Title: "Gnocchi Three Times"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VMars
Rating/Classification: adult language, sexual situations, humor, fluff, V/Lamb.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and am making no profit!
Summary: "Who needs talk when you have action?" 7th in the "Between the Rock..." series.
Note: Are my titles getting more absurd? Why, yes, they most certainly are. Thank you, Tony Orlando and Dawn.
As far as official first dates went, Don could safely say that this was the best he'd ever been on...despite his resident super sleuth finding the take-out cartons from Luciano's buried in the trash. "You can't even boil water, Hungry Man," she'd reminded. "Why do you think I'd believe you turned into a brilliant Italian chef in five days?"
"Because you're my girlfriend now and, as such, I can do no wrong?" he'd suggested, hopefully, feeling pretty idiotic for even *saying* the word 'girlfriend.'
"You can do no wrong? Well, at least one of us believes that," she'd snorted, snagging a beautifully doughy breadstick from right beneath his questing hand. "Besides, I'm a Mars. We pride ourselves on judging good Italian, capische?"
Once his lack of culinary skill was re-confirmed, things went much more smoothly. He talked about work, she talked about school, and then they both talked about how creepy that was and changed the subject to the Padres and spring training. Which basically meant Veronica asked him which players were cute and he tried to judge...after qualifying, "And I'm not saying this in a GAY way..."
When the last piece of company Corningware was rinsed and stuck into the dishwasher, he tugged Veronica into the living room, sliding one hand beneath her t-shirt, stroking her hip. "Time to return the favor," he murmured, huskily against her throat. "And I'm not talking about doing the dishes."
After they'd reluctantly untangled themselves and gone their separate ways on Sunday night, he'd been unable to think of anything besides her mouth. Like the kids back in Texas used to say (and probably still said), Veronica could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. She was hot and eager, and a little in need of practice...which he was happy to offer himself up for. And, Jesusfuck, but he wanted to hear her gasp his name while he took her to the limit with just his tongue. ("Look, Ma, no hands!") He'd been thinking about it all week, hard as a rock, sporting a woody while having meetings with a Woody.
She turned a bright shade of red, ducking her head, but, impressively, kept the attitude intact. "As you should, Sheriff. I expect reciprocity because *that*'s not something I do often."
"You don't give head on the beach? I'm shocked!" he chuckled. "I thought that was how you paid for all that fancy surveillance equipment."
"Do I look like the kind of girl who...you knows...in public?" Her expressive gesturing turned into one raised hand, as she repeated one of her standard mantras: "Wait, don't answer that."
"'You know'?" He latched on to what was important. "What's the matter, Veronica Mars? You can't use the big kid words? Can't talk dirty?"
"Who needs talk when you have action?" she shot back, effectively sidestepping the question...and him.
"I can't believe you can *do it*, but you can't say it," he crowed, slapping his knee. "Alert the media...there's something Veronica Mars can't do!"
"Shut up." She scowled and blushed at the same time.
"Blowjob," he said.
"Stop it!" She threw a DVD case at him.
He ducked "Doom" (rather appropriately). "Bloooowjob."
"Donald!"
"Blowjob, blowjob, blowjob...blowwwwwJOBBB!" He dropped onto the sofa, turning it into a song. Operatic. Like the one from the Barber of Seville Bugs Bunny episode.
"Oh my God, what are you, 12?"
"12 suits me fine. It makes you the sicko in this relationship, Mary Kay Letournou."
"You really need to stop educating yourself. It's not natural." She made a face. And, then, after a moment, she added, "And you're not a sicko." She wrinkled her nose. "At least not in the criminal sense."
"I'm not?" He tugged her into his lap. "Then remind me, again, why we haven't told your dad what we're up to?" There was that damned vulnerability again. God, wasn't there a cure for it? An ointment or a cycle of pills?
"Because I kind of like you breathing," she whispered against his mouth, offering up the barest, lightest, of kisses.
And he couldn't argue with that. Because he liked breathing, too. And he liked her and he liked this and he wasn't nearly ready to give it up. So he picked her up, effortlessly, and deposited her on the couch while still kissing her. He tugged at her shirt while still kissing her. He helped her unbutton his own, shrugged out of it, as he slanted his mouth across hers over and over, until breathing actually became a bit of a problem.
"You know, we really should alert the media," he told her as he spread the fly of her jeans. "I'm sure people would love to know how to get the upper hand on Veronica Mars."
"One problem, Donald," she countered, hips rising off the leather at the first touch of his lips and tongue. "That's ... not ... your ... hand ... oh ... oh my God!"
A short time later, she was a languid heap, sprawled against the cushions. He grinned, propping his chin on the gentle curve of her stomach, drawing concentric circles on her inner thigh. "How was that a problem?"
"Mmmm...never mind...no complaints here."
"None? At all? *That's* not natural."
"Okay, I think Schwarzenaggar's a lousy governor. Is that better?"
"Much. Have you *seen* "Terminator 3"? That alone should get him kicked out of office. I mean, we're talking total cinematic travesty."
"Donald?"
"Yeah?"
"We're half-naked. Do you really want to talk?"
"Is this a bad time to admit I also like to cuddle afterwards?"
"*Yes*."
"I have a really nice cannoli in the fridge for dessert, you know..."
"Don!"
"Yes, Veronica?"
"Shut up and fuck me."
"Atta girl. I knew you could do it. You're such a quick study."
"You have no idea..."
"Enlighten me."
--end--
March 17, 2006.