought you said…”
“I know I said. But when you’re wearing that and touching me, I just… have trouble, okay?” You’re staring across the bar, anywhere but her. Focus, focus.
The thing with Lauren is she’s never quite known how much pull she has over you; she assumes deep down that she’s just human, just the second choice - just a convenient distraction. But right now, you feel like if you really look at her, you might lose control, might shatter from feeling too much, wanting too much.
Unfortunately, your ruse has had the paradoxical effect of making you more obvious to your target.
He’s paused in his romancing and is now staring at you with curiosity, and shit, he’s noticed you watching him too intently, a desire in your eyes that has nothing at all to do with him. His gaze flickers between you and Lauren and the corner of his mouth tugs up. Probably thinking the two of you need a third.
Out of necessity, you drag your eyes back to Lauren… to her lap, first, but that proves to be a mistake too because there’s that skirt and those legs and they make you remember things.
Things like traversing a seemingly endless journey with your mouth, from the delicate arch of her foot all the way up to the silky softness of her thighs. Things like pushing them apart, her nails raking your scalp as she urged you on, your lipstick leaving a blushed stain on pale skin.
You raise your gaze and meet her eyes, guiltily. She’s burning brightly for you, like she always does, but somehow you feel just as obvious. It’s been so long. Too long.
A new song comes on, something with a hard, pulsing beat. Almost everyone is up and dancing now, including the couple who’d been engaged in the tonsil-tag next to you a few moments before. You realize you’re still holding Lauren’s hand to your breast and you drop it, your fingers landing on her bare knee instead. You’ve completely forgotten what you’d come here to do. Having lost the battle, you’re now mesmerized by her eyes.
The bass thumps.
Your fingers edge right under the hem of that sinful skirt, and her pupils dilate.
The lights strobe, creating dizzying and disorienting patterns on the wall, on your faces.
Your hand slides upwards of its own volition, nails scraping against heated skin. Her lips and thighs both fall apart a bit, and you squeeze the pliant flesh.
Bodies writhe around the room, the smell of liquor and sweat and pheromones are everywhere.
The tip of your finger brushes against her panties and you both shudder hard. Her lips form the shape of your name but you can’t hear it. You want to get your mouth on her, your fingers in her, and the fact that this is technically a public place seems not very important at all right now.
All pretense is gone. The two of you draw together like slow-motion magnets, connecting in the middle to the tune of electronic bass and two racing hearts; her tongue feels like you remember, velvet-strong and far too deft and confident for someone so often awkward. It’s ironic how, for as little as her clothes cover, right now all you can think of is getting at the parts they do. You moan into her mouth, and you’ve never felt more human.
It feels like forever and not long enough that you spend intertwined on the couch before the song ends. In some fuzzy, far-away part of your mind you remember that you came here for a purpose tonight - one that didn’t involve getting dangerously close to fingering Lauren in a crowded club. You drag your lips from hers on a gasping breath; her forehead falls to your temple. Your glazed eyes find focus across the bar, and shit. Again.
There’s an empty spot where Romeo used to be; he’s slipped out with his little friends while you were preoccupied, and tonight was a bit of a loss, on that end. You curse. “Fuck, he’s gone.”
Lauren’s twisting at her fingers, maybe to keep from reaching out for you. You want to scold her and fuck her in equal parts - perhaps at the same time. “Sorry?” she suggests in reply.
You sigh to yourself. You’re a pretty good detective, but you’ll always be a better lover.
“Next time, wear your doctor clothes,” you order, aware of your hypocrisy but perturbed at your own weakness.
But Lauren’s smile is less apologetic than coy, and maybe she’s discovering a newfound sense of power that comes from a short skirt and the effective flustering of a succubus.
“No promises.”
You punish her impudence all the way home.
--
Author: sweetjamielee
Fandom: Lost Girl
Pairing: Bo/Lauren
Word Count: ~1700
Genre: Romance? Mostly just sexiness.
Rating: strong T
Summary: Bo rediscovers the fact that Lauren’s help comes with distracting consequences. Written for greyfan1bill and the Winter Holiday Fanworkstravaganza at bo_lauren.
