Fic: "Smoke 'Em if You Gotham." 1/1, V/Lamb, adult.
This was just supposed to be a short, silly badfic. I have NO idea what happened except that I broke the 2500 word mark at some point yesterday and barely did anything today except add 2000 more. As "my" Lamb might say...Jesusfuck!
Also, this is a stand alone story, not the least bit tied to anything else I've written.
Title: "Smoke 'Em if You Gotham" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: R to NC-17 for language, sexual situations, Veronica/Lamb. Humor, bits of angst, etc.
Disclaimer: I still don't own the characters and this time there are no plastic sheep involved.
Summary: Between Dreamingsunset's suggestion of Veronica in a Batgirl costume and Shealynn88 talking about forced proximity sex, lo, this fic was born. 4500 words. Set during early season three. One thing could compare to the horror…
Warning: Do not attempt to play a drinking game to this fic. If you do a shot every time a certain phrase appears, you could very likely die of alcohol poisoning.
Of all the disguises Veronica had donned in her budding career as a sleuth, "Batgirl the hooker" was a whole new level of suck. Pun intended. The vinyl was tight. Very tight. And they definitely didn't need to build any fancy nipples because hers were definitely along for the ride.
Eat your heart out, George Clooney.
As it was with everything at Hearst these days, it all traced back to the Pi Sigs. The bane of her uber-Italian and highly un-Greek existence. Chip, her dear friend and prime rape suspect, was throwing quite the Halloween bash…one that required the services of Rose Hill Escorts, Inc.
It hadn't even taken her best finagling skills to land herself a job as the newest Rosebud. Yes, that was what they called their elite "girls." Yes, she was horrified. But nothing could quite compare to the horror of the itty-bitty bat suit. And the stilettos. And the fishnet stockings -- not that she didn't sometimes appreciate a good pair of fishnets.
Okay, scratch that.
One thing could compare to the horror.
And she encountered it in the fraternity house's gleaming kitchen -- the only part that wasn't populated by drunken party boys and a choice selection of gypsies, tramps and thieves -- while she was trying to fix her pointy mask in the stainless steel refrigerator door.
It was a naked ass reflected in the shining metal.
In chaps.
Okay, to be fair, the chaps covered everything but the ass.
Oh, God. They were ass-less chaps.
She finished fiddling with her mask and whirled around the center island -- as much as she could whirl in four-inch heels -- and got out of the line of direct Ass-o-Vision.
The frat brother was tall, totally ripped…he probably lived in the gym…and all he wore was…well, not so much, really. Except for the mask covering his eyes.
Talk about the Bold and the Beautiful. Or, in this case, the Drunk and the Stupid.
Veronica swallowed hard and tried to look suitably whorish as she smiled. "Hi, there, Cowboy," she purred, hoping she didn't sound too much like Olivia Newton John after Sandy went Pink Lady.
She was really, really, lucky they weren't crotch-less chaps, too.
And not quite so lucky at all when the chapped chap gasped, "Veronica?!"
The mask covered everything except for her mouth. For crying out loud, it wasn't like the Joker ran around Gotham City going, "Michael Keaton?!" Rose Hill clearly needed to get a refund from whomever they rented their skanky ho gear from.
"Fuck," the cowboy hissed, clenching his jaw. "This is just my lucky night."
And that was when she knew.
It wasn't a chap in the ass-less chaps.
It was an ass. After all. How ironic.
"Since when are you pledging Pi Sig, Deputy Lamb?" she wondered, yanking the edges of her mini down so it was maxi-er. "Or are you just here for the tricking and treating?"
He grabbed her arm, hustling her towards the island so he could emphatically smack the countertop a few times as he growled at her about "undercover work" and "busts" all while looking at her chest.
It would've been moderately impressive -- okay, she was lying -- if he weren't wearing ASS-LESS CHAPS.
So, what was she supposed to do besides laugh? And it hurt to do that, what with all the vinyl tightness. The giggles bubbled up and she tried to choke them back. Really tried.
"…that madam from Rose Hill assured me that this operation would be clean in exchange for a lesser charge. And what do I get? Veronica Mars!"
"And chafing. I think you get chafing."
She smacked the countertop as she practically howled with laughter.
His fingers dug into the crook of her elbow. "Cut it out, Mars," he hissed, turning red. All over.
"Can't," she gasped, partially because the itty-bitty bat suit was cutting off her circulation but mostly out of sheer hilarity. "Chaps. Too. Priceless." If only she had a camera. If. Only.
"I hate you."
"Such a shame, because I kinda love this whole new side of *you*…"
Someone "whoo-hoo"-ed nearby. The universal sign for "drunk man walking." Great. They were about to have company. Veronica tried to get a grip while simultaneously shaking off Lamb's. But as a trio of guys stumbled in, sloshing plastic cups of beer and a redheaded Rosebud followed, she suddenly found herself being yanked *closer* to Lamb. Off-kilter on the stupid shoes, she actually slammed right into him and, oh God, but he was ripped. Had she mentioned that? His six-pack was no cheap cans of Natty Light, nuh-uh, and his chest was smooth. He probably had it waxed professionally and if she could find out where -- oh, the glorious blackmail.
"Oof!" he muttered, grabbing her by the back of her cowl. "Watch it!"
She did one better than that. Since her dear friend Chip was one of the trio currently groping Red Rose, she not only watched it, but she touched it. She slid the flat of her palm down Lamb's side, following the line of his spine before she took a nice handful of his impossibly firm and disturbingly cute butt.
He yelped. "Ver--" and she cut him off with a husky chuckle, "Easy access, Cowboy." How that madam had thought that this moron could pull-off a clean bust was one of life's true mysteries.
Lamb clamped one hand down over hers and he emphatically moved her fingers off his ass. The distinctive jaw clench that had given him away was even clenchier now and his eyes were ice-blue behind the Lone Ranger mask.
