Backpack
Title: Backpack
Author: Alsike
Pairing: Emma/Emily
Rating: R
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds
Disclaimer: Not my girls.
Summary: This is something I wrote for the Kink Meme a while ago, decided that I hated it, and didn't post it. I went back and re-read it this morning, and decided it wasn't that bad. Gave it a spit-polish and here you go. I'm not going to post the prompt, but it's really obvious.
Emily was a little insulted.
Fine, it was a case, and as a rookie, she probably wasn't going to be put on any big time cases, and the children had to be protected, she knew that at least, but investigating what really was no more than a malicious rumor, that was an insult.
And Emily did not like strip clubs. She already had enough Catholic guilt about liking to look at beautiful women, adding her feminist guilt to the table for looking at emaciated, potentially drug-addicted, and victimized women just made the whole experience completely unenjoyable. Although this particular club was not quite as bad as she had expected. The women seemed healthier than usual, and also appeared more convincingly to be having a good time. There were also a surprising amount of women in the audience. The liquor was good, and there were card-games going on on one side of the room. She could possibly pull people in for that, but that wasn't what she was here for.
Someone had apparently sent in an anonymous complaint that a teacher from the local public junior high was working here on the side. But irritatingly enough, they hadn't been any more specific than that. Emily had examined carefully all the photos of the junior high school teachers, even the ones she couldn't imagine working in a strip club, because you never knew who picked up bartending as a sideline, and had come here to have a look around. But photos were grainy and indistinct, and the show was nearly at a close, and she had no suspects. It was probably some crackpot neighbor who had a grudge against one of the teachers, but didn't have the guts to make a direct accusation.
Emily sighed, leaned back in her chair and finished her drink, eyes drifting boredly away from the dancing girl to the poker games, and then, with interest, to a woman who had just come out from the room behind the bar, slipped out of the bar area and into the main room. There was something authoritative about her that drew Emily's attention, perhaps in the way she walked, but she looked too young to have such command of herself, and her bleached ripped jeans and faded pale blue babydoll t-shirt did not reinforce her power. Her light hair, somewhere between blonde and brown, was woven into a loose braid, and the collar of her shirt dipped low over her breasts, at such an angle to show off pale skin and just enough cleavage to distract the eyes. She paused to speak to the bartender, leaning on the counter, flashing the stilleto heel of her white boots, clearly giving him instructions. Emily knew she was staring, but who was this woman?
The last girl came on and Emily pulled her eyes away to make certain the new dancer wasn't the teacher she was looking for. Not that she knew exactly what she would do if she found her. This whole case stung of civil liberties violations. It wasn't her, as none of the teachers had short spiky green hair.
"Having a good time?"
Emily swiveled in her seat. The woman from the bar was standing barely a foot away from her holding a small tray with two whiskies.
"I haven't seen you here before." She set the tray down on the table. "On the house."
She straightened up, and Emily's eyes stayed fixed to her cleavage. She jerked her gaze away, but it was too late, and the woman was smirking at her.
"Um, yeah, it's..." Emily winced at her stuttery attempt at a response. "It's very nice, I was... surprised."
The woman let an amused smile spread across her face and slid into the seat beside her. "That's good to know."
"Do you have a license for the gambling?" Emily winced, as if there was any worse way to out herself as law enforcement.
"They're private games," the woman said. "We don't have anything to do with them. And no money changes hands on the premises."
"Oh," Emily managed. That would be hard to bust.
The woman leaned closer to her, her fingers brushing against her leg. "But that's boring. What do you think of the dancing?"
"I'm not-" but it would be strange to say she wasn't that interested in dancing when she had come here and stayed for the whole show. "Pretty good."
The woman laughed and Emily could feel her breath on her face. She didn't know what she was supposed to do. If she hadn't been working, and this woman hadn't also been clearly working, if only as PR for the bar, it would have been an obvious invitation, and honestly, she had no reason to refuse.
"You don't dance."
"Not anymore," the woman said, her head tipped, still smiling.
"You just go around make the patrons happy?"
She laughed at that. "Not usually. I mostly do the books. But sometimes I like to visit."
Emily couldn't stop her own smile in response to that. She had forgotten what it was like to have someone flirt because they wanted you. But oddly, the woman's eyes, drawn to her mouth, changed. There was a slight flicker in the corner of her mouth, as if pulling it down into a pensive frown. "What?" Emily asked, and the woman blinked, meeting her eyes. There was something more intense about they way she looked at her now.
"I like girls in corsets," she said, lazily. Emily flushed. They had sent her on this job and expected her to pick her own clothing. But she hadn't really dressed up to go out to a club since college. She had put on her favorite corset, bound herself into it, looked in the mirror and turned red, too much skin, too much cleavage, but she hadn't wanted to take it off, so she had just slipped on a shirt over the top.
"I like wearing them." It was true. She had stopped, because it had made her too sensitive to her body, and that had been hard to maintain when she had been disconnected from it for so long. The woman reached out, flicking a button open and reaching through the opening of her shirt to finger the laces at her breasts. "How much?" she asked, her voice half a whisper. "How much do you like them?"
