Beronica Oneshots

Seven(teen) minutes in heaven

The bottle came to a stop, pointing straight at Veronica. Surely Cheryl’s evil powers didn’t extend to dominating space and time, but for that bare second Veronica wouldn’t have put it past her.

She could totally handle Cheryl. She’d seen girls acting like this before—had done worse herself,—and for whatever reason, probably unknown even within her tiny red-haired peabrain, Cheryl had made it her personal Satanic mission to destroy Betty’s social life. Whatever. Veronica wasn’t letting that happen. She wasn’t starting her career at Riverdale by hurting the one person for whom she already felt an inner softness, something suspiciously like tenderness.

Instead, Veronica decided, glaring at the bottle, she was going to rewrite Cheryl’s stupid little princess-rules book. Archie probably would have made out with her, too; he was clearly gripped in the throes of some hormonal inability to think his way out of a wet paper bag. Which, fine, Veronica respected an honest slut—but Archie wasn’t being thoughtful about it, and was probably going to leave a trail of broken hearts and STDs across town, without even stopping once to consider Betty’s feelings. So it was up to Veronica.

And when things were up to Veronica, she’d long ago realized, they generally turned out quite well.

“You know what,” she said, grabbing a surprised Betty’s hand, “looks like the bottle is pointed right between us. We couldn’t possibly ask Archie to cope with all this female pulchritude, so come on, Betts.” She pulled Betty unresisting up from the sofa and looked straight ahead as she hauled her toward the closet, only peripherally registering the equally stunned expressions of Cheryl and (she allowed herself an instant of smugness) Archie.

“What the—what the heck are you doing,” hissed Betty in a stage whisper, incredulous, as Veronica slammed the door more or less viciously behind them, giving the lightbulb chain a pointed yank and spinning Betty around so her back was against the door. She stepped up into Betty’s space, having to shove a little against the ridiculous pink marshmallow poof of her formal dress skirt.

“You said you trusted me,” Veronica said, scanning Betty’s face for signs of oh-my-god-no-stop-don’t-do-this; Betty’s eyes were wide and her strawberry-glossed lips were parted, but Veronica wasn’t seeing fear or aversion, just curiosity. “Do you still?”

Betty’s eyes got even wider, somehow. “I mean, yeah, I do. Of course I trust you, you just met me but you already got me onto the cheerleading squad which was basically a miracle especially given how bad our routine was and how much Cheryl hates—“

“Good,” interrupted Veronica, and slid her hand around behind Betty’s head to cushion it from the door, trying not to let her voice shake. “So trust me again. And if you want me to stop I’ll stop, you just—”

Look so edible tonight, like a fucking macaron, she finished in her head, thinking dizzily of gilded bags from La Durée and the melting crumble of rose-petal sugar in her mouth, before threading her fingers through Betty’s blowout and leaning up to press their mouths together.

Betty froze, and for an instant Veronica wondered if the next six and a half minutes were going to be spent awkwardly talking about Halsey, how to apply contour, or the vocab section of the PSATs. But then something seemed to melt, and Veronica felt rather than heard a catch in Betty’s breath, and then—yes—she felt Betty’s hands wind around her bare neck and pull her closer, and their mouths crushed together in a gorgeous smear of perfume and sensation and wetness.

It was a kiss about pink moscato and robin’s egg blue, a kiss like a fresh peach eaten standing over the sink dripping juice. Veronica sort of lost time, Betty’s soft exhalation on her cheek, the sweet slip of a tongue between her lips, a slow finger being dragged along her collarbone. She broke for air and, staring at Betty’s mouth, was surprised when she started laughing quietly.