Fic: Detectiving (1/1) Rated R
Title: Detectiving (1/1)
Author: JaqofSpades
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Character/Pairing: Weevil/Veronica
Rating: mild R (language and sexual situations)
Word Count: 2500
Spoilers: Seasons 1 and 2 (minor).
Summary: Eli Navarro had been doing some detective work of his own - and he wanted to follow every clue she left him.
Disclaimer: This is a fanwork created for personal enjoyment rather than profit. No infringement is intended on any copyrights held.
A/N: Takes place offscreen after 2.19 Never Mind the Buttocks
***
The Sheriff was off chasing a bail skip, and Veronica had asked him to meet her at the office to help put names to the plates on Thumper's paddle. He wasn't sure how he could help, but it turned out his knowledge of the bad, badder and baddest in Neptune was better than anything a computer database could offer.
“You're pretty good at this detective thing,” she'd teased, and he'd laughed, because lately? Eli Navarro had been doing some detective work of his own.
He'd learnt a lot from Veronica, and last week, they'd had a long talk about the details of investigation technique. Observation was the key, she said. Collecting the evidence, putting it together in a pattern of most likely events. Ruling out possibilities that didn't fit the pattern.
It was good advice, and he wasn't above taking it. Not when his gut was telling him he was right, and all he needed was the chance to test his theory.
He'd always been good at observation. The evidence: the way her eyes skittered over him when they were talking, but took their time when she thought he wasn't watching. The way she seemed wary of touching him, but when she did, her hands would linger, as if reluctant to leave. The hitch in her voice when he turned up the heat. The way those pale green eyes would darken when he talked real dirty.
She wanted him. Not for a favour, or for a ride, or even for protection. She wanted him to touch her, to kiss her. To dare her to go further.
And he wanted to follow every clue she left him.
*
“Weevil!”
He dragged his attention away from where her pulse was fluttering on the side of her neck, and looked back down at her laptop, and the list that would save his boys. They'd found of all the basic registrations easily enough, leaving a dozen or so company plates that were harder to track. Particularly hard to trace when his brain kept diving down the front of her shirt, where his eyes had been diligently taking notes.
She made jokes about being flat, but she wasn't really. He'd known that objectively, before, but the evidence … the evidence was milk white flesh swelling out of a black bra, plump and delicious and begging for his lips. She'd stretched up to grab some printouts off the shelf before, and the change in position had silhouetted her nipple, pink and pebbling through the sheer material. He'd had to move himself then, a careful adjustment to his pants that he hoped she hadn't seen. Or maybe, he hoped she had.
“Names! You're supposed to be looking at the names of the directors, and seeing if there are any you recognise!” Snappy, annoyed Veronica.
“What's with you tonight?”
“Your nipples are hard.” Her stunned silence made him realise that, yes, he had said that. Aloud. Mierde. But since he was digging his own grave ...
“I wanna get to the bottom of that.”
She looked at him, mouth gaping open. Speechless. He'd left Veronica Mars speechless.
So he leaned forward, and took that incredulous lower lip between his own, tugging. Ran his tongue across that disbelieving upper lip, tasting. And when her lips began to move under his own, he groaned and pulled her close, cataloguing the sweetness of her breath, the electric feel of her tongue stroking his, and the shiver that moved over her skin as his fingers slid under her shirt.
Detectiving.
*
Timing was important, she had told him. Get your timing wrong, and you might never get the chance again.
He didn't want to lift his mouth from hers, not after the discoveries he'd already made. She liked long, dizzying kisses, lips never leaving each other even as they both opened mouths wide, panting for breath. Breathy little moans resulted when he sucked her ear lobe between his teeth, but when he followed that mysterious hollow on the side of her neck, nibbled all the way down to her collarbone, then sucked hard where her neck curved into shoulder, it became a throaty sound of raw need.
Two shirt buttons have already popped open and he is nudging the stretchy material of her bra aside when she drags in a breath and gasps “stop!”
These little beauties aren't saying “stop”, he thinks as her bra reclaims the pale pink buds. Your hands on my ass ain't either, chica. But this is Veronica Mars, and he's noticed how she overthinks everything, and this thing ain't any different. He stops.
