FIC: "When the Cupcakes Aren't the Best Part" (V/Lamb) R
Title: "When the Cupcakes Aren't the Best Part" 1/1
Author: angel_grace and monimala
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Character/Pairing: Veronica/Lamb
Rating: R
Word Count: 2150.
Disclaimer: We don't own them. We just abuse them with liquor and food items.
Summary: Written for starxd_sparrow, who wanted to know what happened three days after Holding the Cuervo.
Spoilers/Warnings: Generic show spoilers, adult language, sexual situations.
When the going got tough, the tough got going. When the going got awkward to the point of "I may have to consider moving to Mongolia and living in a yurt," the tough baked cookies. And cranberry walnut muffins. And zucchini bread. And a chocolate raspberry torte.
Her dad was going to come home and finding her running a bake shop out of their living room.
On the plus side, the potential profits meant he wouldn't have to chase a cheating husband across three states for at least a month or so.
She already had a name for the venture picked out: Veronica's Vices. And under absolutely no circumstances would said vices involve citrus fruit or anything from the Agave plant. And definitely nothing involving lamb. Not that she was a meat pasty kinda gal, but you never knew. Once you got into turnovers and tarts, the lines started to blur.
"Damn."
Just the mere thought of that night, that long, hot, salty night, was enough to have her hands shaking as she sifted more flour, sugar and baking powder.
The morning after hadn't been so much heat and salt as, if not actual ice, then definitely frost. Bright sunshine glaring into the dumpy room had cleared the last vestiges of a tequila haze from her eyes, and the reality of sex-in all its incarnations-with Lamb had hit her hard.
She'd fled the Camelot before Lamb emerged from his own stupor-with-a-twist-of-lime. She'd been hoping to avoid him, but her own cases, not to mention errands for her father, had brought her to the police station half a dozen times in the past three days. Their interactions consisted of averted gazes and muttered "excuse me"s and rushes of blood to her cheeks. Today their shoulders had touched as they'd passed in the hallway, and she'd rushed home to the comfort of Better Homes and Gardens' red gingham bible.
Veronica put in a pinch of salt to taste and her traitorous fingers seemed to rise to her mouth all on their own. The tiny crystals melted on her tongue and she almost moaned remembering how ridiculously good it had felt to kiss Lamb. To touch Lamb. To do all kinds of things to Lamb that didn't involve a meat tenderizer or mint leaves.
When she heard the knock on the apartment door, she knew without looking that it was him. God forbid the man could take a hint and leave her alone. Maybe her orgasmic screams had given him the wrong idea.
She wrenched the door open, brushing her hands off on her Dad's "Kiss the Cook" apron, which, now that she thought about it, was a bad wardrobe choice for greeting this particular unwanted guest. "What?"
She normally went with "Hi," or something multi-syllabic and snarky, but she figured "What?" would suffice…since this wasn't normal.
"Did Betty Crocker throw up in here?" Lamb wondered as he blithely shouldered past her and bulldozed right into the kitchenette. Then his eyes lit up. "Hey, are those snickerdoodles?"
"Yes. And you can't have one." She slapped his hand before he could grab one off the cooling tray.
He ignored the rebuke and snatched one, holding it high above her head. With his other hand, he caught her by the waist, drew her close, and kissed her.
The shock was momentary, and then reflex kicked in. He tasted like watermelon Bubblicious, and she enjoyed the warm sweetness for a moment before abruptly shoving him away.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Just following instructions," he replied, popping the purloined cookie into his mouth. She stared at him, arms crossed, while he chewed. "You've been avoiding me," he pointed out.
"Avoiding you meant I didn't want to see you," she said slowly, as though speaking to a small child. "What are you doing here?"
"It's a two-way street. I wanted to see you." Done prowling the cooling tray, he moved on to inspecting the bread tins and the muffin pans.
"Why?" she gasped, while trying to find her whisk since she still had wet ingredients to combine.
Lamb poked a muffin and the spongy top bounced against his fingertip. "I missed your rabbit pajamas?"
"I burned them!" she snapped, irritably, afraid to slap his hand again in case he decided to try out her apron's directive once more. "And stop poking my muffin!"
Both of his eyebrows rose in surprise. "Why, Veronica…I've never quite heard it put like that. In fact, if I remember right, you liked just about everything I did to your…baked goods."