"Hey…hey, you two…enjoyin' the party?" Pi Sig Extra #2 slurred.
And that was when he kissed her.
Lamb. Not the Pi Sig.
For one thing, the frat boy had regular pants on. Highly unimpressive.
And Lamb…. His hand was now cupping her face, fingertips just barely sliding beneath the edges of her mask. And he kissed like no asshole sheriff should. Hard and hot and all tongue.
"Guess they are!" Chip brayed.
Only, instead of deciding they were getting their Rose Hill Escorts, Inc. money's worth and wandering off to chug more cheap beer, Chip and his entourage *stayed*.
Veronica had no choice but to kiss Lamb back.
Of course, it wasn't a hardship if you discounted the fact that it was, well, *Lamb*. Because he was nearly naked and he kissed like they did in the movies. All tilted head and sweeping passion and stubble burn she was going to have to explain away to Logan tomorrow since he barely shaved once a week. He backed her up against the counter as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He slid his mouth down to her ear, sucking on her earlobe and her knees actually turned the consistency of jelly. "Bitch," he whispered. "Now what do we do?"
Not exactly sweet nothings. "More," she gasped, and she wasn't entirely sure whose benefit it was for.
Okay, probably hers.
Chip could get his own. And judging by the noises -- no buzzing this time -- he was.
She winced, just barely, and then Lamb was kissing her again. Distracting her. Keeping her safely between him and the counter. Maybe he wasn't so bad at this undercover thing after all. She fisted her hands in his hair, murmuring, "asshole," and "jerk," into his lips. Along with, "I better get a fantastic tip."
"Count on it, Babe."
Lamb stroked the underside of her breast with his knuckles and she might as well have stripped off the costume because it felt like they were skin to skin. The bat suit…it had its uses after all. She moaned or whimpered or something else entirely too girly and he made an answering growly sound deep in his throat.
And, then, just when she was finding her center of balance on the Stilettos of Doom, he was sweeping her up in his arms, flush against that ungodly chest, and locking her legs around his waist. "Time to make this mambo horizontal." Jesus, did he think lines like that actually worked? But since he was effectively hauling her past their pal the collegiate Caligula, she wasn't about to critique his staff writers.
"Upstairs?"
"Duh."
The brothers had long since cleaned out the basement and removed their scoreboard. Heavy-duty fines and disciplinary hearings had a funny way of making you get your house in order.
Upstairs had been her game plan this evening. Just not with more than one player.
Lamb obviously spent all the hours he should have been investigating crimes lifting weights, because he carried her like she weighed nothing. Okay, maybe she could stand to eat a few extra sandwiches now and then, but that was hardly the point. He cruised through the flailing and grinding bodies in the house's main room, making a beeline for the stairs.
And an unfortunate -- or fortunate, depending on how you looked at it -- side effect of all the motion was that each step rubbed him against her. Yes, "him." Yes, "her." Insert froofy romance novel metaphor for their genitals here. And the friction of vinyl against faux leather --thank GOD his chaps weren't crotch-less -- was driving her insane.
By the time they hit the landing, she was panting, burying her face against his neck and almost desperately riding his thigh. Like a cat in heat or something. Maybe Rose Hill had given her the wrong costume. Thanks for everything, Julie Newmar.
Lamb pushed her up against the wall, ostensibly so a couple of girls could careen past them and down into the fray. But then he was looking down at her again, the line of his mouth all smug bastard-y. "Veronica, are you…?"
"Y-yes."
Damn it. Yes, she was. And she was close.
It usually took at least 20 minutes of fumbling teenage foreplay to get her this far.
For once in his life, Sheriff Don Lamb did something useful.
Practically worthy of some kind of Humanitarian of the Year award.
As their mouths met again -- apparently the only way they'd ever keep from arguing -- he slid his hand up her thigh, up the mini-skirt. He pushed the elastic of her panties aside and with two fingers stroking against her clit, finished her off. Practically a mercy killing.
"Care to return the favor?" he wondered as she shuddered and swore, the delicious tremors going all the way down to her toes.
"When…Hell…freezes…over."
"Brr," he murmured, as he slowly, deliberately, licked his fingers.
It was official. Veronica was in Bizarro World. Because she was turned on all over again. By Lamb. In chaps. She thought maybe if she kept repeating it, it would sink in and she'd snap out of the thrall or whatever. But, nope. There he was, hanging out for the entire world to see and all she wanted to do was eat him alive. Or, actually, be eaten. Because, Hello, *way* better for her.
"Shouldn't we be illegally searching and seizing?" she wondered, semi-proud that at least some corner of her brain was still working. It had to be the suit. It was cutting off her air supply and her circulation and, therefore, her common sense.
No wonder Val Kilmer's Batman had been such a himbo.
"I'm okay with searching and seizing." Lamb then, quite emphatically, moved her hand back to his ass.
Oh, my.
And as she seized to her heart's content, he kept moving up to the house's second level, to a hallway lined with doors, dormitory style. Relatively deserted, even a little quiet, except for the pounding bass from the speakers downstairs and the extraneous moans and groans. Well, what do you know, they'd officially ventured into The Best Little Whorehouse in Neptune territory.
"Put me down," she hissed, kneeing her escort (or was she his?).
"Okay."
He shouldered aside an unlocked bedroom door and did as she asked, dropping her in the center of a hastily made bed.
And then locked her to the bedpost.
Where in the world had he hidden a pair of handcuffs in that get-up?
"You son-of-a-bitch, you're not *leaving* me here." She pulled and the metal automatically dug into her wrist. Ow.
Lamb smiled, cheerfully waving Those Two Fingers at her. "It's just temporary. I'll come get you when I'm done with unofficial police business."
"Liar."
"I'm hurt that you don't trust me, Veronica."
"Two for two," she snorted, trying to kick off one of her heels and launch it at his fat head. Better yet, his bare buns of steel. "Come *back* here!"