“What are we doing, Weevil? We're not … you've never …” her voice trails off, thoughts obviously scattered. She wasn't saying “I don't,” he notices. She wasn't saying “don't touch me,” either.
“I have,” he says simply. “Wanted to know what you wanted.”
Her eyebrows fly up into her hairline. “And this is how you're finding out?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, hands stroking up and down her ribcage, teasing the underside of her breasts each time. “Detectiving. Following the evidence, just like you taught me.”
“No such word,” she gasps as his fingers inch closer to where she wants them.
“Is now,” he responds, dropping his head to lick a long, wet line across her collarbone. “I'm being a detective. Detectiving.”
He keeping it light and playful, but he's moved his hands up to cup her fully, thumbs skimming backwards and forwards across her bra-clad nipples. Her head drops back, exposing the long line of her neck, and her mouth forms a perfect 'o' of frustrated delight. He resists the urge to grin - she might not know she's sending a signal, but he sure as hell knows how to read it.
“You want this,” he tells her, and his voice is husky.
“Do I?” she hedges, even as she pushes herself further into his hands. Even as she opens her mouth to pant.
He stares down into wild green eyes as his fingers pluck and play, and then watches as a red flush sweeps from chest to neck to face. He is mesmerised by that colour, wants to feel the heat of it under his fingers, but they are busy elsewhere and by the look on her face, she might just kill him if he stops.
“Oh yeah,” he whispers, tracing his tongue along the delicate curve of her ear. “All the evidence is pointing that way.”
She smiles, then, and it's not the amused quirk of her lips he usually gets, or the snarky little fake smile she throws about at school. It's wide, and it's dreamy, and it's the admission he's been looking for, but never dreamed he'd actually get.
He doesn't hesitate, grabbing her hips to pull her tight against him as he kisses her hard, tongue against tongue, teeth finding teeth. There's no way she can't feel his erection rising against her belly, but she only kisses him harder and he's not going to argue with that.
“Damn, girl,” he breathes, and pushes her away a little. Looks into her eyes, and slides a hand down her torso. He pauses at the spot where her t-shirt ends and her jeans are yet to start, stroking the skin there, waiting for her to grab his hand, or to say stop. She doesn't.
He moves lower still, and insinuates his hand between her legs. The heat there burns him, even through two layers of clothing, and he simply cups her for a moment, making his intentions loud and clear. Then he curls his fingers, dragging his fingernails back over the denim.
“HolymotherfuckingChristonacross,” she spits out, and jerks under his hand. He smirks, but she's not where he needs her to be, not quite yet. He scratches his fingers across the denim again, and then once more. Then he stops.
“Weevil!” Her voice has a needy, desperate edge to it he's never heard before, and he's pretty sure he's gonna get addicted to that voice. If she'll let him. Because she might never speak to him again, after this.
“Veronica?”
“Don't STOP!”
He rasps his fingers along the seam of her jeans once more, backwards and forwards and across and back, then takes his hand away altogether. He needs her to commit to this.
“Wanna take 'em off?”
*
Weevil, Veronica has always thought, would make a very good detective. She'd seen it in how he ran his gang: intimidation mixed with an innate knowledge of people. She'd seen it at the winter carnival, too - the trails and double trails laid to confuse her, the masterful deception - good criminals, she's beginning to suspect, make the best detectives.
Right now, though, he's uncovering a secret she's been guarding for a very long time. Her brain is shrieking with panic - he's a thief, and a thug, and probably a murderer. He's a contact, almost a colleague, and that's plain unprofessional. He's the only boy that's ever been able to keep up with her, the only one not threatened by her, the one who comes through, every time. The only one who ever stood up for her. Dammit.
And he's good, she thinks, as he rasps his tongue over her ear, and tugs at her earlobe with his teeth. He's damn good at this.
And she's avoiding the question.
She knows why he asked. Could even make a pretty good stab at why he wants her to take off her jeans, besides the obvious. It's a big fucking “yes please” moment, and he isn't going to do a goddamn thing until she jumps in, feet first.
Jeans first.
She bites her lip, aching. He's dangerous, sanity screams. Why is he doing this? Why are you giving him the chance? He's never let her down, she realises. Always had her back. And he was right. She wants him. Wants, wants, wants him, her body choruses. So much it's scary.
