In the Wrong Song [Angel/RPF]

In the Wrong Song
Author: Jennifer-Oksana
Fandom: Angel/Pop
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Lilah/Wes, Lilah/Justin Timberlake
Disclaimer: So not mine. Such a work of fiction I cannot believe you’d question the fictionality of this.
Summary: A bedtime story. Of sorts. If you take it seriously, you’re out of your mind.

Lilah was waiting in his apartment when he got home. He’d gotten used to it. Besides, there was something comfortingly domestic in the way she waited, with a glass of wine, some sort of convenience food, and whatever lingerie she wanted to show off for the day.

Today it was chardonnay, one of those pre-cooked lasagnas from Albertson’s, grey cotton, and noisy commentary on General Hospital. In other words, she wasn’t showing off much except her power to sit in his apartment like a long-term girlfriend. Hell, today Miss Morgan was even wearing her hair up in a ponytail and eating Oreos.

“Don’t do it, Alexis! It demeans you! Besides, you knew Sonny was a bad idea from the minute you banged him!” Lilah told the television as Wesley closed the door behind him. “Hi.”

“At least it’s not Law and Order reruns,” he said resignedly.

“I only like the Claire Kincaid ones,” she replied, chomping an Oreo. “How’s my favorite British traitor? I brought food and Oreos. See? Creamy center. Good for licking.”

He stifled a smirk. “You know, this is terribly disillusioning. The evil bitch queen of Wolfram and Hart watches soap operas, eats junk food and–I know that woman!”

Lilah lifted an eyebrow. “Who, her?” she asked. “She’s new. I don’t like her. I think she’s trying to sleep with Jason. And Jason’s just–his love for Sonny is so pure. There’s a reason they keep sleeping with the same girls. Because good GOD, the Brenda thing. I mean, seriously.”

“When I say know, I mean picked up at a bar,” Wesley replied. “Please stop trying to get me interested in General Hospital. It’s not going to happen. American soap operas are pants.”

“But–Brenda’s coming back. And how can you resist the Sonny goodness?” she said with mock outrage before dissolving into helpless laughter. “I mean. Sonny! And you really slept with her?”

“I really slept with her,” Wesley said, grabbing a plate and dishing himself up a portion of lasagna. “Scoot over.”

“That’s cool,” Lilah said, grabbing another Oreo. “There was this guy who was on Passions. I went out on a couple of dates with him. Fucking Adonis. Not entirely bright, but that wasn’t why I was going out with him. Hey, do you want to go somewhere tonight?”

Wesley leaned over and gave her a long kiss that grew heated and then turned into a quick striptease as they pulled off his shirt. “No.”

“Okay. Just asking,” she said. “So was she the most famous one?”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The girl from GH,” Lilah said, as if she was explaining something to a not-very-bright child. “Was she the most famous person you ever fucked?”

“All right, so I really did hear that,” he said. “Sometimes I despair of you.”

“You’re such a priss sometimes,” she replied, turning her attention to him with a feline smile. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

He wondered, aimlessly, if she’d ingested some strange demon substance. Even tipsy, she wasn’t usually this bubbly. And it seemed contagious. Wesley didn’t really mind telling, especially given that with the ponytail, the grin, and the lingerie, she looked like she wanted to play.

“All right–I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I said Orlando Bloom before he was famous?” Wesley asked, testing the waters. Lilah tilted her head.

“No, not really. He’s cute. But not your type. Had you said Sean Bean, I’d be like, okay, sure. But Orlando Bloom?” she said. “Come on, Wes. I don’t care who you fucked. What, was it like, an old star? Like Jennifer Beals or something?”

He laughed. “Why? Who was your big name? Did you sleep with a Sheen?” he asked, stealing her wineglass and finishing off the wine therein. “You did! You slept with Charlie Sheen.”

Lilah shook her head. “Ew,” she said, scraping the middle out of her Oreo. “No. Evil, not slutty. Well, not very.”

“You’re the one obsessed with shagging the rich and famous,” Wesley pointed out, standing up. “So if you’re not a groupie, why are you so damned elated about your mystery man? Or woman?”

Momentary thoughts of Madonna passed through Wesley’s head before she shook her head emphatically.

“Man,” she teased, leaning on him as they headed for the bedroom. “Well. Sort of a man. I guess you could call Justin a man.”

