the reluctant lobotomist (fourfreedoms) wrote,
the reluctant lobotomist

Fic: LCQ

Title: LCQ
Author: fourfreedoms
Fandom: Motocrossed
Pairing: Andrea/Dean
Word Count: 3036
Rating: R
Summary: Dean's living in her house, under her roof, and it's driving her mad.
Notes: The title is MX lingo for last chance qualifier. It seemed apropos. For goshemily.

Andi gets her room back, but that still doesn’t leave anywhere for Dean and while her dad would gladly throw him in with Jason and the entire back catalog of Kragen’s autoparts that he keeps in there, mom has some ideas about how one treats a guest in the home. It takes some shuffling, but her mother’s sewing room gets made over into a guest room after a quick run to a mattress discounter.

“It’s not permanent,” her mother explains to Dean, while Andi hovers in the doorway. “When we figure out what this factory sponsorship allows us, we’ll see about getting you your own room.”

“Anywhere I can lay my head, Mrs. Carson...” Dean says, dropping his duffle next to a table topped with a sewing machine and quilting supplies. He smiles at them.

Andi didn’t realize, but Dean’s parents live up in Stockton, and ever since he signed his first team, he’s been living away from home. He says it with a careless shrug that Andi can’t quite assimilate.

But the reality of the situation is that Dean is living right under her roof with her parents’ complicity. As accomplished as she is at flirting and as comfortable as she is with Dean, the thought is terrifying. Especially when she thinks that just on the other side of her wall is Dean--sleeping, undressing, maybe...maybe even touching himself.

When he smiles at her, the slow curl of his lips resolving into a grin, it’s like a punch to the gut. She feels hot and shivery and unsure. She’s not quite sure what to do with herself, so she hits the track morning to midnight, while Dean shows her brother how to handle the 250 CC.

She runs into him in the hallway one morning, just out of the shower, with a towel knotted around his hips and water beading on his chest and she actually has to run back to her room, so that he can’t see her doing what she so desperately wants to do, which is follow the line of that towel and see what’s beneath it.

The other girls on the cheerleading squad say abstract things about when they’re going to lose their virginity and who they want to give the proud moment away to, but none of them have gotten within leagues of that milestone. None of them are contemplating touching a naked boy, peeling back his towel and running their hands over all of him, sliding their mouths over the divots in his abdomen. Or if they are, they’re keeping suspiciously quiet about it. Either way, she gets the sensation she’s not supposed to want this. As far as she knows it, girls like guys from the collarbones upward.

Dean probably thinks she’s insane--she got the feeling he was on the cusp of asking her out. But he’s two years older, and for all that he is completely shit at flirting, she knows he’s had sex. He told her when she was still inhabiting the guise of Andy with a Y. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does. He knows how this is supposed to go, he knows how girls are supposed to act, and what if...what if she wants it too much?

The first time her hand drifts between her legs while thinking about it, she can’t make herself stop, but she feels terrible afterwards, desperately trying to reimagine the fantasy that had come into her head as something tame and sanitary and not about kissing that became rubbing that became his fingers sliding inside her in a crazy alternate version of the day he’d taken her out to the lake.

“You alright?” he asks her one morning when he finds her tooling about in the garage.

She nearly drops the wrench she’s fiddling with and has to swallow, “Of course. Why?”

He looks deeply unsettled and it’s making her exceedingly nervous. The entire time she’s waiting for him to reply she feels like her heart’s going to burst out of her chest.

“You’re not...still mad at me for walking off when I found out, are you?” he says after a fraught pause.

“What?” It takes her a minute to figure out what he’s talking about and when she does, she’s so relieved that it makes her abrupt. “No no, that’s--I understood. You had a right to be upset.”

His eyebrows draw together. “So what is it, then?

“Nothing, I just...have a lot on my mind,” she tells him, going for a breezy tone that probably comes across more like a strong headwind. She gathers all the tools she’s working with and starts putting them away, getting ready to bolt.

His hand on her wrist stops her, the touch lighting her up from her forearm to her face. “Andi, we’ve always been tight,” he says softly and even his voice makes her knees weak.

Jason stumbles in, yawning and tired with a pile of parts he and Andrew picked up yesterday jangling together in his arms, and the moment is broken. Dean doesn’t so much jump away from her as melt off to go talk with her little brother, like she isn’t even there. She finds herself staring at the nape of his neck and the delicate fragile arch of it. It’s the only thing about him that looks so easily broken.

She needs somebody to talk to. She really, really does.


One of the girls on her squad, Tara, has an older sister who’s got her ears double pierced and a tiny rose tattoo on her hip. Andi knows, because Tara had explained how she’d forged their mother’s signature to get it done. It’s bandied about that she gets around and there’s some unflattering things sharpied on to one of the stalls in the girl’s bathroom. It’s less than ideal, but she’s the only one Andi can think of to go to.

