Title: Welcome to the Club
Author: Sara
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Smallville/Buffy
Pairing: Lana/Faith (no, really), Lex/Clark implied
Notes: Some plot bunnies are just impossible to ignore.
Archive: Smallville Slash Archive, Small Town Girls, Between The Lines if they want it, my site (http://geocities.com/addictedkitten), anyone else, ask.
Disclaimer: Smallville: Gough/Millar. Buffy: Whedon/Noxon.
Thanks: Bennie and Susan, for looking it over.
Music: Garbage: "Push It." N.E.R.D: "Lapdance." Kelis: "Young Fresh n New."
You know why you're doing this, but you can't really put it into words. There's some vague notion of rebellion in there, trying to discover how daring you can be without getting caught, taking risks, and taking advantage of being young and stupid and pretty. Definitely taking advantage of your wide eyes and sweet smile, because that lethal combination makes you invulnerable solely because you look like a corruptible young thing. Which you are. And it's time to make use of that, because you won't be young forever, and if you get caught (which you won't) you at least have that excuse.
It took you weeks to plan this. Had to get the outfit right, because this all hinged on believability. It wouldn't be any fun if they thought you were faking it, so you've tried your best and hopefully you'll look like you belong there. So here it is: black pants shot through with silver threads. Black boots with four inch heels, which are tough to walk in but you practiced so if you're lucky you won't stumble. Tight strawberry red tank top that laces up the sides. Thin silver belly chain, tiny links cool against the inch of bared skin there. A black leather collar. Glossy lips, clear shimmer-lit red. Eyes heavy with white and silver glitter.
You're ready.
You get out of the car. It's colder outside than you expected, the bass from the music making the ground shake slightly. A dark sign over the door reads "Club Zero" in faded red letters. For some reason you had expected neon.
The bouncer looks like he's going to ask for I.D. until he notices your cleavage. You throw in a wide-eyed "who me?" look and he just frowns and takes your money. The fake I.D. you spent forty bucks on stays in your pocket.
It's dark in there. Frantic multi-colored light from an indeterminate source lights the dance floor, illuminating several grinding couples. There's a vague sense that perhaps the room has some corners, but they're all composed of shadows. A veil of cigarette smoke surrounds the bar, which is cluttered with shot glasses and beer bottles. You're surrounded by noise: the music pounding in time with your pulse, shouted conversation, the rub of leather on leather as people slide by each other, and the barely audible sound of moans from the distant, unseen corners.
Oh, it's that kind of club, you think before you realize that's why you're here. You're here because you're ready to be that kind of girl. Smart enough to realize that it's too late to change your image now. You'll always be the small town girl, the homecoming queen, the high school sweetheart. You'd love to break out, really you would, start wearing black clothes and red lipstick and saying what you really feel instead of smiling sweetly and Doing The Right Thing. Maybe even hook up with Chloe. That's not going to happen and you know it, so for now you're going to settle for sneaking off to the underground club where people routinely get arrested for performing lewd acts in a public place. You're going to overdose on glitter and pick up strange women.
You're going to look to the bar, because there's a girl there with thick dark hair and leather pants and she's been eyeing you since you walked in.
The collar's just a little too tight, making you slightly light-headed. You lick your lips, tasting strawberry gloss. You feel like prey. It's a good feeling.
You wait for her to approach you. Yeah, okay, leather collar, but you've still never made the first move, even in dealings with the opposite sex. She doesn't move, though, just watches you. Reminds you of a documentary on lions you saw once on the Discovery Channel. She looks like she's about to pounce.
Fuck this. You walk over, slide into the seat next to her.
"What do you drink?" she asks, after giving you a thorough once-over.
And somehow, you hadn't thought that far ahead. You try and fail to think fast. A gleam of understanding enters her dark eyes and she gestures to the bartender, ordering a shot of vodka and a rum and Coke. A moment later and a glass is at your lips. You can barely taste the Coke. The alcohol makes your lips burn and your throat tingle.
