Fic: She - wily_one24
Title: She
Author: wily_one24
Pairing/Character: Veronica/???
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,233.
Spoilers/Timeline: Set pre/early S1, so nothing really.
Summary: Sometimes she forgot she was supposed to be dead.
A/N: Thanks goes to my lovely, beautiferous beta, taken_with_you.
*~*~*
Sometimes she forgot she was supposed to be dead.
She floated and she coasted and the matrix of her reality shifted repeatedly. There wasn’t much left to hold onto and sometimes she just drifted, lost in the currents of the air left behind, the wake of people moving on without her, forgetting who she used to be.
Sometimes she thought she was a mere memory, the ghost of people’s thoughts, a wisp of wind that floated by, and other times she felt perhaps she was the figment of her own created imagination, never really having existed in the first place. Her very own paradox, if she didn’t exist she couldn’t create herself, but there she was anyway.
Other times, her own memory was real, delicious, stark and brutal, showing her what she missed most of all. There’d been laughter once upon a time, jokes and games and dances and movement, the glide of hands against skin, the feel of air bubbling through lungs hot with exertion, the slice of gravel against the skin of a knee, the bitter taste of grapes gone sour, the soft explosion of cotton candy on her tongue.
It was those times she missed it, wanted it, felt the ache for it deep in the pit of a belly she no longer had.
She remembered, most of all, two girls, the best of friends. She remembered knowing small details about each other, the assurance and cockiness that came with knowing what one eye roll meant compared to another, an almost secret language of codes and unspoken rhythms that no one else was privy to.
The longing for friendship was the deepest of things she wasn’t supposed to feel.
Deep, a tingling like the thrill of a secret. There’d been secrets, she could almost taste them on her tongue. Secrets were like games; rumors spreading like wildfire, like the light in an eye that spoke of laughter.
Rumors, there’d always been those, and games, those too. She remembered the play, the pull, the twisting of them. Two faces pressed close together in the back of a limo, breaths hot and steamy with champagne and the faintest hint of fruit flavored lip gloss, the overawed gasps of two boys nearby.
She remembered amusement and the faintest hint of tragic knowledge in the girl called Lilly’s eyes, but mostly, she remembered the shock, the disbelief and the strangest hint of challenge in the girl called Veronica’s. That slight dare to take it further and the spark of disappointment that followed when she didn’t.
--Veronica and Lilly--
The names echoed around the space she did or didn’t exist in, and trying to figure out the physics of it didn’t make it any easier.
Sometimes she wished she could go back. Go back to that day and push the boundaries, lay that challenge flat on its back and really set the rumor mill running.
It spurred her into stupidity, into a foolishness that beggared disbelief.
Because when she went looking for Veronica, the girl with the long blond hair and beautiful smile, letting her mind drift into images of pale skin and light blue veins pulsing hard under a slender neck, the shifting of curves under summer dresses, that wasn’t what she found.
The first time, expecting a soft welcome and the age-old warmth of recognition, the sharp, jagged corners of reality physically repulsed her. As much physicality as she was allowed. She was reminded, time and time again, that life after death changed.
People moved on. Veronica moved on. The rumors had stopped being fun for Veronica a long time ago. She wasn’t the old Veronica at all. She was new and sharper and harsher.
But the ache lingered and she watched, curiosity getting the better of her.
She studied from afar. Watched Veronica stand in front of her bedroom mirror, watched her study the changing shape of her own body. She followed Veronica into the bathroom and made herself watch the spectacle of undressing.
Veronica had changed, it showed in everything she did and everything she was, but mostly it showed in the way she saw herself. She watched Veronica’s hands travel lightly over the pale skin of a flat stomach, watched the hot water of the shower turn Veronica’s skin pink. Veronica’s body had grown, gone was the slender, lithe teenage girl who blushed and giggled. It made her sad to see the full breasts, angular hips and bitter twist to the jaw.
She liked to imagine touching the new Veronica.
It grew like the desire to stay connected to a world she didn’t belong in anymore; the idea that she, of all people, could find the old Veronica somewhere in the new. That if her fingers could be solid enough to imprint on Veronica’s skin, she could make the difference.
Her dream mouth sucked little kisses from the split flesh of Veronica’s lips as water from the showerhead streamed down her face. She could almost remember the feel of hot water on her own skin. It would feel like being heated up from the outside in, soft-coiled fingers of heat searching patterns down from head to toe, little secret paths of skin.