“Justin who?” Wesley asked, trying to feign disinterest as they fell onto the bed with much groping and high spirits.

“Justin who?” she mimicked, raising an eyebrow. “Think of famous Justins. Who aren’t yet men, but aren’t really boys, either.”

It took him a minute. But in his defense, Wesley didn’t follow modern American pop.

“No. Not possible. You didn’t really fuck Justin Timberlake,” Wesley said incredulously. “It’s absurd. He’s a child.”

Lilah laughed. “He’s perfectly legal, Wes,” she said. “Baby-faced, yes. But very legal. And very…”

Wesley raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

She smiled. “Eager to please might be the best way to put it,” she purred, tracing patterns on his chest.

“You’re lying to me,” he said, trying to push her hand away. “He would have been…when?”

She pretended to think about it. “Two years ago. Nineteen. He and I were both at this dreadful function in the hills for his label. I was there…hell, I don’t know who with,” she said, leaning in to press cool kisses on Wesley’s chest. “It was the lamest thing I’d been to in ages. We were trying to get *nsync for some charity function or other…”

Wesley snorted. “So what, you both got drunk and dissed the party outside?”

“Where did you learn the word dissed?” Lilah asked. “That’s about ten years too young for you.”

“Never mind. So if you really met Justin Timberlake…”

“Not only did I meet him,” Lilah purred. “He made the pass at me. Not that I didn’t set it up. But still. He asked if I wanted something to drink, Ms. Morgan, and I most certainly did.”

Wesley didn’t want to believe her, but he’d watched Lilah move through a crowd once or twice in public, and if she’d been wearing something that showed off her legs–

“So then what? You ditched the party, found a convenient coat closet?”

“I accidentally didn’t go home in the firm limo. I needed a ride. We’d each had a couple–”

Wesley laughed. “He gave you a ride!”

“I was practically falling out of my dress. He damn well DID give me a ride, all right. Right back to his hotel room.”

“You’re shameless.”

“So was he,” Lilah reminisced. “God, the things that boy said in the back of the limo. I actually think he used the phrase ‘tap that ass.’ Which usually would have gotten him nowhere, but I really wanted to have sex with Justin Timberlake.”

“Why?”

“Because then I could say I had sex with Justin Timberlake.”

Wesley slid a hand under her camisole. “So he told you all the wicked things he was going to do to you in the back of the limo? How…cliche.”

“He was nineteen. Sweet kid, really,” Lilah murmured. “He kissed me and it was so sloppy, but it was genuine. Kind of like this–”

Her mouth slammed against his wetly, trying to eagerly capture his while a far-too-enthusiastic tongue wormed its way between his teeth. At first it was simply annoying, but the exuberance…there was something to be said for exuberance.

“Oh,” Wesley said when she pulled away. “Did you show him how to do it better?”

“I told him that drool is no one’s friend.”

She brushed her lips against his earlobe. “I suggested that it would be better if he tried something more–subtle,” she whispered, lightly tracing the whorls of Wesley’s ear with the very tip of her tongue while her fingers delicately slid against his scar.

“Did you now?” Wesley asked quietly, taking her arm and pushing it behind her back.

“Mmm-hmm,” she breathed, working her way down his jaw with tiny, elegant kisses. “It’s all about working your way up into a frenzy. Going for the slowww-oh-oh-oh burn.”

Wesley cupped her breast and squeezed. She giggled.

“And like I said,” she teased, rubbing her cheek against his stubble. “He was *so* eager to please. I could tell he wanted to just–go at it in the limo, but. You know me.”

He did indeed, and his mouth was suddenly crushed against her neck, licking at the spot that always made her whimper and press against him needily.

“You like to tease,” Wesley agreed huskily.

“Anticipation is sexy,” Lilah murmured, letting him slide her camisole off. “Anyway. So I taught him how to kiss, and then we were at the hotel. He made us go around back.”

“How convenient,” Wesley answered.

“You know, you’ve got to be less skeptical. Why on earth would I try to impress you with this? You’re not a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“And that would be about the ONLY person who’d care about that, right?”

Lilah rolled her eyes. “You’re just jealous because the most famous person you screwed was that woman from General Hospital,” she pointed out.

“At least it wasn’t Passions, like certain liars currently seated in my lap,” Wesley replied.

