The Thing Is
ETA: Um, hee. I'm not sure what it means when the question about dinner gets more response than the fic itself...
Title: The Thing Is
Author:
sowell
Characters: Logan/Veronica
Word Count: 2,020
Rating: We'll call it NC-17 light
Summary: Logan and Veronica have sex. It is...not awesome.
Spoilers: Spoiled through 2.22
Disclaimer: These are Rob Thomas's characters. You know the drill.
Notes: Kinda fluffy, kinda porny (for me), and slightly disturbing as well. This is a really, really bizarre one for me. Doesn't really match anything else I've put out there. It has no plot. I'm vacillating between being lightly pleased with it and being severely displeased. And still I post. Feedback welcome, as always.
X-posted to
veronicamarsfic
The thing about Logan, she thinks, putting her lips against the dusky gold of his chest, is that he’s really kind of evil. He tastes like the darkest, rawest chocolate, like rainforest fruit and tequila all rolled into one. God, she could drown in him.
He’s smirking up at her, letting her trace the texture of his skin without doing anything more than run his deft palms slowly up and down her denim-covered thighs. He’s smirking in the way all boys smirk when they’ve got a half-naked girl straddling them, except Logan wears that smirk all the time. He picks her up from work, and hands her a coffee, and smirks at her, and she knows he’s halfway to climax in his mind. It would bother her, except that if he’s coming that usually means she’s coming, so it’s really more like dating a walking vibrator than anything else.
"My dad thinks I’m nuts, y’know," she tells him, pressing a kiss just shy of his nipple. "He doesn’t want me dating you."
His lips quirk into a smile. "This may come as a shock, but I really don’t want to talk about your dad right now."
She walks her hand down his sternum, watching her pale fingertips hitting skin over muscle over bone like piano hammers. "Wallace, too. He thinks you’re unstable."
"Unstable? You tell me," he says, gazing up at her face. "You’re the one riding me." He puts one hand on her waist, just above the top of her jeans, and she involuntarily sucks in her stomach at the sensation. It’s cold water on dry skin in the summertime: you push through the shock of it, because you know that once you’re enfolded in the waves it will be too, too good. Sometimes sex with Logan is like that - jumping at the little electric bursts of his touch until she finally takes a deep breath, dives in, and becomes part of the current. She will never tell Logan how much she loves being enfolded by him.
"Weevil hates you, too," she says, her voice slightly less steady with his fingers pressing into her abdomen in front and in back.
"Weevil wishes he hated me," he says placidly, and she thinks he’s probably right. He’s unzipping her jeans with his free hand, sliding the tab down one click at a time. She wants him to rip them off of her, but he’s being maddeningly slow. He’s starting to get hard under her; she can feel the hot length of him pressing against her bottom.
"My friend Mac thinks - " She breaks off with a choked inhale as he slips his hand under the waistband of her exposed panties, and her brain stops functioning altogether for a few seconds when his finger finds her clit.
"Veronica," he says, like a professor trying to get her attention. "I don’t care." He’s looking at her with an equal mix of annoyance and amusement in his eyes. He grasps her hips and slides her forward over his body like a conveyor belt. He pulls her closer and closer until she’s straddling his chest and he can put his mouth against her stomach. One sweet kiss against her navel, and then one dirty one, his tongue swirling over her skin as sensation starts to ricochet through her body.
"But seriously," she forces out, trying to maintain some semblance of control over this conversation. "Everyone thinks you’re bringing me over to the dark side." He’s too busy nuzzling his face into her stomach to comment. His teeth scrape lightly over her belly button, and her hips twitch once. He feels it, of course; she shivers as he laughs softly, warm breath dancing over moist skin.
She clenches fistfuls of his hair and gently pulls his head up to look at her. His eyes are fuzzy now, darkened with arousal and tenderness. She shimmies herself into a position to lie fully on top of him, and both of them start to breath a little deeper at the friction. He stretches up to kiss her, but she lifts her mouth away at the last second, relishing the roller-coaster drop of anticipation. "Everyone keeps warning me away from you, and I’m still here. Isn’t that some sort of bedpost notch fantasy for guys?" She can’t stop touching his face, fingering where the sleekness of his skin turns to eight-hour stubble.
She puts her mouth very close to his ear and feels his breath catch in his chest. "They keep saying you’re a bad influence," she sinks her teeth lightly into the skin of his earlobe. "They keep saying you’re terrible for me," she sucks gently on the indent she left. "I’m here anyway," she whispers. He rolls them both over then, and she’s on her back with a big, sinuous boy between her legs, sliding skin against denim along her inner thighs.
"It’s a good thing you have better taste than your friends," he murmurs, flicking a thumb over her nipple. She arches up against him as heat slithers lightning-quick through her body. He pulls her jeans off (finally), and she helps the process along by tossing her panties across the room, rodeo style. He’s back in a second, covering her with the length and breadth of his body. For someone so lazy, he can move like an Olympian when sex hangs in the balance.
"Doesn’t it turn you on just a little?" she insists breathlessly. "That you’re like my vice?"