He paused in the doorway, flipped up his mask and winked at her. The bastard.
And then things got worse.
"Dude, if you're going to just leave her there...want us to take over?"
Cue Frat Boy Extras #4-8, complete with half-empty bottles of Cuervo and every intention of shoving past Lamb.
"No!" she cried, knowing it was a very non-hooker-y thing to say when presented with the chance for a gang bang. But, damn it, she wasn't...she wasn't going to go there. Not again. Never again.
Lamb let her suffer for thirty-eight seconds. It felt like an eternity.
"No way, Dudes." He perfectly echoed their tone. "I was just going for some booze, you know? Keep us in the mood." And, with that, he plucked one bottle of Cuervo from an unsteady hand, slammed the door in their faces, and hit the lock. "Now what?" he demanded, turning to her like she was supposed to know.
"Uncuff me," she suggested. "Then we don't have to worry about this particular Rosebud being, for lack of a better word, deflowered."
He snorted, contemplating the tequila instead of her very sound proposal. To drink on the job or not to drink on the job, that was clearly the question. "I'm not letting you run amuck, Mars. Which means I can't poke around this place until most of the randy revelers have passed out. And that means I'm stuck with you." He grimaced, uncapped the Cuervo, and took a long swig. "Great."
"You sound remarkably unenthused for a man who, not two minutes ago, seemed perfectly content to be stuck with me," she pointed out, using her free hand to tug off her cowl and toss it aside. "And, by the way, when we're back in the real world...that never happened."
"It absolutely happened. You think I'm going to forget that I made you come that fucking fast? No way." He climbed up beside her on the bed, tilting the tequila bottle in her general direction. "And I was being a Good Samaritan."
"Please. I've had better parables with myself."
"Now who's the liar?" He was so smug. How could somebody in ASS-LESS CHAPS be that smug?
She had to know. "What in God's name possessed you to wear that?"
"You don't like it? I was thinking of making chaps the new required uniform for all Balboa County Sheriff's Department employees."
"Inga will be thrilled."
"She gets a costume like this..." He traced the sculpted edges of her bustier and she arched upwards. "Holy Wonderbra, Batman."
"Lamb, get your hands off me."
"I don't think so."
She wasn't entirely sure how it happened -- how it happened *again*, since they were alone with no covers to protect -- but suddenly he was kissing her like his life depended on it. Half on top of her, half off, and she couldn't even move thanks to the cuff around her right wrist. Not that she actually wanted to move. Because he was good at the kissing and while he was doing it, she could forget that she hated him with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.
Come to think of it, she seemed to do that a *lot* with guys, didn't she?
She inched the black eye-mask up, over his head, brushing his cheek with the back of her hand. Giving him a light slap that did nothing except encourage him to use more tongue. It was really a crying shame that someone with such a nice face and a kickass bod' was such a complete waste of space. And that was the last snarky, uncharitable thought she had for a while because his mouth did what it did best and his hands were beneath her skirt again and Holy Mother of Pete but that technique needed to be illegal.
After the initial desperate pounce, Lamb slowed down…and proved that he was, indeed, Evil Incarnate like she'd always suspected. He kissed her like he might kiss someone he was actually fond of, feathering light pecks along her jaw line, over her pulse, and then taking the short trip back up to her lips. She bucked up as he buried three fingers deep inside her and she hoped he had hand sanitizer hidden in his chaps, too.
"Uncuff me," she gasped, tugging at his lower lip with her teeth. "Uncuff me and I'll make believe Hell had a freak snowstorm."
"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not stupid." He smirked down at her. "If you want to return the favor, you've got one free hand to do it with."
"And, lo, my trip to Bizarro World is complete. I'm discussing handjobs with my arch-nemesis."
"That's what completes your trip? You'd think it would be this…"
He hit just the right spot with his index finger and Veronica literally saw stars. Maybe because there were glow-in-the-dark ones pasted to the frat boy's ceiling, but mostly because she was climaxing for the second time in less than ten minutes.
She was never going to hear the end of it.
Till the end of time, it was going to be, "Hey, Mars. Remember that time you came all over me while I was wearing ass-less chaps and you were in a Batgirl costume?"
And, God, but when she thought about it like that, it sounded like an episode of "Punk'd." Or "Jerry Springer."
"Take the goddamn cuffs off, Deputy."
"The only way they're coming off, Veronica, is if I can guarantee you're not leaving this room without me."
She didn't quite like the gleam in his eye.
All right, she kind of did.
Dating Logan had its perks. It meant she was well versed in gleam translation.
Especially when it meant "Will you have sex with me? I've been a very good boy today."
In Lamb's case, it meant, "Will you have sex with me? You know you love my ass-less chaps, you kinky whore."
"You're a pig," she said, trying to sound at least somewhat horrified by the suggestion while she used a long, slow kiss to tell him it wasn't that bad of an idea.
"Wrong animal!" he chirped, entirely too cheerfully undoing her mini-skirt and tugging it down her legs. Her high heels came off next. And last, but not least, the handcuffs. She had to admit that he knew his way around women's clothing surprisingly well. Of course, maybe all that signified was that he secretly dressed in drag and sang Karaoke at gay bars in Chino.
He jerkily stripped off his chaps, not that there was much to take off, and then was back on top of her…kissing her all over, flicking her clit and preparing to guide himself inside her…until she used her one last working brain cell to gasp, "Condom!"
"Damn it," he hissed, keeping one arm around her as he reached over to the bedside table with the other. He knocked over his abandoned amigo Cuervo in the process.
"Hurry…" she keened, as he fumbled in the drawer and they both prayed that it was stocked like any average horny young male's nightstand. He was keeping his dick out of her what seemed like Herculean effort. Just the barest inches and he'd be fucking her. Yes, *fucking* her. "Please…just…do it…"
He closed around something in the drawer. Hopefully an entire box of Trojans. Ribbed for her pleasure.
