## Preface

It's a Sin with No Name
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at https://archiveofourown.org/works/29477991.

Rating:
  Explicit
Archive Warning:
  No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:
  F/M
Fandoms:
  Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe, Heathers (1988)
Relationship:
  Jason "J. D." Dean/Veronica Sawyer
Characters:
  Jason "J. D." Dean, Veronica Sawyer
Additional Tags:
  vampire JD, vampire hunter Veronica, a little bit of world building, Smut, more smut than worldbuilding tbh, Ronnie is a dangerslut, As is JD tbh, Bisexual Veronica Sawyer, Like every Veronica I write is bisexual, But it's actually mentioned in this fic
Language:
  English
Series:
  Part 1 of Vampire JD / Vampire Hunter Veronica
Stats:
  Published: 2021-02-16 Words: 2,901 Chapters: 1/1

# It's a Sin with No Name

by deeplyshallow

Summary

> It’s not an affair as such but it still feels just as illicit. There’s something thrilling about knowing that they’re so flagrantly ignoring what is required of them both, that they should have killed each other a hundred times over rather than repeatedly falling into bed together.

> Vampire, vampire hunter, like Romeo and Juliet but they’re less stupid and he drinks more blood.

Notes

> I've wanted to write vampire JD for a while now, this was not the idea I was planning to write, but it sort of came out today anyway, so yeah.

## It's a Sin with No Name

This is not a safe place for a girl in her 20s.

It's long gone midnight, but the streetlights do not work in this part of the city, the cars she can hear in the distance go by fast, making sure their doors are locked. Closer by she can hear the shouts and cries of drunks on the streets just asking for the muggers or worse to take advantage of them.

But, Veronica Sawyer is not a normal girl.

She's not worried about the muggers or any of the other criminals lurking around, she has a gun to sort out any of that kind of trouble. But the gun she has in her hand right now is not that one, this gun, despite its cool metal handle and elaborate steampunk design, has the worst balance she's ever encountered in a weapon, though that's probably due to all the holy water sloshing around inside, and also because it's a water pistol.

A super soaker would probably be more effective but she refuses to look like some lame-ass college student playing an assassins game. She's not saying she took this job entirely for the aesthetic, but she's hardly going to ruin her style that much for a slight tactical advantage.

Looped into her belt, in easy reach, is a stake, still covered in dust from her latest kills – she's snapped their fangs off as proof of the hunt and shoved both the bodies up against a building, half hidden by a dumpster. It's not a great place to leave them really, but she only needs them not to be found until dawn, they'll turn to ash as soon as the sunlight hits them.

Anyway, she has more pressing matters on her mind right now. She hears the noise again, it's not loud – not compared to the speeding late night traffic or the off key version of the last verse of Hey Jude that is coming from the bar that she's sure should be closed by now – but it is there, a scrabbling, not human, nor animal, but alarmingly familiar.

She is instantly alert, mind focused, swinging her water gun automatically towards the source of the sound.

"You need to be more careful here," says a familiar voice, "I hear there are monsters about."

She relaxes, puts the pistol back in its holster and removes the crucifix from around her neck.

"You need to stop doing that," she says, as he lands, impossibly lightly, beside her, "one day I'm going to hit you."

He doesn't bother to reply with anything more than a grin, his sharp fangs glistening in the moonlight, he doesn't need to – she knows potentially having his flesh singed off with water blessed by the pope is part of the fun. She's not surprised by his presence, he knew she was hunting here tonight, he's probably been watching her the whole time, seeing her kill his kind seems to turn him on, but she gets that, it turns her on too.

Most of her colleagues have joined for a reason, one of them killed their family, they see it as their religious duty, they're a descendant of Van Helsing, but she does it for the thrill; to watch as these all powerful creatures who have killed hundreds, end their centuries of existence because of her. It makes the adrenaline flow thick and fast in her blood as she fights, and when she stakes them in the heart, it's a release like nothing else.

She feels his teeth graze her neck, a fraction too softly to pierce her flesh, as he pulls her to him from behind and she smiles wryly. Well, almost nothing else.

They warned her about this in training, the allure, vampires are the perfect predator in every way. Every little trait is designed to draw their prey in, so the humans are helpless and unsuspecting when they take their final bite. She's seen it before, been temporarily dazed with others she's hunted, but none like this, not with any other monster nor with any other man. The way she wants him makes her feel less than human herself, makes her skip drinking the garlic oil she's supposed to take before she hunts and ignore every warning, every instinct reminding her of what he can do, instead she does her make up a little more carefully the days she thinks he might show up and takes particular care in choosing the clothes she thinks he'll like when he rips them off her later.

Speaking of which, his hand is making its way down her black leather miniskirt and skimming the expanse of her leg, sharp nails threatening to ladder her tights. She leans in one more second before she turns around, swatting him off her, although not stepping back to put any more distance between them.