She shuddered, cracking eggs into a medium-sized mixing bowl and beginning to whisk them vigorously. Mind you, she had no idea what she was actually making this time around, but it felt productive to beat something.
"I thought we had some kind of unspoken agreement. One night stand. Never speak of it again. Memory lasts as long as the hangover?"
He grinned cockily, popping a leftover cranberry into his mouth. "Maybe I'm still hungover. That was one Hell of a bender."
She whipped the mystery batter even harder; whatever the Hell it was, it'd be light and fluffy. Turning her back to him, she slammed the bowl down on the counter and reached for the sugar.
He stepped up behind her, stilling her hand with an oddly gentle touch. "Veronica. We need to talk about this."
"What is there to talk about? We got drunk. We had sex. A good orgasm was had by all."
"Several good orgasms," he corrected her. "Great orgasms, even. Fantastic. Magnificent. Should I go on?"
"You should go home," she replied, whirling to face him and brandishing a spatula like a sword. "It's over, Lamb. One time only. No returns, no exchanges. Do not pass go. How many metaphors do I have to mix before you'll just leave?"
Damn, she was hot when she was pissed. And why waste all that healthy energy on anger when it could be channeled into something much more satisfying for both of them? He grinned as she continued to rant, the spatula whipping through the air. After a moment, he grabbed it. "Veronica."
"What?!" she snapped, breathing heavily from the exertion of yelling at him.
"Shut up." Tossing the spatula aside, he wrapped both arms around her waist. "I'm going to kiss you now. I think we both know you're going to enjoy it, so it would save time if you'd just stop fighting me."
She stared up at him. "You are arrogant bastard of epic proportions."
He smirked. "That ain't my only epic proportion."
She closed her eyes in frustration, and he took the opportunity to brush an airy kiss across her lips.
Her eyes flew open, and he could see resignation and a spark of lust in them. "You can stay on one condition."
"Name it."
"Tell me you brought more than one condom."
He held her fast with one arm, snaking his free hand into his back pocket and pulling out a connected line of…six. Oh, my. He'd had high hopes when he left the station. "I figured they'd be more useful than another bottle of Cuervo," he chuckled, nuzzling her jaw.
Veronica knew she had ingredients spread out on the counter. Things to mix. An oven to pre-heat. But as she arched up on her toes and slanted her mouth across Lamb's, she decided that the tough…the tough needed to get laid.
With a husky groan, Lamb swept bowls to the side and set her on the edge of the countertop. He stepped between her thighs, kissing her back until she didn't taste melon or cinnamon or salt. Just him. Just them. Just like that night. "R-rescue me," she whispered, like he had.
"From what? Bundt cake?"
"No, from wanting you."
His mouth twisted with bitterness and he lewdly licked a path down her throat. "Haven't you heard, Veronica?" he hissed against the hollow where her pulse was going wild. "I'm no hero. I don't do rescues."
“Oh, I don’t know,” she whispered in between kisses, her fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt. "You managed to save me from the Seventh Veil. And you liberated me from my clothes just fine."
"I think I can handle that," he murmured, untying her ridiculous apron. They spent the next several minutes kissing and unbuttoning and unzipping and tugging, until she wore only her panties, while he stood between her legs in his boxers.
Her hands clutched at the smooth, firm muscles in his shoulders, while his cupped and caressed her breasts. She moaned softly, and he pulled back just enough to see her face. Her cheeks were flushed, a faint sheen of sweat making her skin almost glow. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a silver mixing bowl full of buttercream frosting, and he started to smirk.
He stopped touching her long enough to reach for the bowl; she whimpered at the loss of contact. As he contemplated the fluffy cream-colored mounds of sugary confection, he kind of wished he hadn't flung the spatula across the room.
"Do you remember the way I covered every inch of your body with salt, and then licked you clean?" he whispered.
Her body clenched at the image his words recalled, and she could only nod.
"As it turns out, I have a bit of a sweet tooth." He dipped his index finger into the frosting, and wagged it in front of her nose. "How much trouble do you think we can get into with this?"
She didn't respond with words. Instead, she leaned forward and wrapped her warm, wet mouth around his finger, sucking it clean.
"Veronica." Lamb didn't know much about cooking, but he suddenly had a clear understanding of self-rising flour. He bit back an oath or two but let the third fly-"fuck"-when she dipped her fingertips in the icing and then slid them down his stomach and beneath the elastic of his boxers.
"I-I've heard of the icing on the cake. But the cock?"