“You are SUCH a son of a bitch,” Lilah said with a pout, rocking her hips into his. “I’m telling you, we almost didn’t make it to the hotel room. He had his hands under my dress and I almost fell over because I had a garter belt on and I’m like, ‘honey, I’m going to break a leg if you don’t stop that. And then everyone would know you’re cheating on Brit.'”

Wesley pushed her into the mattress. “Poor Britney,” he said.

Lilah laughed again and wrapped her legs around Wesley.

“Britney was apparently sleeping with someone else at the time, ‘but, yo, she’s just–she drives me crazy. Everything but. All the time. I love her and she’s still tight. And that’s just–she drives me crazy.’ And it was just so cute. This poor boy is trying to explain to me why he was cheating on America’s pop princess and I’m–”

Wesley hooked a finger into her underwear and tugged. She reluctantly loosened her grip and let him take them off.

“You’re what, exactly?” Wesley asked.

“I pushed him up against the wall and told him I didn’t care about Britney. I just wanted him.”

“So much for subtlety.”

“He was whining! I was not in it to hear a pop idol cry about how Britney would take it up the ass. And wow. We were lucky his room was right there, because he almost knocked me to the ground.”

Wesley nodded stoically, and started kissing his way down her torso, enjoying the little gasps she made when he paused at her bellybutton.

“Keep going,” he ordered, looking up at her. She’d closed her eyes and was licking her lips.

“Oh-fucking-kay,” she said, laughing. “So. Hotel room. I’m wearing Badgley Mischa. He tears it off me. And apologizes. He tells me, ‘I’ll pay for it, but please–is that okay if we?’ and I step out of the dress and kick it halfway across the room. Then I walk up to him–and I’m in a strapless bra and a thong–and I start unbuttoning his shirt.”

“Very sexy,” Wesley agreed, looking up from the hollow of her hip-bone.

“You are an asshole,” Lilah replied, biting her lip so that she didn’t giggle. “He was so cute. I’ve never had someone so grateful for a blow-job. Not even my boyfriend in the tenth grade. I mean, he’s moaning–oh, fuck, like that, like fucking that–and I’m–oh fuck–I was just…it was good. He was so damn sweet. His knees were trembling, and that just turned me–don’t ever stop doing that–”

“Mmm,” Wesley said, stopping doing that and looking up again. “So you were on your knees, servicing a pop star. In what, the black lace number?”

She shook her head. “The silver. And now you’re just being MEAN, Wes.”

“The silver,” Wesley said, running his hand closer and closer to her very wet pussy. “I like the silver. The black is better. So Mr. Timberlake clearly enjoyed fucking your mouth. Then what? Did you wait five minutes before he knocked you to the floor and fucked you with puppy-like enthusiasm?”

“I don’t know why I bother with you. You’re such a motherfucker,” Lilah gasped. “Unclefucking, motherfucking–ooh.”

“Better?” Wesley asked, smirking slightly.

“Uh-huh,” she whimpered.

“Anyway,” Wesley said, moving his lips back to where Lilah apparently believed they belonged.

“Anyway. Britney doesn’t swallow,” Lilah half-sobbed, half-giggled. “I told him that was okay. America’s pop princess shouldn’t have to swallow. And then I told him it was time to show me if his tongue was as good as I’d heard, or if that was just studio magic.”

He couldn’t help it. He burst into laughter. So did she, after a moment.

“You’re completely fucking incorrigible,” he said, sliding two fingers inside of her and stroking roughly. “You really said that?”

“Close enough,” she said, still laughing.

“Did he?” Wesley asked.

“What do you think?” she asked, gasping like an asthmatic fish. “That was manhood-insulting. You have noooo—oh, good God–idea how far–oh my God, yes!–a man will go to prove his skills. And seriously, if you look up and say something, I will beat your head in. Do not stop doing that.”

He didn’t stop. The story was temporarily interrupted while Lilah screamed to God and Wesley for a good minute.

“Oh. Oh,” Lilah finally managed to moan, flushed and wide-eyed. “Shall we continue?”

“Let’s,” Wesley said, kissing her forehead. “I’m terribly curious how talented Mr. Timberlake’s tongue is.”

“You’re much, much better,” she assured him with big, solemn eyes.

“That’s not the question,” he said, finally removing his belt. “Did he know how? Did you tell him what to do before getting bored with post-adolescent fumbling? Did one of his brain-dead band mates pound on the wall to tell you to shut the hell up?”