She stands on her tiptoes so she can properly glare into his eyes, they look normal from a distance but from here she can see the catlike slits that help him see so well in the dark, and that his hazel irises have unnatural flecks of red.

"I believe," she says, as firmly as she can when he is looking at her entirely too much like he wants to devour her, possibly a bit too literally, "we have business to do."

Meet, sell out their respective species and fuck. Their regular transaction.

He rolls his eyes but his smirk never leaves his face, gets out a sheet of paper from his pocket and passes it to her. She gives him hers in return, it's longer, there are probably enough names on it to feed a whole damn coven, but when your day job is being a therapist you get a list as long as your arm of rapists, paedophiles, abusive partners and narcissistic parents - who never even deserved to be born, and whose passing makes her clients lives much easier. It's probably a data protection breach, but it's a sacrifice she's willing to make, and he's very efficient.

Only them, and he lives. That's the deal.

If he's breaking it, he's doing a good job at hiding it from her.

She skims over his own list, impeccably set out, as usual, with that weird calligraphy only Victorians used and she's pretty sure he only does to piss her off, he's given her names, expected locations, sometimes some extra notes. His reasons to kill them are always ridiculous; cheated when we were playing a game of chess in 1873, called me a thieving bastard in 1936 when I stole his jacket, didn't invite me to his ball in 1722. She's not saying she hasn't occasionally thought of adding Heather Chandler to the list when she calls Veronica for a "catch-up" and spends the whole time giving her backhanded compliments, but ultimately she's not that petty. She’s pretty sure he just hates other vampires in general. Her very own Trojan Horse. She'd almost pity them if she didn't know they all have their own body count, she's doing the world a favour, even if she does enjoy the challenge.

She's been Hunter of the Month every time since they started their deal.

She looks at the last name on the list: Carlotta Rhodes - ex-girlfriend. She knows who she is aiming for tomorrow.

Tonight though, the only blood that will get spilt is hers.

xxx

They always end up in cheap motels. The sort of shady places with thin walls and suspicious stains on the bedsheets. She likes it like that, it's not an affair as such - though she has a revolving door of men and the odd woman in her life and she's sure he has other girls - but it still feels just as illicit. There's something thrilling about knowing that they're so flagrantly ignoring what is required of them both, that they should have killed each other a hundred times over rather than repeatedly falling into bed together.

Vampire, vampire hunter, like Romeo and Juliet but they're less stupid and he drinks more blood.

He pays, he always does, he has bundles of cash in his pocket that he gets out on demand. When she asks where he got it he always shrugs, "You pick it up as time goes by."

She's given up bothering asking more than that. Every time she tries to find out about his past, about when he was human, he gives her a different answer. They range from "I was a centurion in the Roman army and took a wrong turn in a battle in Gaul," to "I was a peasant about to die of the Black Death when a wizened old vampire took pity on me," and even "I was born a Romanian prince and yes, I am the inspiration for Dracula." She's not sure whether he enjoys the air of mystery or simply can't remember the truth. She kind of likes not knowing anyway.

They barely make it to the room, he's shrugged off his trench coat and kicked off his boots before she even has time to enter, and the moment she shuts the door he slams her against it with enough strength to leave cracks in the woodwork, but she doesn't really care, not when his hands are slipping under her shirt, unhooking her bra so he can get better access.

She feels his teeth grow as she shoves her tongue in his mouth, tastes the liquid on them, not unpleasant, but sweet, uncannily so. And her stomach twists in both fear and excitement, venom, it's used to keep their prey compliant sure, but not in large amounts, in large amounts it's used to turn humans, used to turn humans into one of them.

He wants to keep her, he hasn't said as much, but she can tell from the way he looks at her. She'll probably let him at some point – after she's had a few more beach holidays in Hawaii and she's done with this whole vampire killing thing she'd be up for switching sides. She can't see any other way of having the looks and perkiness of a woman in her 20s forever. It certainly beats a diet and skincare regime.

"Not today," she mutters against his lips.

"As you wish," he replies amused, she knows he's noted that she hasn't said no, it's almost a proposal. Still, there are matters much more pressing as he shoves her skirt down over her hips, and she unbuttons his shirt and pulls it roughly off his shoulders. She's just about managed to undo his belt and push down his pants when he picks her up as if she is weightless, and throws her onto the bed (the uncomfortable mattress groans in protest as he joins her). She pulls her boots off, chucking them on the floor, as he helps her out of her shirt and then he is looking at her from above, like the predator he is, ready to ravage his prey.

He pulls her to him, gripping her shoulders tightly. His nails are unnaturally sharp, claws, she figures, just another way to ensure his victims don't escape. She lets him run them all the way down her back, a few red droplets trailing down in his wake.

