there's a gun in your hand
494 words. R-ish. TW: gunplay.
Veronica/JD.
Summary: Baby, he says, with that knife grin, you know what I always say: if you can't join 'em, shoot 'em in the head.
Note: Originally posted here. In my head this is set somewhere after Heather Chandler's death but before the football players.
Baby, he says, with that knife grin, you know what I always say: if you can't join 'em, shoot 'em in the head.
Veronica is wearing a blue dress with blue tights and blue boots, dark navy suede. She's holding a gun between both hands and she's pointing it right at him.
"Don't call me baby," she says.
Oh, baby, he coos in that ragged sarcastic voice, I love when you tell me what to do.
It's practice. He snatches the gun from her hands – it's not even a real gun, he tells her – and Veronica laughs, lets J.D. press her back onto his unmade bed and unravel all her layers of blue. The not-a-real-gun lays on the bed next to them. Her grasping fingers keep finding metal instead of duvet.
J.D. fucks her hard, all pale skinny hips with black jeans bunched around his thighs. Pull the trigger, he tells her, but she's certain he means it metaphorically so she twists his nipples and pushes back roughly against him and yanks his hair and J.D. comes, rolls off her. The gun's between them now, still resting in the holster of her fingers. He said it wasn't real but it feels heavy in her hand, like she thought a gun would. It makes her feel powerful.
Veronica throws a leg over him and pulls herself astride. She presses the tip of the gun against the center of his chest. He shifts it so it's over his heart, metal digging into his skin. He's got all kinds of scars and she's never asked where they came from.
He watches her, eyes hazy green. Do it, he says.
She moves the gun upwards, trailing it over his flesh. It had been cold when he first showed it to her but the metal is warm now, like a person. She points it at his throat. She presses it to his lips. "Kiss," she tells him.
J.D.'s eyes are on her as his lips draw together to kiss the gun, and then his lips part to take it between them. The only time she's ever seen someone with a gun in their mouth is in the movies and it didn’t look like this; J.D. sucks on the gun like a lover and his hips wriggle beneath her like he can't help it.
The intense thing is hot but sometimes it freaks her out, so she pulls the gun back and drops it to the side, kisses him. He looks disappointed and tastes metallic. She sits on his face and makes him taste her instead and her fingertips keep finding the gun, wet from his mouth.
After, he sticks two cigarettes between his lips and lights them both at once, handing one over. He studies the ceiling contemplatively and says I think you'll do all right.
"Well, yeah," Veronica says. "It's not real anyway."
Nothing's real, J.D. says.
Veronica snorts. "You think I need you to tell me that?"
494 words. R-ish. TW: gunplay.
Veronica/JD.
Summary: Baby, he says, with that knife grin, you know what I always say: if you can't join 'em, shoot 'em in the head.
Note: Originally posted here. In my head this is set somewhere after Heather Chandler's death but before the football players.
Baby, he says, with that knife grin, you know what I always say: if you can't join 'em, shoot 'em in the head.
Veronica is wearing a blue dress with blue tights and blue boots, dark navy suede. She's holding a gun between both hands and she's pointing it right at him.
"Don't call me baby," she says.
Oh, baby, he coos in that ragged sarcastic voice, I love when you tell me what to do.
It's practice. He snatches the gun from her hands – it's not even a real gun, he tells her – and Veronica laughs, lets J.D. press her back onto his unmade bed and unravel all her layers of blue. The not-a-real-gun lays on the bed next to them. Her grasping fingers keep finding metal instead of duvet.
J.D. fucks her hard, all pale skinny hips with black jeans bunched around his thighs. Pull the trigger, he tells her, but she's certain he means it metaphorically so she twists his nipples and pushes back roughly against him and yanks his hair and J.D. comes, rolls off her. The gun's between them now, still resting in the holster of her fingers. He said it wasn't real but it feels heavy in her hand, like she thought a gun would. It makes her feel powerful.
Veronica throws a leg over him and pulls herself astride. She presses the tip of the gun against the center of his chest. He shifts it so it's over his heart, metal digging into his skin. He's got all kinds of scars and she's never asked where they came from.
He watches her, eyes hazy green. Do it, he says.
She moves the gun upwards, trailing it over his flesh. It had been cold when he first showed it to her but the metal is warm now, like a person. She points it at his throat. She presses it to his lips. "Kiss," she tells him.
J.D.'s eyes are on her as his lips draw together to kiss the gun, and then his lips part to take it between them. The only time she's ever seen someone with a gun in their mouth is in the movies and it didn’t look like this; J.D. sucks on the gun like a lover and his hips wriggle beneath her like he can't help it.
The intense thing is hot but sometimes it freaks her out, so she pulls the gun back and drops it to the side, kisses him. He looks disappointed and tastes metallic. She sits on his face and makes him taste her instead and her fingertips keep finding the gun, wet from his mouth.
After, he sticks two cigarettes between his lips and lights them both at once, handing one over. He studies the ceiling contemplatively and says I think you'll do all right.
"Well, yeah," Veronica says. "It's not real anyway."
Nothing's real, J.D. says.
Veronica snorts. "You think I need you to tell me that?"