“Someone’s bit-ter,” Lilah singsonged, leaning upwards looking for–and receiving–a kiss. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t horrible. I got up and found the hotel mini-bar–fine fuckin’ mini-bar, I tell you that–and he asked me if I meant it about his tongue. I gave him the ‘are you serious?’ look–you know what I mean–”

He kicked his trousers off the bed with casual distaste, firmly taking her wrists in one hand and lifting them above her head lazily. Lilah snickered and began to pretend to struggle.

“Stop that,” Wesley told her lightly. “You’re evading. If you really had sex with Mr. Timberlake, then you won’t stop telling now. So you’re at the mini-bar and he’s sorely wounded because you’ve mocked his ability to go down on a woman. And then?”

“And then I get a bag of M&M’s, a glass of champagne, sit down in the nicest hotel chair I’ve ever had the pleasure of sitting in and start looking for green M&M’s,” Lilah replied, still twisting her wrists and appearing ready to giggle at any moment. “And Justin takes a deep breath, walks across the room, and the next thing I know, he’s got his head on top of my thighs and he’s looking up at me like a schoolboy.”

“There’s a Mrs. Robinson joke in there somewhere, but I’ll be polite,” Wes growled, pressing her down harder into the mattress. “Stop. Moving.”

“Come on, Wes,” she murmured, her knee practically to her shoulder by now. “What do you want? He tells me that he knows how. Britney, you know. And yes, of course I know. Britney. She’s not a girl, but not yet a woman. And I tell him, while eating M&Ms with my knees just a little open–and I’m honestly thinking about the two hours I’m going to end up spending at the gym the next day, I say, sweetheart, that’s well and good. But I believe in reciprocation.”

“And that was a complete and utter lie,” Wesley said, letting her wrists go so that he could get her other leg around his waist.

“And I’m terribly ashamed of myself,” Lilah deadpanned, squirming again. “Maybe you can give me the spanking he owes me–mmm. In any case, he manages to get my panties off, and he’s so nervous now because I’ve given him a serious mocking, but then–well. The cleaning bill must have been terrible, because–be-e-ee-cause–”

Wesley snarled and starting thrusting harder, and she wailed something in a language that wasn’t English. Possibly Russian, which he wasn’t aware she knew and was quite a turn-on.

“I’ll give you something to be ashamed of.”

“Ooh, big man,” she taunted, eyes half-closed as she met his thrusts with her own. “Justin was deeply attentive, in that ‘is that okay? Is that okay?’ way. Like he was going to break something. I don’t think that’s him, but this was before Janet and Alyssa and all that. He was kind of scared of me, I think, because after I–and I got off, but it wasn’t the best I’ve ever had, so I was faking a little with the screaming–he says, ‘do women do that all the time?'”

“How precious,” Wesley said dryly. “You’re going to break my heart with this deeply sweet tale of corrupting young America.”

“Teaching the young how to fuck properly is the duty of every true American,” Lilah said, losing the battle with her giggles. “Sorry! It’s just that every time I think of little Justin, with his curls and those deep, soulful eyes asking if women did all the time and I get–extremely fucking turned on by what you’re doing to me. Mygod, Wes–”

“He couldn’t have done much for you,” Wesley commented idly. “I think half the reason it’s getting you worked up is because you’ve got an audience to hear about your petty escapades.”

Her eyelids fluttered a little as her tongue moistened her lower lip with unconscious abandon.

“Oh, you’re so wrong,” she told him, arching her back. “It’s not about fame. Fuck fame. Fame is an illusion. A means to an end. It’s about power. And I had him. Nineteen years old, a multi-millionaire, fifty bajillion records sold, thousands of girls weeping at the sight of him, fucking Britney Spears–and if I’d told him to bend over, he would have begged me to fuck him harder and–oh God, Wes. Oh GOD–harder. Harder–oh my GOD, yes, like that–”

“Power,” he said contemptuously, dragging his lips of her bare shoulder and biting down lightly as she shuddered around him. “You think it’s power you have? Getting a nineteen-year-old boy to fuck a beautiful woman ten years his elder–who’s also willing to put up his mistakes? That’s not power–that’s every boy’s fantasy come to life. And you let yourself be the fantasy. For what? The name.”

