Title: "Lay Down With Dogs"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VMars
Rating/Classification: adult language and sexual content, Kendall/Liam, ficlet.
Disclaimer: They're not mine and I won't try to sell this on Amazon.
Summary: A tag to 2.19, "Nevermind the Buttocks." 760 words. When Liam finds her at 2 AM, he's not in the best of moods…
When Liam finds her at 2 AM, he's not in the best of moods. Not that he's ever in a decent mood -- and she'd thought *Cormac* defined "Irish temper? -- But he's extra-peachy and pleasant when he slams the door of his grandmother's car and stalks up to where she's been tapping her foot on uneven pavement for, like, the last twenty minutes.
"You're late!" she snaps. "Do you know how long I've been waiting here? Hello, the night air is not good for my complexion and neither is the clientele!"
"Shut up, Priscilla," he growls, grabbing her arm -- hands off, Paddy, this is Italian leather! -- "You're starting to forget you ain't really the rich bitch lordin' it over the rest of us mere mortals."
"The 'bitch' part still applies." She yanks her arm back, rubbing the spot where his fingers dug in, even though she likes the bruises. Nothing a little cover-up can't conceal for polite company. Not that polite company has come knocking since Big Dick left her high and dry. "What crawled up *your* unwashed ass and died?" she demands, brushing past Liam and heading toward the Barracuda.
Noise from the Road Hog filters out into the lot. It's what forced her out here. There's only so much biker grease and spilled beer she's willing to deal with. And California smoking laws definitely don't apply here. Her hair smells disgusting. Like Liam, in fact.
"Well, I don't know, Miss Prisc', maybe the fact that I got my 'unwashed ass' handed to me by fuckin' Keith Mars and a PCH-er punk who ain't even old enough to shave just doesn't have me all fired up and happy?" He stops her from opening the passenger door, trapping her between him and it with his hands on the roof. "Imagine that, huh?"
"I'd rather imagine a week on the Cote d'Azur," she snorts.
She really has to start hanging out with a better class of people. Like her mom always says…"you lay down with dogs, you get up with fleas." And she's really starting to itch beneath her fabulously flattering jacket.
Of course, Liam predictably has his own solution for getting rid of itches.
He yanks the zipper of her jacket all the way down, keeping her pinned against the car with his hips. She sighs as he attacks her neck with his teeth and tongue. This? This is typical. He gets mad, he gets off…she gets a collection of hickeys, beard burns and wounds…and underwear she can't wear again. Cormac doesn't even mind. Hell, he gave it his stamp of approval. Baby Bro watching over what's his. She's said it more than once: They need to change their "gang name" to the Fucking Fitzpatricks. They share and share alike. She's surprised they haven't had her over for a family gangbang and passed her around like a joint. Patrick would opt out, of course. He'd probably stand on the sidelines and fling holy water at them, chanting "Get thee behind me, Satan."
Oh, the Fitzpatrick boys. They like Satan behind them, under them, and pretty much anywhere else they can have him. Or her. They're not picky. And what they lack in imagination, they make up for in sheer brute force.
Liam's down her pants with little-to-no finesse and she's almost bored by the "discovery fantasy" aspect of it. Any second now, someone's going to stumble outside and catch Liam plowing into her while she tosses her head back and forth and fakes having her world rocked. Then, he'll zip up and threaten whoever it is with bodily harm, probably following through since he didn't get his usual kicks beating up high school kids.
Making it at least 4 AM before she can get home to shower, apply a mud mask, down some Xanax and relax. Great. She's going to look like Hell at her Pilates class tomorrow.
He grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him instead of the point over his shoulder she'd picked -- green paint is starting to flake off Granny's precious car -- "You know what's *good* for your complexion?"
She hits the asphalt hard, her knees scraping and stars exploding behind her eyes, as one more zipper goes down. He grabs her by the hair even though she knows exactly where to go, what to do, and how much to swallow.
This? This will be easy. And over quickly. Like every man she's ever known.
When Liam drops her off at 3 AM, he's in a much, much better mood.
--end--
April 22, 2006.