heady slides

false start

Bellamy and Clarke, based on a Liam/Annie 90210 scene from 3x01.   


He tastes like grease and gasoline.

It’s a heady flavor, and she slides her tongue along the seal of his lips, wanting more. He obliges, and she bites back a moan as he deepens the kiss in a way even better than she had imagined in the dark, sticky hours of her solitary summer nights.

She can feel his hands clutching at her sides, fingers digging in, the warm pressure all too noticeable through the thin material of her tank top. The garage is already humid, the last bits of the season’s heat lingering stubbornly, but the way the wanting, needy, greedy heat rolls off of him makes her flush even warmer. A slight sheen of sweat coats her skin, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just pulls her closer, every muscle of his moving against every muscle of hers.

The grease stains on his shirt have probably transferred to hers by now, but she can’t bring herself to care. His hands are moving down, canting her hips into his, and his fingers trace teasingly along the cutoff hems of her jean shorts. Biting his lip in response and reveling in the low hum it draws from him, she feels herself grow warmer, stickier, more wanton.

Her thoughts flicker briefly to the car behind them, how very right there the hood is and how very not right there anybody else is. How he had rolled out from under the bed of orange vehicle that she knew he had built from scratch, arms flexing as he hauled himself up to greet her when she had come bounding in (he bought them, he bought my paintings!), smiling brightly at her, with her, even though they hadn’t talked in three months.

Three long months of wondering if she had imagined the flash of attraction in his eyes every time he had looked at her before she was whisked away for the summer, twelve weeks of wishing she could just hear the rumble of his voice (sarcastic or caring, she really didn’t care which), ninety days of worrying that this would be like Finn all over again. She and Raven had just made things right; she didn’t want this thing with Bellamy, whatever it was, to put them off track again.

The way he is backing her up against the car frame, though—wildly, demandingly, as if he had been just as hungry for them in those long months as she—makes her not particularly care about anything or anybody else at the moment. All she can think of is him, and how the way he holds her makes her feel so very safe and so very dangerous at the same time.

When one of them knocks a wrench off onto the concrete floor, the clanging noise breaks them apart, their chests heaving and mouths smiling. Her hazy gaze locks on his dazed one as their fingers continue to lightly explore each other in this new light.

“So remind me why you didn’t call me all summer again?” He murmurs.

“Because I knew this would happen,” she sighs.

“Raven and I are over, Clarke. Have been for almost a year now.”

“She’s my best friend.”

“She doesn’t have to know, at least for right now.” He tries to pull her in again, but the ball of heat in her stomach has cooled, forming a cold lump that sits heavy, guiltily, and she halts him with firm hands against his solid chest.

“I meant it when I said no lying, no hiding this year,” she pleads. “It’s our last year at school—I want to do it right.”

With a frustrated huff, he shifts away from her, running a hand through his already wild hair. “So where does that leave us?”

“Friends?” She tries to muster up a smile, but the tight flex of his mouth and the unhappy glint in his eyes makes it almost impossible.

Slowly, he moves into her again, lingering just far enough away from her to tease her, making her want to lean in again, to lose herself in his heat again. “And what if I don’t want to be friends?” He practically growls, and it nearly undoes her, has her reaching out, but she can’t risk losing her friend again, no matter how much she wants him.

“Then I guess we’re not friends,” she says softly, backing away.

There are storm clouds in his eyes as she leaves him, walking out of the garage into the blinding sun and stifling afternoon heat, the metallic taste of him now bitter on her tongue.