"Clearly you've never read Betty Crocker's adult cookbook." She was practically purring with feminine triumph as she slid off the counter and down his body. By the time her knees hit the floor, his shorts were around his ankles and his dick looked like it was a few cherries short of being a banana split. To be fair, his balls were more like plums…and who the Hell put those in ice cream or on a cake anyway? Maybe he'd ask the pastry chef. Some other time. When her lips weren't closing around him and gloriously sucking him clean of frosting. Fortunately, she finished before he did, and then he was dragging her back up and making use of condom #1.
Three days was too long. Too freaking long. How had she thought she could bake this away? She stared up him as he sheathed himself in latex and knew that, yeah, despite any and all hopes to the contrary, this was her biggest vice.
"Where's your oven?" he asked, huskily. "I think there's something we've got to cook at about a thousand degrees for, oh…as many hours as you've got."
"Straight down the hall, Emeril."
"God, I missed you," he sighed, sweeping her into his arms with surprising flair.
She grabbed the bowl of icing just seconds before he maneuvered them out of the kitchen. And as she drew a naughty word across his chest, she admitted, "Okay, so I didn't burn the Happy Bunny pajamas."
He let out a bark of laughter. "I'm glad. I'm thinking of having them bronzed."
She giggled, and leaned in to kiss his neck and then erase all evidence of the word porn from his pecs. They finally reached her bedroom, and he set her down carefully on the bed. He gazed down out at her, stretched out naked like the best dessert table ever. Stealing the bowl of frosting from her, he quickly used his fingers to paint her nipples, adding an artistic flourish when he finished. He sat back on his heels, admiring his handiwork for a moment. She thought he looked a bit pensive, his head cocked to one side.
"What?" she asked, suddenly feeling self conscious.
Lamb grinned. "Just missing a little something." Taking another swipe of frosting, he dipped his finger into her belly button.
"That tickles!"
"Want me to kiss and make it better?"
He didn't wait for her answer, just bent his head to her stomach and started working his way up. Her fingers threaded through his hair, gripping gently, and her head arched back at the feel of his mouth on her skin.
Heat flooded her body, and her last coherent thought was that they were totally going to get frosting on the sheets.
Oh well. They could always do laundry. Naked.
Okay, maybe naked except for oven mitts.
-end-
Author: angel_grace and monimala
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Character/Pairing: Veronica/Lamb
Rating: R
Word Count: 2150.
Disclaimer: We don't own them. We just abuse them with liquor and food items.
Summary: Written for starxd_sparrow, who wanted to know what happened three days after Holding the Cuervo.
Spoilers/Warnings: Generic show spoilers, adult language, sexual situations.
When the going got tough, the tough got going. When the going got awkward to the point of "I may have to consider moving to Mongolia and living in a yurt," the tough baked cookies. And cranberry walnut muffins. And zucchini bread. And a chocolate raspberry torte.
Her dad was going to come home and finding her running a bake shop out of their living room.
On the plus side, the potential profits meant he wouldn't have to chase a cheating husband across three states for at least a month or so.
She already had a name for the venture picked out: Veronica's Vices. And under absolutely no circumstances would said vices involve citrus fruit or anything from the Agave plant. And definitely nothing involving lamb. Not that she was a meat pasty kinda gal, but you never knew. Once you got into turnovers and tarts, the lines started to blur.
"Damn."
Just the mere thought of that night, that long, hot, salty night, was enough to have her hands shaking as she sifted more flour, sugar and baking powder.
The morning after hadn't been so much heat and salt as, if not actual ice, then definitely frost. Bright sunshine glaring into the dumpy room had cleared the last vestiges of a tequila haze from her eyes, and the reality of sex-in all its incarnations-with Lamb had hit her hard.
She'd fled the Camelot before Lamb emerged from his own stupor-with-a-twist-of-lime. She'd been hoping to avoid him, but her own cases, not to mention errands for her father, had brought her to the police station half a dozen times in the past three days. Their interactions consisted of averted gazes and muttered "excuse me"s and rushes of blood to her cheeks. Today their shoulders had touched as they'd passed in the hallway, and she'd rushed home to the comfort of Better Homes and Gardens' red gingham bible.
Veronica put in a pinch of salt to taste and her traitorous fingers seemed to rise to her mouth all on their own. The tiny crystals melted on her tongue and she almost moaned remembering how ridiculously good it had felt to kiss Lamb. To touch Lamb. To do all kinds of things to Lamb that didn't involve a meat tenderizer or mint leaves.