If she had hands, she’d run them along new Veronica’s hips, tease goose pimples along soft flesh as she bent to suckle at the pulse in her neck. She wondered if new Veronica still gasped at that spot, the way she used to do those long, starry nights ago.
She mourned old Veronica with a pity that stretched into countless eons of mourning.
Memory could be a curse, struck as she was with images of the real girl that used to be. Not a lot of people had seen her, old Veronica. They’d seen pink clothes and shiny lipstick and a breathy little giggle, insubstantial fluff following Lilly Kane, Duncan Kane and the Echolls boy. They’d barely taken notice.
They hadn’t seen the bright spark of awareness in her eyes, not like she had, they hadn’t been aware of the faint glow of mischief and the thrill of the forbidden, that great growing intelligence that proved immeasurable when breaking the rules and stepping off the beaten paths.
They hadn’t seen the girl with awareness in her eyes, pure appreciation, the growing embers of someone discovering and enjoying their own body and the powers it contained. But she had. If anyone else had seen it, they’d forgotten easily, forgotten and replaced with the new.
The new Veronica shoved that away, somewhere, deep and secret. It was kept hidden from the world and the only thing that showed was bitterness, a jaded knowledge of how to be used, but never appreciated, how to get what was wanted, but never what was needed.
She watched the new Veronica flinch at her own nakedness and wished she could be made solid, if only to push past that reluctance.
Her dream fingers teased Veronica’s nipples into hard peaks, showed her that her own body was to be enjoyed, loved and sometimes even pushed beyond its limits. Pleasurable moans could be driven out of Veronica’s throat, they’d escaped before, and they could again.
Sometimes insubstantiality was her downfall.
Sometimes she forgot all about the new Veronica and returned expecting candy kisses and marshmallow dreams. It slapped her each and every time, harsh and solid, and sometimes she cried. Small, imaginary tears that no one saw and no one cared about.
It hurt a little to realize that not even the new Veronica would care about them if she knew.
But she kept coming back, kept watching, kept sliding her eyes over Veronica’s face when she slept, imagining a little ghost hand coming out to grasp at the thin sheet and pull it down. She imagined the slide of soft cotton, molding to the form underneath, the hem of the sheet slipping over the rise and fall of a chest, the curves of a hip, dipping into the soft, triangular crescent hidden at the top of two thighs.
She’d forgotten a lot of things. The feel of peanut brittle toffee sticking her teeth together, the soft run of her fingers through a dog’s coat, the acrid stench of nail polish remover, she’d forgotten the reality of all these things, but she had a vague idea of how they were supposed to be.
But one thing fresh in her mind was the feel of hands inside her thighs, the beautiful rushing tingle of another’s touch, the slip and slide and sudden electric shock of fingers slipping underneath her underwear. She wanted to do that, she wanted to show the new Veronica that.
Crouching at the foot of the bed, if such beings did things like crouching, she wasn’t entirely sure of the terminology of it, she watched Veronica sleep and envisioned running her hands up those slender, smooth legs. Her thumbs glided over the bump of knee bone, diving into the thicker, smoother flesh of thigh above it.
She’d pull Veronica’s knees apart, spread the girl before her on the bed, and remind her of the pleasure of touch. Remind her of fingers that created a hot, almost unbearable pleasure as they spidered patterns up thighs and under soft silk.
Show her, in a way she knew Veronica, old or new, had never been shown, that cold air blown from a pursed mouth onto heated, slick pussy lips could electrify skin and nerves. What floated into her mind was the imagined feeling of finding Veronica’s clit with her tongue, licking it clean, pushing it into a peaked frenzy as her fingers pushed into Veronica’s body.
She wanted to make Veronica wet, slick and slippery and out of control as her hips pumped underneath her. She wanted to thrust several fingers, all at once, hard and fast and in and out and in again, harder and harder until there was nothing but grasping sounds of need and moist friction.
Imagination was a cruel mistress, showing her images of Veronica lying there, her arms stretched over her head, belly taut, chest rising and falling, lips hanging open in want. It thrilled her, scared her, and made her miss breathlessness. She could crawl up to meet the lust hazed eyes, kiss the mouth and then, maybe, she could even feel legs between legs, arms reaching up, hands in hair, lips on lips that were only too eager to return the kiss.