But as soon as she saw the dawning light in his eyes, she knew that wasn't the case.
"Holy shit," he whispered, as he drew his hand back and showed her.
It was an electric hair clipper. The professional kind you'd find in a barber's shop.
The kind you'd use to buzz a girl's head nearly bald.
"Holy shit," she echoed, jerking upwards to look at it.
And then things got worse. Again.
Because she more or less impaled herself on completely unprotected Sheriff Lamb cock.
"*Veronica*…fuck." And his hips started instinctively moving, thrusting him deep inside her. A perfect fit. Like someone had passed out puzzle parts and they'd gotten the interlocking pieces. Warm, wet, amazing interlocking pieces that needed to never, ever, be separated…
"Lamb…oh, God…find a condom *now*…!" she yelped, pushing at his chest.
The clipper fell from his hand as his eyes closed with what would've been flattering ecstasy in any other circumstance. He pulled back, pulled out, and her entire body shuddered in protest. It wanted him back.
Well, it wasn't allowed to have him yet, damn it. Because she didn't want to risk having little Lambs whose fleece were white as snow. Okay, maybe as white as the driven-over snow.
Lamb got with the program, hurriedly finding one precious foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth, and sheathing himself in latex. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm sorry," he murmured as he slid inside her again.
And then there was no more apologizing. There was just the sex. Fast and hard and meant to get them off as quickly as possible because, Jesus Christ, they might be in the room of a serial rapist and they needed to get their brains out of their pants. Not that they were wearing pants.
She dug her nails into his shoulders. He nipped at her throat and she hoped to God he wasn't leaving a hickey. "Come on," he urged, "come on, Veronica. Third time's the charm."
Why, yes, it certainly was.
Pretty much the most powerful orgasm of her life so far, in fact.
He followed her over the edge and she had no idea how it rated for him, but judging by the way he groaned her name and bit off an impossibly soft, "yes," right after it, she imagined it was pretty spectacular on that side, too.
They didn't waste time with post-coital cuddling. Except for one final kiss to seal the deal: What happened at the Pi Sig house stayed at the Pi Sig house.
He disposed of the condom in an already suspiciously full trash can and slipped back into his costume, handing her the pieces of hers as she tried to come down from the massive sexual high.
Fully dressed (if it could be called that), they both stared down at the clippers like they were poisoned. Lamb's fingerprints were already on them. Nothing could be done about that. But, just the same, he used one end of the duvet to pick them up off the floor. They couldn't actually be submitted as evidence since Lamb was on a purely exploratory visit sans warrant. But that didn't mean they couldn't analyze the hairs caught in the blades anyway.
Together, they began to efficiently search the room. He took one side; she took the other. They didn't even have to discuss it. Apparently having sex had given them some kind of Vulcan mind meld.
Now *there* was a costume for Rose Hill Escorts, Inc. to consider.
Except that they were probably being shut down after tonight's little escapade.
In the end, the shaver was all they found.
Along with Psych 302 notes, a half-eaten salami hero, three stinky pairs of Nikes, and a stash of Maxims.
"Well, damn," Lamb muttered, cracking his neck as he rolled it from side to side and stared down at the offending device.
"I second that," she said, grimly, tugging up her bustier.
And then he stared at her. With pretty much the same expression as he'd had while examining the clippers. "Well, damn," he repeated. He flexed his fingers. Those Fingers. Looking at them like they belonged on somebody else's hands now that they had Veronica Mars cooties all over them.
After the past two years, she'd considered herself as having grown a pretty thick skin. You couldn't navigate Neptune and the 09ers without one. But that…that reaction kind of hurt her feelings. And a couple of angry tears sprang to her eyes as she wrapped the clippers in a discarded McDonald's bag for transport. "Tonight was no parade for me either, Lamb. You're not exactly my favorite person in the world and I'm seeing somebody and I'm probably going to go wash myself with bleach later. Okay? So, fuck you."
He sighed, curling his hands into fists against his hips. "Don't get your thong in a bunch, Veronica. That's not why I said 'damn.'"
"Then why'd you say it?"
"Because I'm not going to be able to get laid again without thinking about how I was practically fist-deep in your hot little body on a frat house staircase. Not to mention the fact that I can never wear ass-less chaps again."
A fit of laughter quickly eclipsed any wounded feelings and tears. "Why would you *want* to?"
He offered her a slightly lopsided and startlingly earnest grin. "Because you can't resist them, Veronica Mars."
"Oh." She blushed. Which totally gave her away. Damn her fair complexion. "Well, just so you know, Lamb, this bat suit is going straight back to the madam. So don't get your hopes up either."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Wouldn't even nightmare of it." He paused for a second, speculatively. "Might fantasize about it once or twice and jerk off, though. Don't worry, I'll call you for permission first."
"Aw, there's that Good Samaritan thing again. I'm touched."
"You love it." He gleamed -- yes, she noticed -- reaching out his hand for her. "Come on, let's get out of here. I'll walk you to your car and you can go trick or treating at the Neptune Grand with your pretty boy boyfriend while I drop our illegally-obtained evidence at the station."
She wasn't entirely sure what made her say it. Temporary insanity. The complete lack of oxygen to her brain -- thank you, itty-bitty bat suit. Or maybe just the fact that she'd never met a man who looked this good in ass-less leather chaps and very likely never would again…since Lamb was probably going to burn them first thing in the morning.
"I don't know, Cowboy," she murmured, tilting her head. "Didn't you promise me something earlier? Something about a good tip?"
"Did I?" Lamb flipped up his mask and winked at her. "How about I stiff you instead? A couple of times in a row. Maybe once with chocolate sauce?"
Of all the disguises Veronica had donned in her budding career as a sleuth, "Batgirl the hooker" had been a whole new level of suck. Pun intended.
But there were perks. Definite perks.
