Veronica Mars fic: the plagues of kings and queens
Title: the plagues of kings and queens
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Characters/Pairings: Veronica, Lamb, Veronica/Lamb
Word Count: 763
Rating: R
Spoilers: None. ♥
Summary: He’ll admit to missing the shine of scandal to a bottle of scotch, the vibrations of his television, and maybe, just maybe, Mom. But she just smiles and nods and goes oh, baby like she’s really listening hard.)
Author's Notes: For zauberer_sirin ♥. Put it this way. I meant to write pr0n. I swear.
On a rooftop in Brooklyn
At one in the morning
Watching the lights flash
In Manhattan
I see five bridges
The Empire State Building
And you said something
That I've never forgotten
PJ Harvey, You Said Something
*
She comes back to Neptune exactly how she left: quiet, unnoticed, and shadows under her eyes.
Keith’s been gone for years, something about New York and the Mets and a reason to watch hockey. So Veronica’s a quiet legend, haunting the halls of the high school as a paradox and not a girl.
Wallace, when they still talk, thinks it’s kind of funny (he’s the basketball coach) and their conversations always end (after you should seriously get a new cell phone) with a quiet laugh.
The who ever really leaves home? finally gets to her.
*
He’s not supposed to see her.
But then again, he’s not supposed to see anyone, at the beach, after one. Stragglers are entertaining sometimes- but Neptune is quiet, soft without the ghosts of the Kanes, the Echolls, and the wreckage that lingered. (Bang, baby, bang.)
Neptune stays strangely curious, strangely home, and so, he guess, he stays for the moment.
(He’ll admit to missing the shine of scandal to a bottle of scotch, the vibrations of his television, and maybe, just maybe, Mom. But she just smiles and nods and goes oh, baby like she’s really listening hard.)
It happens simply like this: he’s there, she’s there, and for old time’s sake well if it isn’t veronica mars spills from his lips and tastes too good.
*
He’s the first that doesn’t ask why and so she sort of appreciates it in the lamest of senses.
The truth is- she’s lost track of anniversaries, dates, and friends she doesn’t talk to anymore. So she comes home back, in a fit of curiosity and nothing more.
It’s about stability.
*
“Scotch?”
She wrinkles her nose and he bites back a crack about her mom because it’s an old, dusty habit and he’s comfortable (weird- she’s not talking but he’s got a picture of her, at seventeen, and her voice ringing clear).
“Too good for you?” He sneers and sits next to her, tucking his knees against his chest like back in college when it was cool (never). And she smirks because she knows.
But she stays quiet and if she does talk, it’s in small, short breaths. A word here. A word there. And it makes him curious.
“I don’t drink,” she says finally, tiredly, and leans back with her hands curling in the sand. It comes a little too late.
He doesn’t blame her.
*
“You can ask me, you know,” her voice stills, losing to the echo of the waves. “It’s not like I’m going to tell you. But your poker face sucks, Sheriff.”
He might’ve laughed, but he’s closer, his fingers ghosting against her thigh. She shivers and looks up, quiet and daring.
He doesn’t take the bait. It was almost the same.
“And here, I thought-” He pauses, watching her like he used to. Because he had a look (a bribe, a taunt, a push- it almost made things fun) back then.
“You’re still a little girl, Veronica Mars.”
*
She hits him, hard, on his arm.
“You’re an ass,” she spits, “you’re a goddamn ass.”
He pushes and she hates him for it. No one else pushed, no one else frustrated her more- she’s not a little girl, not that angsting teenager. It’s hello twenty-six and I’m no longer Logan Echolls’ girlfriend , so screw you.
“You’re beating up the Sheriff,” he says gently, but it makes him sound condescending. Because Lamb’s too Lamb to be anything else.
“And you’ve nearly finished a bottle of scotch. Whatever-”
But his mouth stretches over hers and she tastes, aches, and drifts in scotch. She thinks that this is a really, really bad idea, but god, his mouth is so warm and maybe she’ll forget for just a little while.
They stumble to the sand, his belt pressing in her hip. She’s still too small, still too lost underneath him, so she pushes and he turns them. And ohfuckinggod, they’re going to have sex.
She doesn’t stop.
*
Sex is hard, sex is fast, and he hates that there’s sand itching against his skin. A million thoughts cry into his mind. She’s too young (hasn’t stopped him before) and he’s here and she’s somewhere over there.
The inclination is almost romantic, but shit her mouth against his throat, biting, nibbling, and whispering deeper makes him heavy with need.
And he doesn’t need this.
*
Morning etches across the sky, the occasional jogger drifting in front of them as he stands and she sits. Still.