When she heard the knock on the apartment door, she knew without looking that it was him. God forbid the man could take a hint and leave her alone. Maybe her orgasmic screams had given him the wrong idea.
She wrenched the door open, brushing her hands off on her Dad's "Kiss the Cook" apron, which, now that she thought about it, was a bad wardrobe choice for greeting this particular unwanted guest. "What?"
She normally went with "Hi," or something multi-syllabic and snarky, but she figured "What?" would suffice…since this wasn't normal.
"Did Betty Crocker throw up in here?" Lamb wondered as he blithely shouldered past her and bulldozed right into the kitchenette. Then his eyes lit up. "Hey, are those snickerdoodles?"
"Yes. And you can't have one." She slapped his hand before he could grab one off the cooling tray.
He ignored the rebuke and snatched one, holding it high above her head. With his other hand, he caught her by the waist, drew her close, and kissed her.
The shock was momentary, and then reflex kicked in. He tasted like watermelon Bubblicious, and she enjoyed the warm sweetness for a moment before abruptly shoving him away.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Just following instructions," he replied, popping the purloined cookie into his mouth. She stared at him, arms crossed, while he chewed. "You've been avoiding me," he pointed out.
"Avoiding you meant I didn't want to see you," she said slowly, as though speaking to a small child. "What are you doing here?"
"It's a two-way street. I wanted to see you." Done prowling the cooling tray, he moved on to inspecting the bread tins and the muffin pans.
"Why?" she gasped, while trying to find her whisk since she still had wet ingredients to combine.
Lamb poked a muffin and the spongy top bounced against his fingertip. "I missed your rabbit pajamas?"
"I burned them!" she snapped, irritably, afraid to slap his hand again in case he decided to try out her apron's directive once more. "And stop poking my muffin!"
Both of his eyebrows rose in surprise. "Why, Veronica…I've never quite heard it put like that. In fact, if I remember right, you liked just about everything I did to your…baked goods."
She shuddered, cracking eggs into a medium-sized mixing bowl and beginning to whisk them vigorously. Mind you, she had no idea what she was actually making this time around, but it felt productive to beat something.
"I thought we had some kind of unspoken agreement. One night stand. Never speak of it again. Memory lasts as long as the hangover?"
He grinned cockily, popping a leftover cranberry into his mouth. "Maybe I'm still hungover. That was one Hell of a bender."
She whipped the mystery batter even harder; whatever the Hell it was, it'd be light and fluffy. Turning her back to him, she slammed the bowl down on the counter and reached for the sugar.
He stepped up behind her, stilling her hand with an oddly gentle touch. "Veronica. We need to talk about this."
"What is there to talk about? We got drunk. We had sex. A good orgasm was had by all."
"Several good orgasms," he corrected her. "Great orgasms, even. Fantastic. Magnificent. Should I go on?"
"You should go home," she replied, whirling to face him and brandishing a spatula like a sword. "It's over, Lamb. One time only. No returns, no exchanges. Do not pass go. How many metaphors do I have to mix before you'll just leave?"
Damn, she was hot when she was pissed. And why waste all that healthy energy on anger when it could be channeled into something much more satisfying for both of them? He grinned as she continued to rant, the spatula whipping through the air. After a moment, he grabbed it. "Veronica."
"What?!" she snapped, breathing heavily from the exertion of yelling at him.
"Shut up." Tossing the spatula aside, he wrapped both arms around her waist. "I'm going to kiss you now. I think we both know you're going to enjoy it, so it would save time if you'd just stop fighting me."
She stared up at him. "You are arrogant bastard of epic proportions."
He smirked. "That ain't my only epic proportion."
She closed her eyes in frustration, and he took the opportunity to brush an airy kiss across her lips.
Her eyes flew open, and he could see resignation and a spark of lust in them. "You can stay on one condition."
"Name it."
"Tell me you brought more than one condom."
He held her fast with one arm, snaking his free hand into his back pocket and pulling out a connected line of…six. Oh, my. He'd had high hopes when he left the station. "I figured they'd be more useful than another bottle of Cuervo," he chuckled, nuzzling her jaw.
Veronica knew she had ingredients spread out on the counter. Things to mix. An oven to pre-heat. But as she arched up on her toes and slanted her mouth across Lamb's, she decided that the tough…the tough needed to get laid.
