Veronica Mars. Veronica Mars/Lilly Kane. 005. Outsides.
Title: Outsides
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Pairing: Veronica/Lilly
Prompt: 005 Outsides
Rating: Maybe R for sexual situations?
Word Count: ~650
Summary: The first time she marks you you’re ten and she’s eleven and she says that she owns you.
She likes to leave her mark on your outsides, be it a bruise, a bite mark, a signature scribbled across pale, ticklish skin. The first time she marks you you’re ten and she’s eleven and she says that she owns you. When you object, she asks you who you love better than her, and of course you have to say nobody, because there never was anyone that you could love like Lilly. She signs your arm and takes a picture, and you take one, too. You still have it, came across it last time you cleared out your desk, and for a few seconds you entertained the idea of keeping it in your wallet. But just looking at the childish writing - “Lilly xx” scribbled across your skinny, hairless arm - even for a few seconds, hurt, so you conveniently lost it again. You know where it is, but you don’t want to think about it. It would take too much effort to get a chair and a screwdriver, and those air vents are probably pretty rusty, and by the time you got to it you would have talked yourself out of it anyway.
She began to mark you more regularly when you reached about fourteen, and of course you weren’t lesbians, because Lilly had a boyfriend and she was just teaching you how to be ready for when you got one, too. You have a suspicion that she wanted to know that you were still hers, and you let her touch you in that way because she was Lilly, and because you actually enjoy it, and you have a suspicion that she does, too. She nips at your side, where she knows you’re ticklish, runs her soft hands over developing breasts and puts her tongue in your mouth when she kisses you. She won’t let either of the boyfriends put their tongues in hers, but you’re special. She tells you so.
She left a mark on you the day before she died, when she had hold of your hips, and she digs her nails in, trying to keep you from moving them. She would have spoken, but she’s doing other things with her mouth, and you don’t mind, because the pain gives it an edge anyway. When you put on your pep squead shorts next day, ready for the carwash, you check the mirror anxiously, making sure that the red crescents don’t show above those disgusting shorts. Lilly got hers rehemmed three inches shorter, you remember, looking at that bit on your thigh where she bit you and deciding that nobody will be looking at your legs that closely anyway.
You’d hate to admit it, but one of the first things you do when you get home and you’ve been told she’s dead - you’ve seen her body, even, but you don’t really believe it - and you photograph the marks because they’re real, and you know that they’re real. You never printed those pictures, they’re in a password protected folder on your computer and you’ve forgotten the password. The ghosts of the marks linger occasionally, particularly when Logan’s going down on you and his larger, rounder fingers are digging into your hipbones.
At night when you’re blowing off steam, when you turn your face to the pillow as you run your fingertips over the invisible marks, you can still feel them there, like they were branded into you. You always think of Lilly when you come, be it alone or with someone else, and you’re pretty sure you always will. There’s some kind of hot, dark, pleasurable pain in the moment when you’re tipping over the edge that brings her face to mind, her laughing eyes, or sometimes the image of her mouth as she leaves yet another mark on you and smiles with satisfaction at a job well done.
Little Damn Table
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Pairing: Veronica/Lilly
Prompt: 005 Outsides
Rating: Maybe R for sexual situations?
Word Count: ~650
Summary: The first time she marks you you’re ten and she’s eleven and she says that she owns you.
She likes to leave her mark on your outsides, be it a bruise, a bite mark, a signature scribbled across pale, ticklish skin. The first time she marks you you’re ten and she’s eleven and she says that she owns you. When you object, she asks you who you love better than her, and of course you have to say nobody, because there never was anyone that you could love like Lilly. She signs your arm and takes a picture, and you take one, too. You still have it, came across it last time you cleared out your desk, and for a few seconds you entertained the idea of keeping it in your wallet. But just looking at the childish writing - “Lilly xx” scribbled across your skinny, hairless arm - even for a few seconds, hurt, so you conveniently lost it again. You know where it is, but you don’t want to think about it. It would take too much effort to get a chair and a screwdriver, and those air vents are probably pretty rusty, and by the time you got to it you would have talked yourself out of it anyway.
She began to mark you more regularly when you reached about fourteen, and of course you weren’t lesbians, because Lilly had a boyfriend and she was just teaching you how to be ready for when you got one, too. You have a suspicion that she wanted to know that you were still hers, and you let her touch you in that way because she was Lilly, and because you actually enjoy it, and you have a suspicion that she does, too. She nips at your side, where she knows you’re ticklish, runs her soft hands over developing breasts and puts her tongue in your mouth when she kisses you. She won’t let either of the boyfriends put their tongues in hers, but you’re special. She tells you so.
She left a mark on you the day before she died, when she had hold of your hips, and she digs her nails in, trying to keep you from moving them. She would have spoken, but she’s doing other things with her mouth, and you don’t mind, because the pain gives it an edge anyway. When you put on your pep squead shorts next day, ready for the carwash, you check the mirror anxiously, making sure that the red crescents don’t show above those disgusting shorts. Lilly got hers rehemmed three inches shorter, you remember, looking at that bit on your thigh where she bit you and deciding that nobody will be looking at your legs that closely anyway.
You’d hate to admit it, but one of the first things you do when you get home and you’ve been told she’s dead - you’ve seen her body, even, but you don’t really believe it - and you photograph the marks because they’re real, and you know that they’re real. You never printed those pictures, they’re in a password protected folder on your computer and you’ve forgotten the password. The ghosts of the marks linger occasionally, particularly when Logan’s going down on you and his larger, rounder fingers are digging into your hipbones.
At night when you’re blowing off steam, when you turn your face to the pillow as you run your fingertips over the invisible marks, you can still feel them there, like they were branded into you. You always think of Lilly when you come, be it alone or with someone else, and you’re pretty sure you always will. There’s some kind of hot, dark, pleasurable pain in the moment when you’re tipping over the edge that brings her face to mind, her laughing eyes, or sometimes the image of her mouth as she leaves yet another mark on you and smiles with satisfaction at a job well done.
Little Damn Table