There would be warm, hot flesh that seemed to breathe on its own, little creases that seemed to sizzle when pushed apart, throbbing, pulsing. Fingers that paused and pressed and twitched and delved a little deeper, fingers that caused moans and rubbing and small, little thrusts. Fingers that curled up and found spots that ached to be found, again and again and more and harder and there and just like that.
She didn’t breathe much anymore, but she could still imagine panting if she wanted.
A flash of strange memories mixed with imagination created images of Veronica’s face strung out in bliss, a cry and a broken moan escaping her lips.
She missed being whole sometimes, envied the new Veronica her chance to feel and resented her reluctance to do so.
It was a love-hate relationship that didn’t exist. Not anymore.
That wondering didn’t take long, to question the logistics of it. She knew without a doubt how pliant old Veronica would have been, happy to succumb after the smallest of protests, but she didn’t know at all about new Veronica. She imagined power struggles, a never-ending game of ‘who’s on top?’, their bodies pressing against each other, pulling and tugging and taking and giving and one forcing the other into helpless fits of ecstasy just to prove a point.
She wanted to lock her legs around Veronica’s waist and ride her until they both dropped still.
Surely it wasn’t too much to ask, to have a solid body long enough to push it to the point of endurance, to the point of collapsing back on the bed, gasping for air as hands ran down flushed skin in soothing patterns. That’s what she’d do. She’d take new Veronica to that brink and then gentle her down from it.
She stretched herself out in a mock imitation of Veronica sleeping, side by non-existent side, mimicking movements she no longer had to make. She stretched herself out and tried to imagine feeling something, anything, and almost cried with the lack of it.
That was the difference between them.
She wanted to feel everything and anything in any way it was offered but couldn’t. While the new Veronica could, but tried her hardest not to.
It saddened her what this new girl had become, the change from what she used to be. She missed vibrancy and laughter and self-assurance that wasn’t faked, that wasn’t a show for the crowd. But reality was reality and what she missed was long gone.
She missed the reality of herself.
She’d had long hair, once, but new Veronica had taken that. She’d had a body, once, but new Veronica had taken that too. She’d had breath and movement and purpose and enjoyment, but new Veronica had taken all those and kept them hidden, forced them down.
Sometimes she forgot and returned in search of herself, in search of the old Veronica, and the physical reality seemed to repulse her.
Sometimes she forgot she was supposed to be dead.
Author: wily_one24
Pairing/Character: Veronica/???
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,233.
Spoilers/Timeline: Set pre/early S1, so nothing really.
Summary: Sometimes she forgot she was supposed to be dead.
A/N: Thanks goes to my lovely, beautiferous beta, taken_with_you.
*~*~*
Sometimes she forgot she was supposed to be dead.
She floated and she coasted and the matrix of her reality shifted repeatedly. There wasn’t much left to hold onto and sometimes she just drifted, lost in the currents of the air left behind, the wake of people moving on without her, forgetting who she used to be.
Sometimes she thought she was a mere memory, the ghost of people’s thoughts, a wisp of wind that floated by, and other times she felt perhaps she was the figment of her own created imagination, never really having existed in the first place. Her very own paradox, if she didn’t exist she couldn’t create herself, but there she was anyway.
Other times, her own memory was real, delicious, stark and brutal, showing her what she missed most of all. There’d been laughter once upon a time, jokes and games and dances and movement, the glide of hands against skin, the feel of air bubbling through lungs hot with exertion, the slice of gravel against the skin of a knee, the bitter taste of grapes gone sour, the soft explosion of cotton candy on her tongue.
It was those times she missed it, wanted it, felt the ache for it deep in the pit of a belly she no longer had.
She remembered, most of all, two girls, the best of friends. She remembered knowing small details about each other, the assurance and cockiness that came with knowing what one eye roll meant compared to another, an almost secret language of codes and unspoken rhythms that no one else was privy to.
The longing for friendship was the deepest of things she wasn’t supposed to feel.
Deep, a tingling like the thrill of a secret. There’d been secrets, she could almost taste them on her tongue. Secrets were like games; rumors spreading like wildfire, like the light in an eye that spoke of laughter.
Rumors, there’d always been those, and games, those too. She remembered the play, the pull, the twisting of them. Two faces pressed close together in the back of a limo, breaths hot and steamy with champagne and the faintest hint of fruit flavored lip gloss, the overawed gasps of two boys nearby.
She remembered amusement and the faintest hint of tragic knowledge in the girl called Lilly’s eyes, but mostly, she remembered the shock, the disbelief and the strangest hint of challenge in the girl called Veronica’s. That slight dare to take it further and the spark of disappointment that followed when she didn’t.
