Title: "Does Not Equal"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Word Count: 636.
Rating/Classification: AC for adult language and sexual situations, MadLamb, ficlet.
Disclaimer: Shouldn't I own them by now? Okay, you're right, probably not...
Summary: Set after 2.16, "The Rapes of Graff." Probably a tenuous sequel to "Across and Down."
He fucks Madison Sinclair because he can. Because the mechanics of it don't require much thought and it's free tail and she doesn't mind being crushed against the steering column, laying on the horn, while he fingers her. Because getting blown is a decent trade for ripping up speeding tickets. Because she thinks it's hot and cool, and a dozen temperatures in between, to carry on an illicit affair with the likes of him and doesn't care how rough he is when he shoves her into the back of his cruiser and pushes up her skirt.
She's good for his ego. She "ooh"s and "aah"s at the size of his cock -- and he tries not to think about the fact that it's probably because she hasn't seen all that many -- and she tells him he's great in bed (even though they rarely do it in an actual bed). She lets him stick it just about anywhere without complaint.
In fact, the only time she complains is when they're not fucking. She bitches about school and shopping and what the weather does to her hair and how her tan lines "are, like, so heinous." "I don't give a shit about your tan lines, Baby," he growls, yanking down her lacy underwear and proving it.
He's not in it for the stimulating conversation. For reports about her mid-terms or the rundown on how stupid her ex-boyfriend is. He's fully aware of how stupid Dick Casablancas is. The kid's been in his office enough and the collective IQ of his entire department falls in accordance.
He fucks her because he can and because she lets him. Because she likes experimenting with whipped cream and body paint and messing up the pristine sheets at the Grand. Because he's got nothing better to do on a lazy Saturday afternoon than work up a sweat with her.
It's a simple equation -- which is good because he didn't even make it past high school Calculus -- sex equals sex. He likes having it. It beats jerking off every night and taking cold showers.
And it beats being alone.
Not that he thinks about it in those terms often.
Hell, when he's out with the boys for poker night, he makes sure they know that she's the one who comes crawling to him. That his sweet young thing -- who isn't sweet at all -- keeps coming back for more and he's happy to oblige even though her carpet and her curtains don't match and that's way more "heinous" than her tan-in-a-bottle.
They call her his "Mystery Girl" because he's not exactly keen on making her name public knowledge. It's bad enough that Cliff and Keith know...that they give him solemn looks of disapproval -- okay, in Cliff's case, it's more like winks of solidarity -- whenever they see him. He keeps the mock-up poster of the surveillance photo in the bottom drawer of his desk as a reminder that even the best barely-legal pussy in the world isn't worth losing his job over.
Not that Madison even remotely qualifies as the best.
He's horny, not delusional.
He knows exactly what he's getting. Exactly what he's doing. He knew that the minute he pulled her over and she looked up at him with those dead eyes and those red whore lips. He's seen enough pornos with the same plot. "Oh, gee, Officer, was I really speeding?" "Yeah, you silly bitch. Now suck my cock." Come to think of it, that's pretty much exactly how it went. How it goes every time.
He fucks Madison Sinclair because he can...and he fucks her because she's not Veronica Mars.
Because she never will be his real Mystery Girl.
It's a simple equation.
He's not in it, in *her*, for anything else.
--end--
April 11, 2006.