She took his hand, entwining their fingers and laughing softly.
Eat your heart out Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer, George Clooney, *and* Christian Bale.
--end--
October 14, 2006
Also, this is a stand alone story, not the least bit tied to anything else I've written.
Title: "Smoke 'Em if You Gotham" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: R to NC-17 for language, sexual situations, Veronica/Lamb. Humor, bits of angst, etc.
Disclaimer: I still don't own the characters and this time there are no plastic sheep involved.
Summary: Between Dreamingsunset's suggestion of Veronica in a Batgirl costume and Shealynn88 talking about forced proximity sex, lo, this fic was born. 4500 words. Set during early season three. One thing could compare to the horror…
Warning: Do not attempt to play a drinking game to this fic. If you do a shot every time a certain phrase appears, you could very likely die of alcohol poisoning.
Of all the disguises Veronica had donned in her budding career as a sleuth, "Batgirl the hooker" was a whole new level of suck. Pun intended. The vinyl was tight. Very tight. And they definitely didn't need to build any fancy nipples because hers were definitely along for the ride.
Eat your heart out, George Clooney.
As it was with everything at Hearst these days, it all traced back to the Pi Sigs. The bane of her uber-Italian and highly un-Greek existence. Chip, her dear friend and prime rape suspect, was throwing quite the Halloween bash…one that required the services of Rose Hill Escorts, Inc.
It hadn't even taken her best finagling skills to land herself a job as the newest Rosebud. Yes, that was what they called their elite "girls." Yes, she was horrified. But nothing could quite compare to the horror of the itty-bitty bat suit. And the stilettos. And the fishnet stockings -- not that she didn't sometimes appreciate a good pair of fishnets.
Okay, scratch that.
One thing could compare to the horror.
And she encountered it in the fraternity house's gleaming kitchen -- the only part that wasn't populated by drunken party boys and a choice selection of gypsies, tramps and thieves -- while she was trying to fix her pointy mask in the stainless steel refrigerator door.
It was a naked ass reflected in the shining metal.
In chaps.
Okay, to be fair, the chaps covered everything but the ass.
Oh, God. They were ass-less chaps.
She finished fiddling with her mask and whirled around the center island -- as much as she could whirl in four-inch heels -- and got out of the line of direct Ass-o-Vision.
The frat brother was tall, totally ripped…he probably lived in the gym…and all he wore was…well, not so much, really. Except for the mask covering his eyes.
Talk about the Bold and the Beautiful. Or, in this case, the Drunk and the Stupid.
Veronica swallowed hard and tried to look suitably whorish as she smiled. "Hi, there, Cowboy," she purred, hoping she didn't sound too much like Olivia Newton John after Sandy went Pink Lady.
She was really, really, lucky they weren't crotch-less chaps, too.
And not quite so lucky at all when the chapped chap gasped, "Veronica?!"
The mask covered everything except for her mouth. For crying out loud, it wasn't like the Joker ran around Gotham City going, "Michael Keaton?!" Rose Hill clearly needed to get a refund from whomever they rented their skanky ho gear from.
"Fuck," the cowboy hissed, clenching his jaw. "This is just my lucky night."
And that was when she knew.
It wasn't a chap in the ass-less chaps.
It was an ass. After all. How ironic.
"Since when are you pledging Pi Sig, Deputy Lamb?" she wondered, yanking the edges of her mini down so it was maxi-er. "Or are you just here for the tricking and treating?"
He grabbed her arm, hustling her towards the island so he could emphatically smack the countertop a few times as he growled at her about "undercover work" and "busts" all while looking at her chest.
It would've been moderately impressive -- okay, she was lying -- if he weren't wearing ASS-LESS CHAPS.
So, what was she supposed to do besides laugh? And it hurt to do that, what with all the vinyl tightness. The giggles bubbled up and she tried to choke them back. Really tried.
"…that madam from Rose Hill assured me that this operation would be clean in exchange for a lesser charge. And what do I get? Veronica Mars!"
"And chafing. I think you get chafing."
She smacked the countertop as she practically howled with laughter.
His fingers dug into the crook of her elbow. "Cut it out, Mars," he hissed, turning red. All over.
"Can't," she gasped, partially because the itty-bitty bat suit was cutting off her circulation but mostly out of sheer hilarity. "Chaps. Too. Priceless." If only she had a camera. If. Only.
"I hate you."
"Such a shame, because I kinda love this whole new side of *you*…"
Someone "whoo-hoo"-ed nearby. The universal sign for "drunk man walking." Great. They were about to have company. Veronica tried to get a grip while simultaneously shaking off Lamb's. But as a trio of guys stumbled in, sloshing plastic cups of beer and a redheaded Rosebud followed, she suddenly found herself being yanked *closer* to Lamb. Off-kilter on the stupid shoes, she actually slammed right into him and, oh God, but he was ripped. Had she mentioned that? His six-pack was no cheap cans of Natty Light, nuh-uh, and his chest was smooth. He probably had it waxed professionally and if she could find out where -- oh, the glorious blackmail.
"Oof!" he muttered, grabbing her by the back of her cowl. "Watch it!"
She did one better than that. Since her dear friend Chip was one of the trio currently groping Red Rose, she not only watched it, but she touched it. She slid the flat of her palm down Lamb's side, following the line of his spine before she took a nice handful of his impossibly firm and disturbingly cute butt.
He yelped. "Ver--" and she cut him off with a husky chuckle, "Easy access, Cowboy." How that madam had thought that this moron could pull-off a clean bust was one of life's true mysteries.
Lamb clamped one hand down over hers and he emphatically moved her fingers off his ass. The distinctive jaw clench that had given him away was even clenchier now and his eyes were ice-blue behind the Lone Ranger mask.
"Hey…hey, you two…enjoyin' the party?" Pi Sig Extra #2 slurred.
And that was when he kissed her.
Lamb. Not the Pi Sig.