Andi finds her in front of her locker at the end of the school day, checking her lipgloss in the mirror she hung inside the door.

“What?” she asks, not even looking away from her own reflection.

Andi shrugs. “Can I talk to you?”

The girl, Kristen, sighs. “I didn’t sleep with your boyfriend.”

Andi lets out a startled laugh. “I don’t even have a boyfriend.”

Kristen looks her up and down, the shorn hair paired with her cheerleading uniform, and raises a brow.

“I just have some questions and I feel like you might know the answers,” Andi says in a rush, desperate not to lose Kristen’s attention.

“There are no secrets to blowjobs, just cover your teeth and keep at it,” Kristen replies automatically.

“No, no, I don’t need tips, I just--” she cuts herself off, face flaming.

Kristen peers at her in concern. “Whoa, you look like you’re going to have a meltdown.”

“Forget it, I just thought--no, nevermind,” Andi says, turning around. “This was a bad idea.”

“Hey, wait,” Kristen says, grabbing her shoulder before she can walk off, “Look, sorry if I was giving you a hard time. What’s your question?”

Andi shrugs, suddenly unable to speak. Kristen sighs again. “Do you drive?”

“I don’t have a car,” Andi replies listlessly, unsure where this is going.

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride to the Strip and we’ll get some coffee and you can ask me whatever you want.” When Andi hesitates, she adds, “Is Pete’s okay? I hate Starbucks.”

Andi shrugs again and Kristen rolls her eyes. “Jesus, you don’t need directions to Planned Parenthood do you?”

Andi laughs self-deprecatingly. “That’s getting a bit ahead of ourselves.”

It’s Kristen’s turn to shrug.

She tells Kristen over the iced tea she purchased about Dean and the situation at home.

“I just feel wrong all the time,” she says glumly, staring at the table top. Kristen blinks at her.

“You know it’s normal right?”

“Yeah, normal for guys,” Andi replies flippantly.

“No, for everyone,” Kristen replies, “Those bitches in cheer, my kid sister included, just haven’t found somebody yet that makes them feel that way.”

Andi’s not sure she believes it, but it still makes her feel better in spite of herself.

“Anyway, this guy sounds hot, how come I haven’t seen him around school?”

Andi shoots her a reproachful look and she raises her hands in mocking supplication. Andi snorts. “He’s 18, he’s already finished.”

“Hmm, we can work with this,” Kristen replies.

Kristen drives her home and just as Andi’s climbing out of the car, she says, “Hey wait.”

Andi pauses and watches Kristen reach across to the glove box. She rifles around for a few moments before coming up with a loosely rolled spool of condoms. “See your doctor about getting on the pill.”

“I’m not...” Andi replies, flushing hot.

“Just do it. Better be prepared, right?” she smiles and closes Andi’s door with a wave, before peeling off in a tight U worthy of any racer. Leaving Andi standing in front of her house with a chain of unmistakable bright-red foil packets in full view of the front windows. She hurriedly shoves them into her bag before heading inside.


She dreams about it. Maybe because of that conversation with Kristen, maybe because Dean is everywhere, constantly on her mind. The smell of him, even though her mother is using the same detergent for all of them, is spicy and warm and somehow different and amazing. It’s even electrifying to watch him race around their makeshift track.

She pictures him pressing her up against the garage and kissing her, learning the breasts she barely managed to hide for all those weeks.

Which is how she finds herself hidden in the darkness of the garage after dinner, the only place she can be free of him for a few stolen moments, the heel of her palm grinding over her crotch through her denim shorts as she leans back against a metal work table.

And he finds her, damn it, he finds her. Just as she’s whispering his name.

He stutters at first, awkward and shocked and stumbling all over himself, just like she’d expect from him. Before she can even be properly horrified though, his eyes sharpen upon her and the embarrassment just seems to drop right off of him. She watches, frozen, as his mouth resolves into that slow lopsided grin she knows he gets when he’s sure he has someone beat. She’s not certain how to feel about that expression in this moment.

Too wrapped up in how she’s going to talk her way out of this one, she barely processes him crossing the floor. But then his hands are on her, drawing her hips close and running possessively up her back to tilt her head into his hand.

“You said my name,” he says softly, a fervid cast to his eyes, before he dips his head to kiss her.

This is what she’s been waiting for, since the first crazy moment she saw him, with feelings she’d needed another girl’s help to parse out. He kisses her like he’s never unsure of himself, like he hadn’t needed her to write him a manual to flirting. She stretches her entire body out along his, learning the unyielding strength of his body. This is nothing like making out in the back of the movie theater or in the car after a dance. How could it be? She has never felt this dizzy, topsy-turvy feeling, that she is somehow unfinished without him.

Winding an arm around his neck, hoping desperately he isn’t one of those idiot boys who think she’s too forward that Kristen warned her about, she feels her balance return. She knows now. If nothing else, he wants her.