With a husky groan, Lamb swept bowls to the side and set her on the edge of the countertop. He stepped between her thighs, kissing her back until she didn't taste melon or cinnamon or salt. Just him. Just them. Just like that night. "R-rescue me," she whispered, like he had.
"From what? Bundt cake?"
"No, from wanting you."
His mouth twisted with bitterness and he lewdly licked a path down her throat. "Haven't you heard, Veronica?" he hissed against the hollow where her pulse was going wild. "I'm no hero. I don't do rescues."
“Oh, I don’t know,” she whispered in between kisses, her fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt. "You managed to save me from the Seventh Veil. And you liberated me from my clothes just fine."
"I think I can handle that," he murmured, untying her ridiculous apron. They spent the next several minutes kissing and unbuttoning and unzipping and tugging, until she wore only her panties, while he stood between her legs in his boxers.
Her hands clutched at the smooth, firm muscles in his shoulders, while his cupped and caressed her breasts. She moaned softly, and he pulled back just enough to see her face. Her cheeks were flushed, a faint sheen of sweat making her skin almost glow. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a silver mixing bowl full of buttercream frosting, and he started to smirk.
He stopped touching her long enough to reach for the bowl; she whimpered at the loss of contact. As he contemplated the fluffy cream-colored mounds of sugary confection, he kind of wished he hadn't flung the spatula across the room.
"Do you remember the way I covered every inch of your body with salt, and then licked you clean?" he whispered.
Her body clenched at the image his words recalled, and she could only nod.
"As it turns out, I have a bit of a sweet tooth." He dipped his index finger into the frosting, and wagged it in front of her nose. "How much trouble do you think we can get into with this?"
She didn't respond with words. Instead, she leaned forward and wrapped her warm, wet mouth around his finger, sucking it clean.
"Veronica." Lamb didn't know much about cooking, but he suddenly had a clear understanding of self-rising flour. He bit back an oath or two but let the third fly-"fuck"-when she dipped her fingertips in the icing and then slid them down his stomach and beneath the elastic of his boxers.
"I-I've heard of the icing on the cake. But the cock?"
"Clearly you've never read Betty Crocker's adult cookbook." She was practically purring with feminine triumph as she slid off the counter and down his body. By the time her knees hit the floor, his shorts were around his ankles and his dick looked like it was a few cherries short of being a banana split. To be fair, his balls were more like plums…and who the Hell put those in ice cream or on a cake anyway? Maybe he'd ask the pastry chef. Some other time. When her lips weren't closing around him and gloriously sucking him clean of frosting. Fortunately, she finished before he did, and then he was dragging her back up and making use of condom #1.
Three days was too long. Too freaking long. How had she thought she could bake this away? She stared up him as he sheathed himself in latex and knew that, yeah, despite any and all hopes to the contrary, this was her biggest vice.
"Where's your oven?" he asked, huskily. "I think there's something we've got to cook at about a thousand degrees for, oh…as many hours as you've got."
"Straight down the hall, Emeril."
"God, I missed you," he sighed, sweeping her into his arms with surprising flair.
She grabbed the bowl of icing just seconds before he maneuvered them out of the kitchen. And as she drew a naughty word across his chest, she admitted, "Okay, so I didn't burn the Happy Bunny pajamas."
He let out a bark of laughter. "I'm glad. I'm thinking of having them bronzed."
She giggled, and leaned in to kiss his neck and then erase all evidence of the word porn from his pecs. They finally reached her bedroom, and he set her down carefully on the bed. He gazed down out at her, stretched out naked like the best dessert table ever. Stealing the bowl of frosting from her, he quickly used his fingers to paint her nipples, adding an artistic flourish when he finished. He sat back on his heels, admiring his handiwork for a moment. She thought he looked a bit pensive, his head cocked to one side.
"What?" she asked, suddenly feeling self conscious.
Lamb grinned. "Just missing a little something." Taking another swipe of frosting, he dipped his finger into her belly button.
"That tickles!"
"Want me to kiss and make it better?"
He didn't wait for her answer, just bent his head to her stomach and started working his way up. Her fingers threaded through his hair, gripping gently, and her head arched back at the feel of his mouth on her skin.
Heat flooded her body, and her last coherent thought was that they were totally going to get frosting on the sheets.
Oh well. They could always do laundry. Naked.
Okay, maybe naked except for oven mitts.
-end-