What did she mean? Most people didn't understand what it was like, to change your body like this, to feel the way it touches you, laced boots and leather pants. She hadn't gone that far tonight, just jeans and low boots, and a white shirt over the top. But it wasn't buttoned all the way up. This woman might understand.
"It's been a while," Emily said softly. "Sometimes it makes you feel too much."
In a way, a kevlar vest did a similar thing. It gave you the strength that you needed to survive, to act, but you acted like a soldier. A corset gave you the power to act like a woman.
The woman's fingertips slid up the side of her face, and then her palm pressed against her cheek, warm and smooth.
The table Emily had chosen was in the corner with a good view of the room, but dark, and out of the way. The dancing had ended and the music changed, and the whiskey had gone to her head.
"You don't want to feel?"
"I want to feel you."
The woman laughed, and Emily choked. She hadn't meant to use such a stupid line.
"You're pretty when you blush." The woman shook her head. "What games have you played, pretty girl?"
"What?"
"Don't tell me you only bind. Girls who bind like to play with toys."
"I'm not in the scene," Emily said flatly, suddenly not liking where this was going.
"But you know about it."
"Of course, I-" She had nearly claimed her law enforcement credentials. "I knew people who were."
"But you never played?"
"I get enough pain in my job. I don't need it during sex."
"Oh, honestly? There's always a little bit of pain." The woman was too close to her. She rubbed her thumb along her lower lip. "You say you've never let anyone fuck your mouth? Just hold you still and use your throat? Because that would be a crime."
"I really don't fuck boys that often."
"You've never been with a girl who wanted to bruise your mouth and see you choke?" The woman's hand was on her thigh, squeezing it. Emily's eyes dropped and saw her nipping through her shirt. She licked her lips and couldn't help the lazy grin that spread across her face.
"I didn't get a lot of girls who didn't want to be on their knees."
"Lucky."
"Maybe."
"Only maybe? Did it bore you?"
"Lots of things are boring." And Emily decided to touch. She slid her hand around the curve of the woman's ribcage, and up, then blatantly rubbed her thumb over her breast. The woman pulled slightly away, arching an eyebrow.
"I'll get on my knees for you," she said slyly. "But only to get on top of you."
"Really?"
And then she moved, swinging a knee up and over her legs, straddling her on the seat, and settling into Emily's lap. She caught her wrists and pushed them back against the cushion. "Don't touch?"
"You give a lot of lap dances?"
The woman grinned. "Enough." She flicked Emily's nose. "Undo your shirt."
"What?"
"You said you were bored, darling. Listen to me."
Emily's eyes scanned across the room. A few watchers looked away. One of the girls who had been dancing flashed a thumbs-up. She blushed.
"Here?"
"Listen to me."
Emily's hands shook, but she reached for the last few buttons on her shirt, opening them.
"Take it off."
Emily slowly shrugged out of it, revealing her corset, and the high curves of her breasts. The woman licked her lips. She leaned in and licked her way up her neck. Emily hissed, and she dug her fingers into her own thighs so she didn't reach out and grab this woman, preferably by her braid and her ass.
But something was buzzing at her awareness, fighting off the haze of lust. "You know why I'm here," she muttered.
The woman sat back on her heels, tipping her head to eye her consideringly. "I know why you think you're here," she said softly. She reached back and picked up the untouched shot of whiskey and splashed it over the floor. Emily tensed. If that was a confession that there had been drugs in it... "But I think you showed up at just the right time."
Her gaze was intent and knowing in a way Emily was very uncomfortable with.
"The right time for what?"
She leaned in and dipped her tongue into the hollow at Emily's throat. "No one wears a leather corset under their shirt if they're planning on keeping their shirt on."
"I expected this?"
"You wanted it." The woman grinned. "Lucky I was just waiting for someone with a pretty mouth and easy to bruise skin who wanted to learn to play."
"Play what?"
"Keep away." She nosed in, her cheek and breath rushing over Emily's ear. Emily reached for her. "Don't touch."
"Why not?"
"Because I want you to come from just my mouth." She nipped lightly at her collarbone.
"But you're-"
The woman trapped a tiny fold of skin in between her teeth, and bit. Emily restrained a scream and it emerged as a gasp. She was desperate to clasp her hands around this woman's waist and drive her hips into her. And then she kissed the place she had bit, and Emily could only whimper.
It was only her hot mouth on her skin, her collarbone, her neck, her breasts, the cut of her teeth, the comfort of her lips, the probe of her tongue. Emily's fingers sank into the fake leather of the booth, her breath coming hard and her hips squirming, the woman's warm weight pressing her down and keeping her trapped.
And she...
* * *
Emily's body ached, wrists raw, mouth bruised and slightly filmy with cum. She leaned back against the headboard, and watched. The woman twisted her hair up into a bun, fixing it with a stick, and buttoned her borrowed shirt up to the collar. She looked older like that, prim and proper, and unnervingly familiar. There was something about the set of her shoulders and the way her hair was off her pale neck, marked a little by Emily's mouth, that reminded her of...
"Oh hell," the woman swore. "Can you give me a lift back to the club? I left my students' papers there and they'll whine if they don't get their tests back on Monday."
Emily gaped and then fell back into the pillows. "Shit."
FIN