He hoists her up onto the work table in one stomach dropping moment, and it occurs to her that they are really doing this, barely a stone’s throw away from the house with her parents and brothers inside. And maybe she should feel wrong and dirty, but as he steps into the space between her split thighs, winding her legs about his hips, she realizes it feels too good to care.

His hard-on meets the seam of her jeans, pressing against her in a sudden bright shock of feeling that makes her toes curl.

“We good?” he whispers as he mouths along her jaw and he laughs, the asshole actually laughs, when she arches her hips into his to get more. She feels the same out-of-control rush she gets when she successfully jumps a triple and she wants him to feel it too.

“God, I--”she says and hastily breaks off, because she doesn’t know how to ask for what she wants.

He traces the hem of her top with his thumb and asks, “Can I?”

It takes her a minute to get out the word ‘yes’ around all the other thoughts and feelings pressing at her. She has to help him get it off, because the always amenable slouchy cotton gets unexpectedly hooked around her elbows. For a moment she wishes she was wearing a better bra, but the groan he makes when he pops the clasp loose and it falls away from her body, exposing her breasts, is immensely gratifying.

She used to get a lot of grief for them when she was still developing, from jealous girls and boys who kept snapping the straps on her trainer bra, but the look on Dean’s face is nothing but appreciative and when he lowers his mouth to one pert nipple she can’t stop herself from gasping and clutching tight to his shoulders.

Her thighs tense around his hips and his skates kisses up over the curve of her breast to her collarbone until he reaches the thin skin of her throat.

“Can I?” he asks again, fingertips sliding along the leg of her shorts.

“Yes,” she breathes. He edges his fingers underneath the cloth, pulling aside the flimsy barrier of her underwear to stroke along her folds. The touch makes her jump. She holds back the noise she wants to make until she’s capable of an even measured breath. Dean turns his face into her neck, eyelashes skimming across her collarbone and making her hips jerk up into his hand almost more than the practiced touch against parts of herself she’s only rudimentarily explored. His forehead is hot against her neck, like he has a fever, it’s maddening. All this feeling she has wrapped up in his person and here he is, curled around her, holding her close and touching her so easily.

She thinks it might not have mattered if he weren’t good at this, if they had stumbled through it the whole way as she’d pictured. In some ways she wouldn’t be so afraid to contemplate what happens next, when she reaches that cliff he’s pushing her toward, but he is good at this, and from everything she’s always understood, it always seemed kind of mystifying what women enjoyed about this. Just the thought of him, thrust inside her, has her drawing her knees into his sides, like she can steer him into a direction she wants.

“Where are you?” he asks, pressing his other hand into the small of her back and pushing her spine into an arch. It’s a reminder to pay attention. He lowers his mouth to the tops of her breasts. “God, these are amazing.”

Where is she? What a question.

“This feels strangely familiar,” he says, voice hoarse, thumb swiping over her clitoris. A sharp cry breaks past her lips. He makes a low noise of approval. “Stop thinking so hard.”

She thinks back to her first lesson with him.

“Just ride the terrain?” she says, somewhat strangled, trying for humor and probably missing by several miles. It doesn’t matter, something in her finally relaxes, let’s herself have this moment, and when he nips gently behind her ear and dips a finger just inside her opening, it’s finally too much.

She tries to close her thighs, because the sensation is suddenly good to the point of pain, but he’s in the way. Somehow he knows though and he backs off, letting her get some air. She nearly falls right off the work table when he brings the first two fingers of his right hand to his mouth, licking the taste of her off of him.

“You don’t think I’m a...a slut?” she says, breathing hard, aware that the question might be a little after the fact.

He’s flushed across the bridge of his nose and all the way down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. And then stumbling Dean is back. “Do I...what are you--I don’t--you know I could,” he stops and takes a deep breath, leaning back against the table opposite. She follows his hand down past his belt where he visibly adjusts himself. “If you were, I wouldn’t mind.”

It’s not exactly the answer she’s looking for, but she finds it’s one she likes anyway. “Oh yes?”

He smiles and replies, “How you expect me to think with you looking like that...” he stops and waves a hand at her general state of exerted dishabille.

“Can I...” she starts to offer, but then the screen door of the house shuts with an almighty bang and then Jason can be heard screaming his head off for Dean to come look at some specs with him and why on earth is he taking so long in the garage. She scrambles to sling her bra back on and find her missing shirt. Dean looks down at his hard-on with unanticipated horror and Andi laughs so hard she nearly snorts, pushing her scrunched up shirt into her mouth to muffle it.

“You better go,” she whispers as she tugs her shirt on over her head. “We’ll talk.”

Dean gives her one last lingering look that makes her swallow, before he turns away and darts out the door, just intercepting her brother outside. They speak on the other side of the door, so normal, like nothing had happened at all. Andi ignores their conversation. She knows that look after all, it’s the one that says ‘this isn’t over.’

Tags: fic, het, motocrossed

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