"Thanks," you say, trying not to choke. Your breath hitches when you realize that she's been watching you the whole time, and her thigh is pressed to yours. You struggle to think. "What's your name?" you ask, finishing off the drink, liking the way it warms you from the inside even in the intense heat of the club.
"Doesn't matter," she says shortly and throws some money on the bar, stands. "You coming?"
You barely have time to set down your glass before she's up and disappearing into the crowd.
It's hot on the dance floor; you can feel your shirt sticking to your back already. Your hair curling further as your belly chain slides over the slick curves of your hipbones. The girl is right in front of you, taller than you thought. Her fingers twining into your belt loops, wrapping around your hips. Pulling you closer. You don't know what to do with your hands; until in a surge of daring you loop them around her neck, entangling your fingers into her thick waves.
The two of you feel each other up and pretend it's dancing. Her hands long ago made their way to your ass, yours roaming over her torso, where you can feel cut muscles shift beneath the fabric. You turn, your back to hers, and slide your arms over her neck. You feel your shirt being lifted, her hands roaming up underneath until they land on the black velvet of your bra.
You wonder why you ever bothered with men.
It seems like you should be experiencing at least some inhibitions. Like you shouldn't be letting her slide her hands over your breasts, shouldn't be letting her lean forward and lick and kiss the sweat from your neck. Especially not in the middle of a crowded dance floor. But all you can think is that you don't want her to stop.
You tell her as much as she slowly manipulates you off the dance floor, closer and closer to the wall. She turns you back into the circle of her arms, sliding her hands down to grip your thighs, and lifts. Your legs wrap around her waist and faster than your slightly intoxicated mind can process it, your back collides with the wall. Her lips are back on your neck, you can feel the slight stickiness of her lipstick smearing over your skin. A hand goes to unbutton your pants and you have the presence of mind to pull her head up so you can kiss her properly, lips on lips before she goes for the straight-up public sex.
"I'm Lana," you gasp when she pulls away to breathe.
"Faith," she says before her mouth attacks yours again. Making out with Whitney was never like this. Fucking fantasizing about making out with Whitney was never like this. Her tongue is doing new and creative things with yours, and you have the inane thought that she's probably one of those people that can tie a cherry stem in a knot with her tongue. You haven't been this turned on since you found Whitney's stash of Playboy magazines and had a look. Faith tastes like blackberries, dark and sweet and is it wrong that you want to bite her?
Can't resist, just can't. You pull back as much as you can and bite her neck, hard enough to leave two perfect rows of teeth marks, deep enough so that you can see them even in the dimly lit space. She tastes salty and you want to fucking eat her alive. The noises she's making, deep gasps and moans, encourage you to suck as hard as you can, and she presses you to the wall so hard you're convinced she wants to push you through it.
You pull back to remind her that you need to breathe and she has such a look of naked hunger in her eyes that you lose any ability to speak. Her hands are working frantically at your pants, unbuttoning them and pulling down the zipper. It sounds like the loudest noise in the club, drowning the music and the voices. Her fingers slipping inside to slide over the satin of your underwear. Dipping inside, tangling in the thick curls there.
You wonder who made that drawn out moan until you realize it was you.
"Tell me what you want," Faith says breathlessly.
"Touch me," you gasp, eager to make her resume her activities.
A fingertip against your clit sends a pulse through your system. "Like that?"
"Uh huh." Your breath is coming out in short, heady pants now. The collar is strangling you. Which somehow is even more of a turn on.
"What are you doing here, Lana? Tell me. Confess all your sins." The pressure on your clit increases. A finger teases along your outer lips.
"This isn't a confession," you say, punctuating each word with an exhaled breath.
"Isn't it?" she whispers back, and slides a finger inside you.
You can't speak. Can only close your eyes against the red and purple lights flashing overhead, wrap your legs tighter around her waist, and concentrate on the feeling of her thrusting another finger inside, pinching your clit hard between two strong fingers. Your hands scrabble for purchase on the wall, eventually wrapping around her shoulders, trying your best to pull her even closer.