--Veronica and Lilly--
The names echoed around the space she did or didn’t exist in, and trying to figure out the physics of it didn’t make it any easier.
Sometimes she wished she could go back. Go back to that day and push the boundaries, lay that challenge flat on its back and really set the rumor mill running.
It spurred her into stupidity, into a foolishness that beggared disbelief.
Because when she went looking for Veronica, the girl with the long blond hair and beautiful smile, letting her mind drift into images of pale skin and light blue veins pulsing hard under a slender neck, the shifting of curves under summer dresses, that wasn’t what she found.
The first time, expecting a soft welcome and the age-old warmth of recognition, the sharp, jagged corners of reality physically repulsed her. As much physicality as she was allowed. She was reminded, time and time again, that life after death changed.
People moved on. Veronica moved on. The rumors had stopped being fun for Veronica a long time ago. She wasn’t the old Veronica at all. She was new and sharper and harsher.
But the ache lingered and she watched, curiosity getting the better of her.
She studied from afar. Watched Veronica stand in front of her bedroom mirror, watched her study the changing shape of her own body. She followed Veronica into the bathroom and made herself watch the spectacle of undressing.
Veronica had changed, it showed in everything she did and everything she was, but mostly it showed in the way she saw herself. She watched Veronica’s hands travel lightly over the pale skin of a flat stomach, watched the hot water of the shower turn Veronica’s skin pink. Veronica’s body had grown, gone was the slender, lithe teenage girl who blushed and giggled. It made her sad to see the full breasts, angular hips and bitter twist to the jaw.
She liked to imagine touching the new Veronica.
It grew like the desire to stay connected to a world she didn’t belong in anymore; the idea that she, of all people, could find the old Veronica somewhere in the new. That if her fingers could be solid enough to imprint on Veronica’s skin, she could make the difference.
Her dream mouth sucked little kisses from the split flesh of Veronica’s lips as water from the showerhead streamed down her face. She could almost remember the feel of hot water on her own skin. It would feel like being heated up from the outside in, soft-coiled fingers of heat searching patterns down from head to toe, little secret paths of skin.
If she had hands, she’d run them along new Veronica’s hips, tease goose pimples along soft flesh as she bent to suckle at the pulse in her neck. She wondered if new Veronica still gasped at that spot, the way she used to do those long, starry nights ago.
She mourned old Veronica with a pity that stretched into countless eons of mourning.
Memory could be a curse, struck as she was with images of the real girl that used to be. Not a lot of people had seen her, old Veronica. They’d seen pink clothes and shiny lipstick and a breathy little giggle, insubstantial fluff following Lilly Kane, Duncan Kane and the Echolls boy. They’d barely taken notice.
They hadn’t seen the bright spark of awareness in her eyes, not like she had, they hadn’t been aware of the faint glow of mischief and the thrill of the forbidden, that great growing intelligence that proved immeasurable when breaking the rules and stepping off the beaten paths.
They hadn’t seen the girl with awareness in her eyes, pure appreciation, the growing embers of someone discovering and enjoying their own body and the powers it contained. But she had. If anyone else had seen it, they’d forgotten easily, forgotten and replaced with the new.
The new Veronica shoved that away, somewhere, deep and secret. It was kept hidden from the world and the only thing that showed was bitterness, a jaded knowledge of how to be used, but never appreciated, how to get what was wanted, but never what was needed.
She watched the new Veronica flinch at her own nakedness and wished she could be made solid, if only to push past that reluctance.
Her dream fingers teased Veronica’s nipples into hard peaks, showed her that her own body was to be enjoyed, loved and sometimes even pushed beyond its limits. Pleasurable moans could be driven out of Veronica’s throat, they’d escaped before, and they could again.
Sometimes insubstantiality was her downfall.
Sometimes she forgot all about the new Veronica and returned expecting candy kisses and marshmallow dreams. It slapped her each and every time, harsh and solid, and sometimes she cried. Small, imaginary tears that no one saw and no one cared about.
It hurt a little to realize that not even the new Veronica would care about them if she knew.
But she kept coming back, kept watching, kept sliding her eyes over Veronica’s face when she slept, imagining a little ghost hand coming out to grasp at the thin sheet and pull it down. She imagined the slide of soft cotton, molding to the form underneath, the hem of the sheet slipping over the rise and fall of a chest, the curves of a hip, dipping into the soft, triangular crescent hidden at the top of two thighs.