For one thing, the frat boy had regular pants on. Highly unimpressive.
And Lamb…. His hand was now cupping her face, fingertips just barely sliding beneath the edges of her mask. And he kissed like no asshole sheriff should. Hard and hot and all tongue.
"Guess they are!" Chip brayed.
Only, instead of deciding they were getting their Rose Hill Escorts, Inc. money's worth and wandering off to chug more cheap beer, Chip and his entourage *stayed*.
Veronica had no choice but to kiss Lamb back.
Of course, it wasn't a hardship if you discounted the fact that it was, well, *Lamb*. Because he was nearly naked and he kissed like they did in the movies. All tilted head and sweeping passion and stubble burn she was going to have to explain away to Logan tomorrow since he barely shaved once a week. He backed her up against the counter as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He slid his mouth down to her ear, sucking on her earlobe and her knees actually turned the consistency of jelly. "Bitch," he whispered. "Now what do we do?"
Not exactly sweet nothings. "More," she gasped, and she wasn't entirely sure whose benefit it was for.
Okay, probably hers.
Chip could get his own. And judging by the noises -- no buzzing this time -- he was.
She winced, just barely, and then Lamb was kissing her again. Distracting her. Keeping her safely between him and the counter. Maybe he wasn't so bad at this undercover thing after all. She fisted her hands in his hair, murmuring, "asshole," and "jerk," into his lips. Along with, "I better get a fantastic tip."
"Count on it, Babe."
Lamb stroked the underside of her breast with his knuckles and she might as well have stripped off the costume because it felt like they were skin to skin. The bat suit…it had its uses after all. She moaned or whimpered or something else entirely too girly and he made an answering growly sound deep in his throat.
And, then, just when she was finding her center of balance on the Stilettos of Doom, he was sweeping her up in his arms, flush against that ungodly chest, and locking her legs around his waist. "Time to make this mambo horizontal." Jesus, did he think lines like that actually worked? But since he was effectively hauling her past their pal the collegiate Caligula, she wasn't about to critique his staff writers.
"Upstairs?"
"Duh."
The brothers had long since cleaned out the basement and removed their scoreboard. Heavy-duty fines and disciplinary hearings had a funny way of making you get your house in order.
Upstairs had been her game plan this evening. Just not with more than one player.
Lamb obviously spent all the hours he should have been investigating crimes lifting weights, because he carried her like she weighed nothing. Okay, maybe she could stand to eat a few extra sandwiches now and then, but that was hardly the point. He cruised through the flailing and grinding bodies in the house's main room, making a beeline for the stairs.
And an unfortunate -- or fortunate, depending on how you looked at it -- side effect of all the motion was that each step rubbed him against her. Yes, "him." Yes, "her." Insert froofy romance novel metaphor for their genitals here. And the friction of vinyl against faux leather --thank GOD his chaps weren't crotch-less -- was driving her insane.
By the time they hit the landing, she was panting, burying her face against his neck and almost desperately riding his thigh. Like a cat in heat or something. Maybe Rose Hill had given her the wrong costume. Thanks for everything, Julie Newmar.
Lamb pushed her up against the wall, ostensibly so a couple of girls could careen past them and down into the fray. But then he was looking down at her again, the line of his mouth all smug bastard-y. "Veronica, are you…?"
"Y-yes."
Damn it. Yes, she was. And she was close.
It usually took at least 20 minutes of fumbling teenage foreplay to get her this far.
For once in his life, Sheriff Don Lamb did something useful.
Practically worthy of some kind of Humanitarian of the Year award.
As their mouths met again -- apparently the only way they'd ever keep from arguing -- he slid his hand up her thigh, up the mini-skirt. He pushed the elastic of her panties aside and with two fingers stroking against her clit, finished her off. Practically a mercy killing.
"Care to return the favor?" he wondered as she shuddered and swore, the delicious tremors going all the way down to her toes.
"When…Hell…freezes…over."
"Brr," he murmured, as he slowly, deliberately, licked his fingers.
It was official. Veronica was in Bizarro World. Because she was turned on all over again. By Lamb. In chaps. She thought maybe if she kept repeating it, it would sink in and she'd snap out of the thrall or whatever. But, nope. There he was, hanging out for the entire world to see and all she wanted to do was eat him alive. Or, actually, be eaten. Because, Hello, *way* better for her.
"Shouldn't we be illegally searching and seizing?" she wondered, semi-proud that at least some corner of her brain was still working. It had to be the suit. It was cutting off her air supply and her circulation and, therefore, her common sense.
No wonder Val Kilmer's Batman had been such a himbo.
"I'm okay with searching and seizing." Lamb then, quite emphatically, moved her hand back to his ass.
Oh, my.
And as she seized to her heart's content, he kept moving up to the house's second level, to a hallway lined with doors, dormitory style. Relatively deserted, even a little quiet, except for the pounding bass from the speakers downstairs and the extraneous moans and groans. Well, what do you know, they'd officially ventured into The Best Little Whorehouse in Neptune territory.
"Put me down," she hissed, kneeing her escort (or was she his?).
"Okay."
He shouldered aside an unlocked bedroom door and did as she asked, dropping her in the center of a hastily made bed.
And then locked her to the bedpost.
Where in the world had he hidden a pair of handcuffs in that get-up?
"You son-of-a-bitch, you're not *leaving* me here." She pulled and the metal automatically dug into her wrist. Ow.
Lamb smiled, cheerfully waving Those Two Fingers at her. "It's just temporary. I'll come get you when I'm done with unofficial police business."
"Liar."
"I'm hurt that you don't trust me, Veronica."
"Two for two," she snorted, trying to kick off one of her heels and launch it at his fat head. Better yet, his bare buns of steel. "Come *back* here!"
He paused in the doorway, flipped up his mask and winked at her. The bastard.
And then things got worse.