She steps away, out of the shelter of his body. Takes a deep breath, tells herself to grow a pair. If they're going to do this, she's going to make it worthy of them. She turns to smile at him.
“These old things?” Her fingers pop the top button. Then a second. “Yeah. I do. Want to take them off, that is.”
His eyes blaze with heat, and that smile, there, that's the one that's kept her in knots for weeks, ever since he stole that damn cash box. (Lust, she thought. Lust, with an option on love.) She doesn't say it aloud, though, because she's not entirely crazed, and besides, he's stalking towards her now and she's watching him, doing some detectiving of her own.
She can see the heat in his eyes and how he's really into this, and into her in a way that she, the girl detective, had never really suspected. OK, maybe she had suspected, but being presented with the evidence, like that? Kinda scary. And really fucking hot, she has to admit, as he slowly licks his lips and just stares at her. Waiting.
Her fingers stumble over the last button as their eyes lock, and her mouth goes dry. Yes, please, she thinks. Yes, please. But this is Weevil - Eli - and she won't be able to finesse him, like Duncan, or Troy or Leo, or even goad him into action, like Logan. She needs to meet him halfway.
“You were right. I do. Want this, that is.” She can't breathe. She can't look away. But she's Veronica-fucking-Mars, so she ups the ante. “Want you.”
He lunges at her, hands scrambling to help push down her jeans, and pulling at her shirt, and stroking her belly, all at once. It's ridiculous, to be so eager, so they laugh and try to calm down, but within moments his hands are everywhere. This time she's the one pulling her shirt over her head, and they groan together as his fingers linger on her skin, stroking down her sides, trailing over her belly, dipping inside the waistband of her panties. She wants, wants, wants, but he's still fully dressed, and that's a mystery worth solving, right there.
She tugs at the hem of his grey sweatshirt, and it barely clears his head before she's lost in discovery. Acres of skin; script and pattern and pictures, arms and chest and abs. All hers to explore. Detectiving, she thinks, and her fingers start with the familiar - the gothic script on his arms that has fascinated her for years; the tantalising design that peeks out from his chest whenever he wears a wifebeater. His skin is hot under her fingertips as she follows the ink into new territory, soft skin over hard muscle, intriguing swells and hollows emphasised by swirls of line and colour. He's beautiful, she thinks, surprised. The breadth and heft of him so close, and so warm, and the designs on his body … she's quivering with wanting him, and she had no idea desire could be so sharp and merciless.
“I want you,” she whispers, as her lips investigate the radiating lines on his chest. “I want you,” she says more loudly, sliding her tongue across one flat, male nipple, just to see how he reacts. He shudders, and draws her questing hand down to his hardness, just as his fingers find the neediest, hungriest part of her. “Jesus. Fuck. Weevil … I want you!” she groans … and pushes herself away from him.
Uncertainty and disappointment flicker over his face for the barest instant before his poker face comes crashing down. “Never picked you as a tease, Mars,” he says idly, but she can see the muscles in his arms and chest clenching even as he schools his voice into unconcern.
“Have a little faith, vato,” she tries to quip, but it sounds like she's begging. She walks to the door on unsteady legs and makes a show of flicking over the closed sign, and tripping the lock.
“I figured I had about five minutes before you made me …” she can't finish the sentence, she realises, and her face is flaming. They'd been tossing thinly disguised come-ons back and forth for nearly two years, and now she loses her cool? This is Weevil, though, the one guy she can always count on to rescue her.
“... forget your own name?” he suggests, and the blank, hateful sneer is gone, hope and arousal and sensual promise shining in those dark chocolate eyes.
“Something like that,” she smiles, and he looks so edible, all hopeful, that she tilts her head and taps her lip because she's always suspected he really, really likes that. “Now. Where were we?”
“Dectectiving,” he reminds her, stepping closer. “I think we were about to make a breakthrough in the case,” he says, pushing her up against the door and covering her body with his own.
“Excellent,” she gasps, getting the last word in before his hands and mouth strip her of reason and coherence, and banter dissolves into long, loud series of “oohs” and “aahs”.
fin