He licks them off his fingers, "You really are delicious, my darling," he says, "so much sweeter than the ones you give me."

She should run, her brain screams it, her thumping heart tells her to, but her body is hot and flushed beneath him, and the words send a shiver down her spine, she spreads herself out on the bedsheets, props herself up on one elbow and smiles seductively, a buffet for both man and monster.

"Then why don't you help yourself?"

He doesn't bite her neck anymore. She spent too much time last summer having to go to hunter meetings in scarves, it was getting suspicious. She hasn't explicitly been told what the punishment is for fucking the monsters they're supposed to kill, but she suspects it's a little more than a slap on the wrist. Instead he pushes her down on the bed, taking his time to kiss slowly down her body, ripping her tights and panties as if they were spider's webs as he gets to them, until he settles his mouth on the vein in her inner thigh, teeth fully out as he sinks them into her flesh.

It's supposed to be a compromise after she vetoed the neck thing, but she's pretty sure he counts it as a victory, there's more blood there anyway, especially now.

It feels good, it's supposed to, even a little venom triggers all the right endorphins to keep his prey in a state of bliss, compliant until it's too late, but it's more than that. It's the light headedness of the sudden loss of blood, the relinquishing of control as she lets him give into his hunger and the pure danger of it all.

"I don't like killing vampire hunters," he told her the first time they met, when his teeth were just above her neck, her stake an inch from his heart and their locked pupils wide with lust, "it's sort of like playing Russian roulette with no bullets."

Bullets don't kill him, so it's not a perfect metaphor, but she gets the point - maybe it's part of the reason she's let him live too. And true to his word, both she and her associates are still alive, even though she is certain he knows exactly where she lives and works.

She's never quite sure though, not when he's like this, at his most animalistic, when she knows all he has to do is let his focus slip for a second and she will be no more. Her eyes flicker momentarily to her stake and water pistol haphazardly placed on the bedside table, still just in reach.

He could kill her at any moment, but so could she, she guesses that makes them equals.

She closes her eyes, lets the sensations overwhelm her, the dizziness of her brain, the muddling of her thoughts, she can feel his venom race around her veins. Not nearly enough to turn her, her body will get rid of it soon enough, but for the next few days she'll have a craving for raw meat and an uncanny talent for weightlifting.

And then she feels the slight sting as he withdraws, licking her wounds once, another benefit of venom, it heals cuts quickly.

She asked him once if he could feed from her, could he not just drink enough not to kill anyone? He looked at her weirdly, "Why would I do that?" she didn't bother asking again. Anyway, how else would she provide such exemplary service to her daytime clientele?

But she doesn't let her mind ponder the thought, not now he's moved, higher, just higher, and licking much more pleasant places (fangs somewhat retracted, thank god). She reaches down, grasping his hair, desperate for him to continue. And he does, until she is quivering, and he moves himself up again, and when he shifts against her, she can tell he's ready for her.

She's still not sure how it works, she's stabbed enough of his kind to know he's more dust than blood. His smile when she asked was appropriately infuriating, "How else, my dear, would we be able to ensnare pretty girls like you?"

Not that she's complaining.

He enters her with a groan, shifts against her roughly, she can taste her blood on his teeth, as he pulls them ever closer. Her heart beats in fear, in anticipation, in equal measures, the man, the monster giving her something no one else can offer her.

When she is close he moves his lips towards her ear, "Maybe one day I'll learn to stop playing with my food,"

And there is probably something wrong with her because the reminder of the danger of the thrill and sheer stupidity of what she's risking for a cheap orgasm and whatever fucked up mess this relationship is, is what does it for her.

"If you do that, sweetheart, I will stab you right in the heart." she manages to spit out, before all of her remaining words are unintelligible.

And clearly he's broken too, because that's what makes him join her. Maybe that makes them soulmates, the thought doesn't seem that bad in this fleeting fuzzy moment.

She collapses, exhausted, back on the lumpy mattress, curling up against him, trying to make the most of the few hours of sleep she manages to get between her day and night jobs.

Times like this make it worth it though.

xxx

She wakes up to sunlight streaming through her window, she can feel a prickling pain as it lands on her skin, even through the glass. Damn vampire venom, she's going to be slathering an unseasonable amount of sun cream on for the next few days and eating rare steaks with absolutely no garlic butter.

He's gone, he always is, he climbs out the window long before there's any risk of the sunrise. All that is left to prove tonight was not a lurid dream is the bite mark on her thigh, and the obnoxiously neat vampire hit list on her bedside table. She gets dressed, folds it up, and stuffs it in her pocket, ready for their game to continue.

## Afterword

Works inspired by this one
  Moonlight Secrets by Alexandra_dAutriche

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