Her other hand braces you against the wall, holding you upright. She presses closer, balancing you on her hips, moves her hand from the wall to your breast. Impatiently pushing under the fabric to slide under and into one of the cups. Squeezing at first, then connecting with the tight flesh of your nipple, rolling it between her fingers.
"God," you manage to choke out before she increases the pressure of her probing fingers, thrusting them into you and grinding your clit hard with the palm of her hand. A soft bite on your neck accompanied by a pull on your nipple and you're climaxing hard. Strangled shout lost in the angry growl of the music.
Coming down from it, realizing that sweat is running down your forehead and catching in your eyelashes. You blink and it stings. Faith has that predator look in her eyes again. You feel like you should be scared. You kind of are.
She steps back, loosening your legs from their position. You slide down, the wall barely holding you up. She thoughtfully leans in and zips up your pants, sliding the button through the hole and patting it into place.
"I'm an ex-con, you know," she says conversationally.
You're not surprised. "What did you do time for? Seducing innocents?" you ask, in a tone bordering on snarky. You didn't realize you had it in you, but apparently the combination of rum, Coke, and the best orgasm of your life improves your banter skills.
She looks surprised, then smiles. "Come on. I'll buy you another drink."
You follow her back to the bar, feeling sleepy and satisfied. "You know, you don't have to get me drunk. I already put out."
She laughs. It's a nice laugh. You sit down at the bar and she sits next to you, her leg pressed to yours. In your personal space. You decide that you like her there. Another rum and Coke finds it's way to the counter in front of you and you suddenly feel chatty.
"So, what's a girl like you doing in a place like this? You don't look like you're from around here." You just realized that you had sex up against a wall with a girl whose last name you don't even know. That fact makes you feel kind of curious about who the hell she is.
"Just visiting an old friend."
"Is she here?" you ask, hoping it's not a jealous ex-girlfriend.
"It's a he, actually. And yeah. Over there." She points to the dance floor. You see the same mass of bodies that's always there, until you realize that one of them looks very, very familiar. "Lex Luthor. You know him?"
You have the feeling that you would run out of expletives if you even tried to answer that. "I don't think so," you lie smoothly. You try not to let your hand shake as you take another drink. The clock on the wall is suddenly the most interesting thing you've ever seen. It reads four o'clock. You tell yourself that the boy grinding on the dance floor with Lex only looked like Clark. Which is still pretty disturbing.
"You want to go somewhere?" The need to flee is so strong that you can barely resist the temptation to get up and run the fuck out of there.
Faith looks interested. "I'm staying with Lex. Can't bring you back there. Your place?"
You try to think of a valid excuse, but your brain seems to have deserted you. Telling her that you're barely sixteen and living with your aunt and oh yeah, still in high school doesn't seem like a viable option. Can't really go anywhere either, since Nell expects you home by noon tomorrow. Fuck. "Can't do it," you say shortly.
"Guess this is it, then," Faith says. She sounds almost disappointed.
"I guess." You look at the door. Throw back the last bit of your drink and stand. "How long are you going to be in town?"
"For the next week."
You smile, then lean forward. Grab her by the shirtfront and kiss her hard. Let her go with a teasing "Maybe I'll see you again."
She gives you a considering look. "Maybe."
You nod and walk out. It's still cold outside. Lex's car gleams in the moonlight and you really hope that he didn't see you.
You wonder if you'll see Faith again. Smile at the thought, unlock your car and get in, settling in, still feeling delicious from the afterglow and the faint buzz of alcohol in your blood. A network of bruises forming on your neck and you'll definitely need to buy more concealer. A small price to pay for the satisfaction.
You put the key in the ignition and start it up. Begin the drive back to Smallville, where you're Lana Lang, small town princess. That's a more acceptable idea now that you're also Lana Lang, participant in semi-anonymous lesbian sex in a bar. Your very own secret identity, something you're absurdly proud of.
Maybe I'll go back next week, you think. Maybe I'll save up and buy some leather pants of my own. Maybe I'll ask Chloe out after all.
The world suddenly seems full of possibilities.
You smile. Put your foot on the accelerator, and go.
The End
2-4-2002