“So why does it turn you on?” she asked, amusement warming up her eyes. “I knew what he wanted. Hell, I’m lucky that once we finally hit that bed he didn’t ask to call me Mommy. Sweet little Jup banged an older hottie who thought he could fuck so good–and you’re getting off on it. Because you have something to prove. You can make the bad–evil–oh, Godohgodohgod–woman spread wide for you. All that power, and I’ll give it up like that. For you. But do you want to know a secret, Wes?”

“Not particularly.”

“You think it’s hotter than hell that I fucked him,” she hissed, her fingernails raking down his back as they both started moving faster. “Because you know it’s true that he wanted me so bad that he made a fool of himself. You know that he dragged his tongue all over my body, touching me where he thought I’d like it–and I arched up and wailed and said, ‘ooh, Justin, give it to me’ and played the video bimbo–you know. You can see it. ‘Oh, Justin, let me do that for ya, baby–‘ the way those big, pretty eyes looked up at me like–”

“Fuck,” he growled, dragged over the edge by the silky, nasty tone of her voice as much as the images.

“We do it so well,” she said fondly. “Maybe not with the romantic intensity of a soap opera, but then again–who does?”

Wesley collapsed against her body, shaking his head. “Sometimes I don’t know why I don’t throw you out on your ear,” he muttered while Lilah’s tricky little hands stroked his hair. “And so? You fucked like bunnies, made sweet music together, did your dance–”

“And I woke up at six the next morning with a hangover,” she said prosaically. “My three thousand dollar dress was ruined, I felt like Pamela des Barres at a reunion concert, and Justin was drooling on the pillow, snoring. Not the sexiest morning after of all time, especially when I go into the bathroom to clean up and Lance and Chris walk in and start messing with Justin while I’m trying not to hear Lance bitchily tell Justin that he’s a skanky little manslut and he’d never blah blah blah. Fuckin’ Lance.”

He laughed. “Did you keep Lance Bass out of space? Because that would be a terrible, terrible thing to do.”

Lilah feigned an innocent look. “I wouldn’t ever use my power and influence to do something so petty,” she lied cheerfully. “He called me Slutty O’Toole. Besides, Lance? Such a little queen. He was just bitter about the part where he’s not the one fucking Justin.”

“You denied a man his lifelong dream to go into space because he called you Slutty O’Toole while you were in the shower,” Wesley said. “After you had a steamy one-night stand with his nineteen-year-old friend and fellow pop idol. Two years ago.”

“Lance is evil. I’m sure he would have done the same in my shoes,” Lilah replied. “But I walk out in one of the giant, fabulous bathrobes and smile at them. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m intruding. Justin, honey, could you get me my purse? I need to call down to the concierge to get myself a cab and something to go home in.’ Lance’s jaw drops and Chris is giving me the evil eye because I might have corrupted their sweet boy.”

“A justifiable fear,” Wesley pointed out. “Did he pay you for the dress?”

“He was such a gentleman, unlike certain British assholes I fuck much, much more often,” Lilah replied tartly, elbowing him off her. “He said his limo would take me anywhere and that we’d find me an outfit. Just say the word. And did I want breakfast?”

“Did you?”

“No, I’d just get myself an orange juice and half a bagel on my way out,” she replied, propping herself up on one elbow. “And there’s not much more to tell after that. I walked out of there with a Dolce and Gabbana t-shirt that I think belonged to Brit, a pair of JC’s jeans, and Chris’ undying hatred. I gave Justin my card, wrote my cell phone number on the back, kissed him on the cheek–and thus ends the fairytale.”

Wesley laughed. “You’re going to hell.”

“The very special hell,” Lilah answered, rolling over and kissing him on the cheek. “So you never told me who your famous person was. I know you had one. This is Los Angeles. Fred Durst hits on anything that moves and often succeeds. You’ve got an accent and you’re an attractive man. You’ve done better than soap stars. So tell.”

Wesley shook his head. “Maybe some other time, when I’m not overwhelmed by your prowess in seducing boyband members.”

“Judi Dench? Kylie Minogue? Simon from American Idol?” Lilah guessed, leaning against Wesley’s body.

“No, no, and he was on Pop Idol first,” he replied. “Also, no.”

“Was she more famous than mine?” Lilah asked. “You can at least tell me that.”

Wesley shook his head. “Not tonight, dear. I’m completely in awe of your exploits and wouldn’t want to overshadow them.”

“Madonna?”

“No.”

“Robbie Williams?”

“I have taste.”

“A Spice Girl?”

“See previous comment on taste…”

The End

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