"Dude, if you're going to just leave her there...want us to take over?"
Cue Frat Boy Extras #4-8, complete with half-empty bottles of Cuervo and every intention of shoving past Lamb.
"No!" she cried, knowing it was a very non-hooker-y thing to say when presented with the chance for a gang bang. But, damn it, she wasn't...she wasn't going to go there. Not again. Never again.
Lamb let her suffer for thirty-eight seconds. It felt like an eternity.
"No way, Dudes." He perfectly echoed their tone. "I was just going for some booze, you know? Keep us in the mood." And, with that, he plucked one bottle of Cuervo from an unsteady hand, slammed the door in their faces, and hit the lock. "Now what?" he demanded, turning to her like she was supposed to know.
"Uncuff me," she suggested. "Then we don't have to worry about this particular Rosebud being, for lack of a better word, deflowered."
He snorted, contemplating the tequila instead of her very sound proposal. To drink on the job or not to drink on the job, that was clearly the question. "I'm not letting you run amuck, Mars. Which means I can't poke around this place until most of the randy revelers have passed out. And that means I'm stuck with you." He grimaced, uncapped the Cuervo, and took a long swig. "Great."
"You sound remarkably unenthused for a man who, not two minutes ago, seemed perfectly content to be stuck with me," she pointed out, using her free hand to tug off her cowl and toss it aside. "And, by the way, when we're back in the real world...that never happened."
"It absolutely happened. You think I'm going to forget that I made you come that fucking fast? No way." He climbed up beside her on the bed, tilting the tequila bottle in her general direction. "And I was being a Good Samaritan."
"Please. I've had better parables with myself."
"Now who's the liar?" He was so smug. How could somebody in ASS-LESS CHAPS be that smug?
She had to know. "What in God's name possessed you to wear that?"
"You don't like it? I was thinking of making chaps the new required uniform for all Balboa County Sheriff's Department employees."
"Inga will be thrilled."
"She gets a costume like this..." He traced the sculpted edges of her bustier and she arched upwards. "Holy Wonderbra, Batman."
"Lamb, get your hands off me."
"I don't think so."
She wasn't entirely sure how it happened -- how it happened *again*, since they were alone with no covers to protect -- but suddenly he was kissing her like his life depended on it. Half on top of her, half off, and she couldn't even move thanks to the cuff around her right wrist. Not that she actually wanted to move. Because he was good at the kissing and while he was doing it, she could forget that she hated him with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.
Come to think of it, she seemed to do that a *lot* with guys, didn't she?
She inched the black eye-mask up, over his head, brushing his cheek with the back of her hand. Giving him a light slap that did nothing except encourage him to use more tongue. It was really a crying shame that someone with such a nice face and a kickass bod' was such a complete waste of space. And that was the last snarky, uncharitable thought she had for a while because his mouth did what it did best and his hands were beneath her skirt again and Holy Mother of Pete but that technique needed to be illegal.
After the initial desperate pounce, Lamb slowed down…and proved that he was, indeed, Evil Incarnate like she'd always suspected. He kissed her like he might kiss someone he was actually fond of, feathering light pecks along her jaw line, over her pulse, and then taking the short trip back up to her lips. She bucked up as he buried three fingers deep inside her and she hoped he had hand sanitizer hidden in his chaps, too.
"Uncuff me," she gasped, tugging at his lower lip with her teeth. "Uncuff me and I'll make believe Hell had a freak snowstorm."
"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not stupid." He smirked down at her. "If you want to return the favor, you've got one free hand to do it with."
"And, lo, my trip to Bizarro World is complete. I'm discussing handjobs with my arch-nemesis."
"That's what completes your trip? You'd think it would be this…"
He hit just the right spot with his index finger and Veronica literally saw stars. Maybe because there were glow-in-the-dark ones pasted to the frat boy's ceiling, but mostly because she was climaxing for the second time in less than ten minutes.
She was never going to hear the end of it.
Till the end of time, it was going to be, "Hey, Mars. Remember that time you came all over me while I was wearing ass-less chaps and you were in a Batgirl costume?"
And, God, but when she thought about it like that, it sounded like an episode of "Punk'd." Or "Jerry Springer."
"Take the goddamn cuffs off, Deputy."
"The only way they're coming off, Veronica, is if I can guarantee you're not leaving this room without me."
She didn't quite like the gleam in his eye.
All right, she kind of did.
Dating Logan had its perks. It meant she was well versed in gleam translation.
Especially when it meant "Will you have sex with me? I've been a very good boy today."
In Lamb's case, it meant, "Will you have sex with me? You know you love my ass-less chaps, you kinky whore."
"You're a pig," she said, trying to sound at least somewhat horrified by the suggestion while she used a long, slow kiss to tell him it wasn't that bad of an idea.
"Wrong animal!" he chirped, entirely too cheerfully undoing her mini-skirt and tugging it down her legs. Her high heels came off next. And last, but not least, the handcuffs. She had to admit that he knew his way around women's clothing surprisingly well. Of course, maybe all that signified was that he secretly dressed in drag and sang Karaoke at gay bars in Chino.
He jerkily stripped off his chaps, not that there was much to take off, and then was back on top of her…kissing her all over, flicking her clit and preparing to guide himself inside her…until she used her one last working brain cell to gasp, "Condom!"
"Damn it," he hissed, keeping one arm around her as he reached over to the bedside table with the other. He knocked over his abandoned amigo Cuervo in the process.
"Hurry…" she keened, as he fumbled in the drawer and they both prayed that it was stocked like any average horny young male's nightstand. He was keeping his dick out of her what seemed like Herculean effort. Just the barest inches and he'd be fucking her. Yes, *fucking* her. "Please…just…do it…"
He closed around something in the drawer. Hopefully an entire box of Trojans. Ribbed for her pleasure.
But as soon as she saw the dawning light in his eyes, she knew that wasn't the case.