He stops his slow massage of her breasts. "Does it turn you on?" He’s suddenly studying her intently, and the smirk is wiped from his face for once. She can’t think when he’s on top of her like this, and especially not when he stops so suddenly. She can already feel the ghost of his cock inside her, and she shivers, frustrated.
"It does," he concludes slowly, mouth turning down. His eyes are still dark, but there’s something besides tenderness in them.
"Maybe a little," she admits, hoping it will make him start touching her again.
"Huh," he says, and starts tracing light patterns over her skin. "Well, I try to be useful where I can."
"You’re a regular handy man," she strains out, her body heating up from the languid motion of his fingertips.
"I didn’t realize I’d cemented my bad boy reputation so thoroughly," he continues casually. His voice is almost bored, when she can attest to the fact that at least on part of his anatomy is very much engaged. "I must be getting a head start, following in my father’s footsteps."
That’s when she realizes they’ve veered off track.
She opens her mouth to tell him that’s not what she meant, but he distracts her by sliding two fingers inside of her. She closes her eyes and twists against him. "It’s kind of hot, being a bad boy," he pushes on, and the velvet cloak of his voice is coated in plastic now. "I can fuck the sheriff’s daughter without worrying about that whole shotgun wedding thing." He’s technically smiling, but there’s a vicious tautness to his mouth. He strokes her a little faster, and her hips start to move helplessly.
"What’s worse, do you think? The drinking? The fighting? Or the possibility I might turn out to be a murderer, too?" His eyes have gone icy, but his tone has a ragged edge to it that makes her throat jam. This is wrong; this isn’t how she intended this conversation to go. She wants to say something nice, to wipe that hard look off his face, but she hasn’t had much practice defusing tense situations. She’s much better at making them explode. Then he replaces his fingers with his cock, sliding into her in one perfect thrust, and she can’t say anything at all, she’s gasping so hard.
He presses his open mouth against her neck, sucking on the soft skin with a scrape of teeth and tongue, and she gets the feeling he’s trying to mark her, maybe to stop her from running after the next bad boy she sees. She wants to tell him that it’s his tortured eyes and gentle hands and snarky mouth that she daydreams about at work and in the shower and at particularly long red lights. But they don’t even talk like that when they’re fully clothed and coherent; how the hell is she supposed to make the words come out right when she’s melting into him? He’s thrusting hard against her, skin sticking to skin until peeling away is painful. Even her vocal chords are locked up in the frantic burn of his body against hers.
"Is this what gets you off when you’re on a stakeout?" he purrs in a low voice, fingering a nipple. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s not exactly gentle. "Thinking about fucking me and how everyone disapproves? How fucking forbidden it all is?"
She tries to kiss him and he jerks his head away sharply. She should have pushed him off of her five minutes ago, but even angry he knows what he’s doing in bed, and she’s so close…
He thrusts into her once, twice more, and she splinters, clutching at his shoulders. He follows her a moment later, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He stays there for a few seconds, shuddering against her like she’s his life raft. Then he rolls off and onto his back, not touching her at all, staring at the ceiling.
She takes deep breaths, nausea trickling into the warm satisfaction in her bones. "Logan…" she starts. She feels remorse rising up in her throat, starting to form into an apology.
He turns his head to look at her, and he’s not evil anymore. His eyes are shadowed with pain, and he reaches out to touch the raised, red mark his mouth left on her neck. She’ll have a hickey there when she wakes up. "I’m sorry," he whispers, beating her to the apology. He doesn’t stop stroking her neck, trailing his fingers lightly over her sweat-dampened skin, lulling her into closing her eyes.
He wraps an arm around her and pulls her against him, and she slides a leg in between his. She suddenly wants to cry, which is stupid, and she’s not going to do it. She’d have to change her name and move to Iowa in disgrace if she ever let herself cry after sex.
"It’s a good thing I have no intention of reforming," he says grimly, tension still running through him. "It looks like I’d be out one girlfriend."
She puts her head against his shoulder, and it’s surprisingly bony. She likes being able to feel the inside of Logan against her skin. "Maybe not," she says in a small voice.
His arm tightens convulsively around her. "What if I decide someday I want to quit drinking and settle down and live life as a clean, upstanding citizen? You know - have kids, buy a minivan, go to church?" His voice is sardonic, but she can hear the underlying anxiety. She can feel it every time he kisses her goodbye like he’s afraid she won’t come back.
"Hmmm, Logan Echolls as Ned Flanders. Creepy," she muses.
"Yeah," he says softly. "Would you stay with boring, creepy Ned Echolls?"
She pretends to consider, tracing fingers over the light rails of his ribs. "Would I have to go to church with you?"
"Definitely. If you could get past the front door without God smiting you."
She reaches up and lays a hand against the plane of his cheek, brings his throbbing gaze down to hers. "Yes." His body jerks against her, in surprise or gratitude or love - she’s not really sure. She thinks she might want all of them. "But I’m not worried," she tells him.
"Because you know I’ll never be an upstanding citizen?"
She twines his fingers with hers and squeezes tight, leaving five little crescent marks on the back of his hand with her nails. "Because you wouldn’t be seen dead driving a minivan."
He huffs out a laugh. "Man, is that the truth."