A/N: The one that completely ignores canon complications (Nadia who? Slave to the Ash what?) and somehow came out in second person POV, even though I don’t particularly LIKE second person POV. I apologize for all the things.
--
It’s just surveillance tonight - determining if the target is indeed the dangerous incubus your client believes he is, or just an overly-successful Lothario - but the problem with surveilling in a nightclub is that when you’re there alone, no one wants to give you space to do it. Every time you turn around there’s someone else asking you to dance, offering you drinks, suggesting you go somewhere more private - trying to get in your appropriately tight leather pants. You dismiss them all politely, tell them you’re waiting for someone, but it’s distracting you from your goal and it’s more suspicious the longer you’re here by yourself.
You need a prop. Someone to keep the would-be suitors at bay, and allow you to focus on your target without being too obvious in the ruse. Kenzi is awful at play-acting attraction, and Dyson would try to make it cop-business, and also… no. Just no.
It’s times like these you realize how pitifully few friends you have.
“Don’t wear your doctor clothes,” you tell Lauren over the phone from the ladies’ room, a finger plugging your other ear while the music reverberates off the walls. “The point is to not stand out.”
You haven’t seen her for awhile. Things are complicated; they always are, but Lauren makes you feel things, want things that confuse you. Things you aren’t sure you should want. But she promised to always help you, and as much as you hate to admit it there are some situations where you can’t turn down help from someone you can trust.
And sometimes, you just can’t turn down Lauren.
Your eye firmly on your mark (he’s at the bar, leaning in too close and schmoozing two girls who appear to be wearing little more than shoestrings), you almost don’t recognize Lauren when she arrives. It’s partly because of your preoccupation, and also partly because of how distinctly un-Lauren is the woman standing in front of you. There is this shimmery tank top, and this eye makeup, and these heels… but the skirt gets you the most.
It is black, and it is tiny, and it is nothing compared to the miles of slim, pale legs beneath it. It feels like you may have lost an hour in the time it takes for your eyes to travel up her body to her questioning eyes.
She extends a greeting that doesn’t even register. You have get close so she can hear you; so close that your lips nearly brush her ear. “I didn’t even know you owned clothes like that.”
“There was a trip to the very back of my closet, I promise you.” She smells like flowers and spice and every delicious thing.
Being a succubus means that horny is permanent state for you. You’re perpetually hot for it, and you’ve had some damn good sex with a great many people, some of whom you actually remember their names afterward. It’s hard to express just the way that’s always made Lauren different - when want of the sex and want of the person intersect at a perfect juncture and become this aching, sweet need, this distracting dilemma. There are dozens of women in the club more scantily clad than this one in front of you; dozens of men oozing testosterone that you could smell from a mile away. But all you can see is Lauren.
It isn’t at all helpful, but she’s here now, and you have to be professional.
You lead her to one of the couches by the bar; to the left of you is a couple who appear to be comfortably taking residence on second base. “It’s that guy over there.” You gesture toward Casanova. “I need you to talk to me and pretend we’re together while I watch him over your shoulder, okay?”
She nods. “I can do that.” She crowds in closer, looking intent, knees brushing yours - and yes, she was the right person to call for a realistic-looking nightclub hookup, maybe not so much the right person to help you stay distraction-free. “What should I talk about?”
A too-warm flush is coming over you, a hunger pulling at your insides. “Whatever. Just… tell me about your day, it doesn’t matter.” You keep your eyes firmly planted over her ear and absolutely refuse to look at those too-warm eyes right now.
Lauren starts talking, and it’s all doctor-y, science-y things that you don’t understand, something about genotyping markers in molecular monitoring. But her hand is familiar as it strokes your arm as if to make a point; you laugh like she’s told a particularly funny joke, and anyone would think you found your companion for the night. Your target is plying one of the shoestring girls with another drink, and he’s pretty smooth but so far you’ve seen nothing that seems Fae-worthy. There’s something low and dangerous thrumming in your belly, Lauren’s touch seeming to penetrate skin and bone and reach something for deeper.
