Title: "Test Drive"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: no adult content, fluffy, V/Weevil.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Summary: "I think she's a keeper." A one shot set somewhere around 2.14, "Versatile Toppings," but not related to canon.
She feels the power between her thighs, no *through* them, jolting all the way up. The slow burn of heat coils in her belly in response, almost as powerful as the revving of the engine. How can any girl resist a spin on a bike, right? Better yet, how can any girl resist *driving* said bike? "Bona fide panty peeler, isn't it, Eli?" she'd laughed when he patted the seat and urged her to hop on.
"You ain't lyin'," he'd acknowledged with a laugh before climbing on behind her, copping the obligatory feel before settling his arms around her waist.
She lightly slapped the offending fingers. "You do realize this makes you my bitch, right?"
"Always was, V…always was," he'd sighed into the back of her neck, making the fine hairs there stand on end.
And then their helmets were tugged into place and there was nothing but the wind and the road and the ride.
No, *now* she's lying. Because there *is* more.
There's how Weevil's hips cradle hers, how he guides her, corrects her navigation, with just the barest touches of his gloved hands on her wrists. He keeps her balanced, his chest a concrete wall keeping her from being whipped back by the air rushing past them. He whispers encouragement even though she can't hear it. She just knows it's there. "That's it, V," and "You're doin' great," and "You're a natural." He takes the curves with her, leaning in, and when they stop, he brakes with her, too.
She parks on the bluffs just overlooking the water, whips off her helmet like a pro and shakes her hair loose, catching him in the face. He's still picking imaginary strands out of his mouth when she turns to him. "Goes with the dust and the flies," he jokes as she punches his shoulder.
"Notice that never happens in the movies?"
"They have a zillion takes in the movies," he points out, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "So, what's the verdict, huh?" He smoothes his hands over the gleaming chrome and the still warm seat before pulling off his gloves and stuffing them into his pocket. "Is Uncle Angel stiffing me or is she good?"
"I think she's a keeper, but, then again…what do I know?" she admitted, ruefully. "It could be the equivalent of a pink ten speed with a basket and a banana seat to the ex-Biker King of the PCH."
He doubles over from a sudden explosion of laughter…goes on for a few minutes, even wiping tears from his eyes, until she's staring at him like he's gone 'round the bend and left her on the shoulder.
"What?"
"You…" He's still wheezing, struggling for breath with one palm flattened over the network of tattoos peeking out from his wifebeater. "You probably wouldn't believe this, V…but I actually had a pink ten speed."
"You did not!"
"I did! It was my cousin Felicia's! I was, like, nine, and that's how I learned to ride."
Now, it's her turn to double over from the laughs…probably because she pictures a nine-year-old Eli Navarro with the same configuration of tattoos and at roughly the same height. And, actually, the same current lack of facial hair. "No, seriously, you did not!"
He huffs, looking only slightly offended. "I test drove it all the way to the Sac-n-Pac and back in broad-ass daylight!" When that just makes the giggles worse, he tugs her off-balance and into his arms, reminding, "Like you said, 'panty peeler.'"
His chest is still like concrete. His whisper is still encouraging. He smells like soap and leather and when his cheek rasps against hers, she shivers.
How can any girl resist a spin, right?
She takes his hands, covers them with her own, and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and the thin straps of her low-rise underwear.
"So, peel," she urges, softly.
He kisses her first. He takes the curves with her, leaning in.
And when they stop, he brakes with her, too.
--end--
March 22, 2006.