She’d forgotten a lot of things. The feel of peanut brittle toffee sticking her teeth together, the soft run of her fingers through a dog’s coat, the acrid stench of nail polish remover, she’d forgotten the reality of all these things, but she had a vague idea of how they were supposed to be.
But one thing fresh in her mind was the feel of hands inside her thighs, the beautiful rushing tingle of another’s touch, the slip and slide and sudden electric shock of fingers slipping underneath her underwear. She wanted to do that, she wanted to show the new Veronica that.
Crouching at the foot of the bed, if such beings did things like crouching, she wasn’t entirely sure of the terminology of it, she watched Veronica sleep and envisioned running her hands up those slender, smooth legs. Her thumbs glided over the bump of knee bone, diving into the thicker, smoother flesh of thigh above it.
She’d pull Veronica’s knees apart, spread the girl before her on the bed, and remind her of the pleasure of touch. Remind her of fingers that created a hot, almost unbearable pleasure as they spidered patterns up thighs and under soft silk.
Show her, in a way she knew Veronica, old or new, had never been shown, that cold air blown from a pursed mouth onto heated, slick pussy lips could electrify skin and nerves. What floated into her mind was the imagined feeling of finding Veronica’s clit with her tongue, licking it clean, pushing it into a peaked frenzy as her fingers pushed into Veronica’s body.
She wanted to make Veronica wet, slick and slippery and out of control as her hips pumped underneath her. She wanted to thrust several fingers, all at once, hard and fast and in and out and in again, harder and harder until there was nothing but grasping sounds of need and moist friction.
Imagination was a cruel mistress, showing her images of Veronica lying there, her arms stretched over her head, belly taut, chest rising and falling, lips hanging open in want. It thrilled her, scared her, and made her miss breathlessness. She could crawl up to meet the lust hazed eyes, kiss the mouth and then, maybe, she could even feel legs between legs, arms reaching up, hands in hair, lips on lips that were only too eager to return the kiss.
There would be warm, hot flesh that seemed to breathe on its own, little creases that seemed to sizzle when pushed apart, throbbing, pulsing. Fingers that paused and pressed and twitched and delved a little deeper, fingers that caused moans and rubbing and small, little thrusts. Fingers that curled up and found spots that ached to be found, again and again and more and harder and there and just like that.
She didn’t breathe much anymore, but she could still imagine panting if she wanted.
A flash of strange memories mixed with imagination created images of Veronica’s face strung out in bliss, a cry and a broken moan escaping her lips.
She missed being whole sometimes, envied the new Veronica her chance to feel and resented her reluctance to do so.
It was a love-hate relationship that didn’t exist. Not anymore.
That wondering didn’t take long, to question the logistics of it. She knew without a doubt how pliant old Veronica would have been, happy to succumb after the smallest of protests, but she didn’t know at all about new Veronica. She imagined power struggles, a never-ending game of ‘who’s on top?’, their bodies pressing against each other, pulling and tugging and taking and giving and one forcing the other into helpless fits of ecstasy just to prove a point.
She wanted to lock her legs around Veronica’s waist and ride her until they both dropped still.
Surely it wasn’t too much to ask, to have a solid body long enough to push it to the point of endurance, to the point of collapsing back on the bed, gasping for air as hands ran down flushed skin in soothing patterns. That’s what she’d do. She’d take new Veronica to that brink and then gentle her down from it.
She stretched herself out in a mock imitation of Veronica sleeping, side by non-existent side, mimicking movements she no longer had to make. She stretched herself out and tried to imagine feeling something, anything, and almost cried with the lack of it.
That was the difference between them.
She wanted to feel everything and anything in any way it was offered but couldn’t. While the new Veronica could, but tried her hardest not to.
It saddened her what this new girl had become, the change from what she used to be. She missed vibrancy and laughter and self-assurance that wasn’t faked, that wasn’t a show for the crowd. But reality was reality and what she missed was long gone.
She missed the reality of herself.
She’d had long hair, once, but new Veronica had taken that. She’d had a body, once, but new Veronica had taken that too. She’d had breath and movement and purpose and enjoyment, but new Veronica had taken all those and kept them hidden, forced them down.
Sometimes she forgot and returned in search of herself, in search of the old Veronica, and the physical reality seemed to repulse her.
Sometimes she forgot she was supposed to be dead.