She doesn’t turn to watch him go. It’s been years anyway.
end.
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Characters/Pairings: Veronica, Lamb, Veronica/Lamb
Word Count: 763
Rating: R
Spoilers: None. ♥
Summary: He’ll admit to missing the shine of scandal to a bottle of scotch, the vibrations of his television, and maybe, just maybe, Mom. But she just smiles and nods and goes oh, baby like she’s really listening hard.)
Author's Notes: For zauberer_sirin ♥. Put it this way. I meant to write pr0n. I swear.
On a rooftop in Brooklyn
At one in the morning
Watching the lights flash
In Manhattan
I see five bridges
The Empire State Building
And you said something
That I've never forgotten
PJ Harvey, You Said Something
*
She comes back to Neptune exactly how she left: quiet, unnoticed, and shadows under her eyes.
Keith’s been gone for years, something about New York and the Mets and a reason to watch hockey. So Veronica’s a quiet legend, haunting the halls of the high school as a paradox and not a girl.
Wallace, when they still talk, thinks it’s kind of funny (he’s the basketball coach) and their conversations always end (after you should seriously get a new cell phone) with a quiet laugh.
The who ever really leaves home? finally gets to her.
*
He’s not supposed to see her.
But then again, he’s not supposed to see anyone, at the beach, after one. Stragglers are entertaining sometimes- but Neptune is quiet, soft without the ghosts of the Kanes, the Echolls, and the wreckage that lingered. (Bang, baby, bang.)
Neptune stays strangely curious, strangely home, and so, he guess, he stays for the moment.
(He’ll admit to missing the shine of scandal to a bottle of scotch, the vibrations of his television, and maybe, just maybe, Mom. But she just smiles and nods and goes oh, baby like she’s really listening hard.)
It happens simply like this: he’s there, she’s there, and for old time’s sake well if it isn’t veronica mars spills from his lips and tastes too good.
*
He’s the first that doesn’t ask why and so she sort of appreciates it in the lamest of senses.
The truth is- she’s lost track of anniversaries, dates, and friends she doesn’t talk to anymore. So she comes home back, in a fit of curiosity and nothing more.
It’s about stability.
*
“Scotch?”
She wrinkles her nose and he bites back a crack about her mom because it’s an old, dusty habit and he’s comfortable (weird- she’s not talking but he’s got a picture of her, at seventeen, and her voice ringing clear).
“Too good for you?” He sneers and sits next to her, tucking his knees against his chest like back in college when it was cool (never). And she smirks because she knows.
But she stays quiet and if she does talk, it’s in small, short breaths. A word here. A word there. And it makes him curious.
“I don’t drink,” she says finally, tiredly, and leans back with her hands curling in the sand. It comes a little too late.
He doesn’t blame her.
*
“You can ask me, you know,” her voice stills, losing to the echo of the waves. “It’s not like I’m going to tell you. But your poker face sucks, Sheriff.”
He might’ve laughed, but he’s closer, his fingers ghosting against her thigh. She shivers and looks up, quiet and daring.
He doesn’t take the bait. It was almost the same.
“And here, I thought-” He pauses, watching her like he used to. Because he had a look (a bribe, a taunt, a push- it almost made things fun) back then.
“You’re still a little girl, Veronica Mars.”
*
She hits him, hard, on his arm.
“You’re an ass,” she spits, “you’re a goddamn ass.”
He pushes and she hates him for it. No one else pushed, no one else frustrated her more- she’s not a little girl, not that angsting teenager. It’s hello twenty-six and I’m no longer Logan Echolls’ girlfriend , so screw you.
“You’re beating up the Sheriff,” he says gently, but it makes him sound condescending. Because Lamb’s too Lamb to be anything else.
“And you’ve nearly finished a bottle of scotch. Whatever-”
But his mouth stretches over hers and she tastes, aches, and drifts in scotch. She thinks that this is a really, really bad idea, but god, his mouth is so warm and maybe she’ll forget for just a little while.
They stumble to the sand, his belt pressing in her hip. She’s still too small, still too lost underneath him, so she pushes and he turns them. And ohfuckinggod, they’re going to have sex.
She doesn’t stop.
*
Sex is hard, sex is fast, and he hates that there’s sand itching against his skin. A million thoughts cry into his mind. She’s too young (hasn’t stopped him before) and he’s here and she’s somewhere over there.
The inclination is almost romantic, but shit her mouth against his throat, biting, nibbling, and whispering deeper makes him heavy with need.
And he doesn’t need this.
*
Morning etches across the sky, the occasional jogger drifting in front of them as he stands and she sits. Still.
She doesn’t turn to watch him go. It’s been years anyway.
end.