Work Text:
“Dear Diary, my teen-angst now has a body count.”
Veronica Sawyer hates the Heathers, she hates Kurt and Ram, with the rest of the jocks. The popular kids themselves are a style of awful that not even she could forge. She allows herself to join spaces with them and fit in, a price she’s paid moment and moment again. Her “best friends” are her biggest enemies, interchangeable terms really.
But then there was Jason Dean, her black horse in the crowd. Dark black hair, the smell of cigarettes on his trenchcoat,the look of a complete loner. He wasn’t like the rest of the school, no particular clique or explanation behind him. Maybe it was that which led Veronica to talking to him on that specific day, as Heather Chandler snickered behind them. Jason Dean himself spoke differently, not the bitchy tone of a Heather or the snarky patronizing tone of a jock. He lacked the awkwardness of a geek, even when his words sounded like something read out of one of their comics.
Jason Dean shot a blank at Kurt and Ram, and this further pushed his acquaintance with Veronica. It was his will for aggression, the knowing glance on his face as if he were two steps ahead at all times, that pulled Veronica in closer. When she was at the party with Chandler, all Veronica could think of was what Jason Dean could be thinking about. She had included him before in journal entries, something she was too flustered to admit. She had, while the Heathers socialized with people she cared little for, wondered what it would be like to go on a date with Jason and not the jocks Chandler always pushed her to.
It is no shock after all, that Jason had ended up having a sadistic streak. Mixed in with the sense of superiority it could prove quite deadly. Most teenage girls would secretly fantasize about this being used against them, but Veronica was different. Veronica could secretly imagine the gun in Jason’s pocket making sure none of the popular kids no longer existed. Veronica was popular as well, but it was not the same thing at all. She wasn't a Heather, and she sure as hell did not like the jocks.
“Well it’s just like they’re people I work with and our job is being popular and shit.”
“Maybe it’s time to take a vacation.”
When Chandler threatened to tell everyone about Veronica’s little throwing up incident, it was Jason she searched for, and there Jason was. Asking her if she wanted to play a round. Veronica had always preferred something interesting to spice up the basic boning, and oh was Jason interesting to say the least. While the black trench coat on him was an attractive look, Veronica needed it off. Left on the grass, thrown to the side, the dirt would be a later worry. Jason reached for a cigarette as she motioned him to drop it, a small sigh and granted. Unbuttoning his shirt, the warmth on him was quite clear as she put her hands on his undershirt.
“What’s someone like you doing with someone like me tonight?”
Her top on the grass as well, his eyes set on her.
“I could ask you that myself.”
He laughed at the response, her hand curling into his hair, stopping the laugh short. Pulled back, neck showing, new found way to get Jason’s responses into a silence. It should have been obvious really, every smart quip, every slight sarcasm. He was trying to pull a response, something to push him into static. For all of Veronica’s patience around the Heathers, gosh did she need a break, and maybe it meant breaking Jason. He seemed so far from minding, soft sounds from his throat, eyes closed shut.
“Someone’s a bit angry- fuck- not that I mind but things today mustn’t have been marvelous.”
Maybe Veronica was digging her fingers too deep in his shoulders, lost in the roughness of his jean fabric against her. The marks however would serve as evidence that she had had Jason in some way, his messy black hair and his mouth that rambled into weird phrases when asked.
“I hate Heather Chandler.”
His eyes seem on the line between completely brainless and planning out something historic.
“So let’s kill her-”
Her hand on his throat, her mouth on his shoulders, his trenchcoat surely will cover the hickeys left. He must have friction burn by now but it's not like he seems to mind, as if he’s unable to process anything but the pleasure going through his brain. He’s unable to continue his sentence, mouth slightly open, sounds falling out as if inevitable. Veronica moves her hands to the buttons of his pants, tugging them down with as much precision as her shaky hands can give. He gives her a little look of disappointment at the pause of rubbing, two forces against each other that he wants to see chip each other away.
“How would you kill her?”
He turns to her, drowsy looking and impatient, his voice roughened up by its use.
“Hmm?”
Jason sounds so confused and unable to logic that she might as well have given him an explanation of quantum mechanics.
“Heather, Heather Chandler. How would you go about killing her?”
His eyes search hers for some sign of a joke, of a bit, yet when he finds nothing such he nods. Almost as if a spark set for him to be able to think again he coughs to find his voice. She tugs off her underwear and bra, quick and easy, while waiting for a response. The look she gives him must show the expectation she’s pushing behind him. She places his hands on her now bare chest as she presses against him, the bare skin causing electricity in her.
“Fake a suicide, I know no one would believe it, or so it seems. You have to hear why though, I mean think of it, Heather Chandler is perfect. Popular, rich, smart- what’s not to love? But also, what’s not to hate? Everyone is jealous of her, treating her like something to have and brag about. Girls want to be her, copying her at every turn, and guys- mmh, fuck- guys, right, guys. Well guys want to put it on her. She can’t be vulnerable and she can’t truly be herself either. She’s expected to be something at all times, and that something is the epitome of perfection and beauty- and fuck, fuck, Veronica you’re going rough-”
Veronica can feel his thighs under her, she can feel his muscles tensing and untensing, as she slowly pushes him into her. Aggressive, slow movements, too much force behind them. Jason sounds close to falling apart and she is nowhere near done, her own head humming and buzzing. He’s quiet like this, rambling under her, grabbing onto her chest as if to keep himself from coming undone this early. His usual violence is refined now, limited to certain movements and phrases. His hips slowly moving along, quick learner to what Veronica responds best to.
“Keep talking.”
He shakes his head lightly, messy hair moving with him, arms shaking. He’s begging lightly, but she’s not giving in, she wants to see how far she can push. The struggle is worth the cost.
“Fuck, Veronica, I can’t. I can’t- I, fuck, I mean you can forge signatures right? So that could be worth the letter and I mean we could poison her drink and force her to drink it. Technically still a suicide if she chose to do it. She’d be the one to taste the venom-”
And Veronica needs him to shut up now, grabbing his face and kissing him. Enough to draw blood, enough to only be able to hear the sounds of her pushing him into her further. She gives him a second to breathe and he rambles aimlessly about murder, so she presses her mouth against his yet again. She can taste him from the inside, the bitterness of nicotine and his saliva.
She stops the kiss and the way his legs are shaking gives away the closeness. He’s on the border of falling apart and she counts to herself for the right second. Observing his flexed arms and his tensed stomach and the way- she pulls out carefully, leaving him spurting. The soft white drops covering her thighs and running down, mixed with the dirt on the ground.