“Don’t,” you rasp, capturing her hand. You mean to push it away, but instead clasp it to your chest.
You don’t have to see her face to know her forehead’s wrinkling in the too-adorable way it does when she’s confused. “But I thought you said…”
“I know I said. But when you’re wearing that and touching me, I just… have trouble, okay?” You’re staring across the bar, anywhere but her. Focus, focus.
The thing with Lauren is she’s never quite known how much pull she has over you; she assumes deep down that she’s just human, just the second choice - just a convenient distraction. But right now, you feel like if you really look at her, you might lose control, might shatter from feeling too much, wanting too much.
Unfortunately, your ruse has had the paradoxical effect of making you more obvious to your target.
He’s paused in his romancing and is now staring at you with curiosity, and shit, he’s noticed you watching him too intently, a desire in your eyes that has nothing at all to do with him. His gaze flickers between you and Lauren and the corner of his mouth tugs up. Probably thinking the two of you need a third.
Out of necessity, you drag your eyes back to Lauren… to her lap, first, but that proves to be a mistake too because there’s that skirt and those legs and they make you remember things.
Things like traversing a seemingly endless journey with your mouth, from the delicate arch of her foot all the way up to the silky softness of her thighs. Things like pushing them apart, her nails raking your scalp as she urged you on, your lipstick leaving a blushed stain on pale skin.
You raise your gaze and meet her eyes, guiltily. She’s burning brightly for you, like she always does, but somehow you feel just as obvious. It’s been so long. Too long.
A new song comes on, something with a hard, pulsing beat. Almost everyone is up and dancing now, including the couple who’d been engaged in the tonsil-tag next to you a few moments before. You realize you’re still holding Lauren’s hand to your breast and you drop it, your fingers landing on her bare knee instead. You’ve completely forgotten what you’d come here to do. Having lost the battle, you’re now mesmerized by her eyes.
The bass thumps.
Your fingers edge right under the hem of that sinful skirt, and her pupils dilate.
The lights strobe, creating dizzying and disorienting patterns on the wall, on your faces.
Your hand slides upwards of its own volition, nails scraping against heated skin. Her lips and thighs both fall apart a bit, and you squeeze the pliant flesh.
Bodies writhe around the room, the smell of liquor and sweat and pheromones are everywhere.
The tip of your finger brushes against her panties and you both shudder hard. Her lips form the shape of your name but you can’t hear it. You want to get your mouth on her, your fingers in her, and the fact that this is technically a public place seems not very important at all right now.
All pretense is gone. The two of you draw together like slow-motion magnets, connecting in the middle to the tune of electronic bass and two racing hearts; her tongue feels like you remember, velvet-strong and far too deft and confident for someone so often awkward. It’s ironic how, for as little as her clothes cover, right now all you can think of is getting at the parts they do. You moan into her mouth, and you’ve never felt more human.
It feels like forever and not long enough that you spend intertwined on the couch before the song ends. In some fuzzy, far-away part of your mind you remember that you came here for a purpose tonight - one that didn’t involve getting dangerously close to fingering Lauren in a crowded club. You drag your lips from hers on a gasping breath; her forehead falls to your temple. Your glazed eyes find focus across the bar, and shit. Again.
There’s an empty spot where Romeo used to be; he’s slipped out with his little friends while you were preoccupied, and tonight was a bit of a loss, on that end. You curse. “Fuck, he’s gone.”
Lauren’s twisting at her fingers, maybe to keep from reaching out for you. You want to scold her and fuck her in equal parts - perhaps at the same time. “Sorry?” she suggests in reply.
You sigh to yourself. You’re a pretty good detective, but you’ll always be a better lover.
“Next time, wear your doctor clothes,” you order, aware of your hypocrisy but perturbed at your own weakness.
But Lauren’s smile is less apologetic than coy, and maybe she’s discovering a newfound sense of power that comes from a short skirt and the effective flustering of a succubus.
“No promises.”
You punish her impudence all the way home.
--