"Holy shit," he whispered, as he drew his hand back and showed her.
It was an electric hair clipper. The professional kind you'd find in a barber's shop.
The kind you'd use to buzz a girl's head nearly bald.
"Holy shit," she echoed, jerking upwards to look at it.
And then things got worse. Again.
Because she more or less impaled herself on completely unprotected Sheriff Lamb cock.
"*Veronica*…fuck." And his hips started instinctively moving, thrusting him deep inside her. A perfect fit. Like someone had passed out puzzle parts and they'd gotten the interlocking pieces. Warm, wet, amazing interlocking pieces that needed to never, ever, be separated…
"Lamb…oh, God…find a condom *now*…!" she yelped, pushing at his chest.
The clipper fell from his hand as his eyes closed with what would've been flattering ecstasy in any other circumstance. He pulled back, pulled out, and her entire body shuddered in protest. It wanted him back.
Well, it wasn't allowed to have him yet, damn it. Because she didn't want to risk having little Lambs whose fleece were white as snow. Okay, maybe as white as the driven-over snow.
Lamb got with the program, hurriedly finding one precious foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth, and sheathing himself in latex. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm sorry," he murmured as he slid inside her again.
And then there was no more apologizing. There was just the sex. Fast and hard and meant to get them off as quickly as possible because, Jesus Christ, they might be in the room of a serial rapist and they needed to get their brains out of their pants. Not that they were wearing pants.
She dug her nails into his shoulders. He nipped at her throat and she hoped to God he wasn't leaving a hickey. "Come on," he urged, "come on, Veronica. Third time's the charm."
Why, yes, it certainly was.
Pretty much the most powerful orgasm of her life so far, in fact.
He followed her over the edge and she had no idea how it rated for him, but judging by the way he groaned her name and bit off an impossibly soft, "yes," right after it, she imagined it was pretty spectacular on that side, too.
They didn't waste time with post-coital cuddling. Except for one final kiss to seal the deal: What happened at the Pi Sig house stayed at the Pi Sig house.
He disposed of the condom in an already suspiciously full trash can and slipped back into his costume, handing her the pieces of hers as she tried to come down from the massive sexual high.
Fully dressed (if it could be called that), they both stared down at the clippers like they were poisoned. Lamb's fingerprints were already on them. Nothing could be done about that. But, just the same, he used one end of the duvet to pick them up off the floor. They couldn't actually be submitted as evidence since Lamb was on a purely exploratory visit sans warrant. But that didn't mean they couldn't analyze the hairs caught in the blades anyway.
Together, they began to efficiently search the room. He took one side; she took the other. They didn't even have to discuss it. Apparently having sex had given them some kind of Vulcan mind meld.
Now *there* was a costume for Rose Hill Escorts, Inc. to consider.
Except that they were probably being shut down after tonight's little escapade.
In the end, the shaver was all they found.
Along with Psych 302 notes, a half-eaten salami hero, three stinky pairs of Nikes, and a stash of Maxims.
"Well, damn," Lamb muttered, cracking his neck as he rolled it from side to side and stared down at the offending device.
"I second that," she said, grimly, tugging up her bustier.
And then he stared at her. With pretty much the same expression as he'd had while examining the clippers. "Well, damn," he repeated. He flexed his fingers. Those Fingers. Looking at them like they belonged on somebody else's hands now that they had Veronica Mars cooties all over them.
After the past two years, she'd considered herself as having grown a pretty thick skin. You couldn't navigate Neptune and the 09ers without one. But that…that reaction kind of hurt her feelings. And a couple of angry tears sprang to her eyes as she wrapped the clippers in a discarded McDonald's bag for transport. "Tonight was no parade for me either, Lamb. You're not exactly my favorite person in the world and I'm seeing somebody and I'm probably going to go wash myself with bleach later. Okay? So, fuck you."
He sighed, curling his hands into fists against his hips. "Don't get your thong in a bunch, Veronica. That's not why I said 'damn.'"
"Then why'd you say it?"
"Because I'm not going to be able to get laid again without thinking about how I was practically fist-deep in your hot little body on a frat house staircase. Not to mention the fact that I can never wear ass-less chaps again."
A fit of laughter quickly eclipsed any wounded feelings and tears. "Why would you *want* to?"
He offered her a slightly lopsided and startlingly earnest grin. "Because you can't resist them, Veronica Mars."
"Oh." She blushed. Which totally gave her away. Damn her fair complexion. "Well, just so you know, Lamb, this bat suit is going straight back to the madam. So don't get your hopes up either."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Wouldn't even nightmare of it." He paused for a second, speculatively. "Might fantasize about it once or twice and jerk off, though. Don't worry, I'll call you for permission first."
"Aw, there's that Good Samaritan thing again. I'm touched."
"You love it." He gleamed -- yes, she noticed -- reaching out his hand for her. "Come on, let's get out of here. I'll walk you to your car and you can go trick or treating at the Neptune Grand with your pretty boy boyfriend while I drop our illegally-obtained evidence at the station."
She wasn't entirely sure what made her say it. Temporary insanity. The complete lack of oxygen to her brain -- thank you, itty-bitty bat suit. Or maybe just the fact that she'd never met a man who looked this good in ass-less leather chaps and very likely never would again…since Lamb was probably going to burn them first thing in the morning.
"I don't know, Cowboy," she murmured, tilting her head. "Didn't you promise me something earlier? Something about a good tip?"
"Did I?" Lamb flipped up his mask and winked at her. "How about I stiff you instead? A couple of times in a row. Maybe once with chocolate sauce?"
Of all the disguises Veronica had donned in her budding career as a sleuth, "Batgirl the hooker" had been a whole new level of suck. Pun intended.
But there were perks. Definite perks.
She took his hand, entwining their fingers and laughing softly.
Eat your heart out Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer, George Clooney, *and* Christian Bale.
--end--
October 14, 2006