a/n: i blame anysa wholeheartedly. just so you know. title & lyrics are from "reach down" by scarlet haze.


...you make me a believer

in the fact that if i can't come

you can't come either...

;;

Really, she blames Beck, because she can't not make out with him after he buys her Taco Bell for breakfast. This is a fact.

Except, them being them… it escalates. Quickly. Well, they need something to do, sitting in the school parking lot (because they're just that lame). Somehow, some way, she ends up on his lap, wedged between Beck's chest and the steering wheel, hands in his hair and mouth on his neck. Really, if they were fourteen again, this would probably be more than enough to get her off: the grinding, the feeling of him pressing against her through layers of clothes, the back-and-forth slam of their hips as they try to breathe normally and touch all over at the same time. But they're not fourteen, and now she knows how it feels with him inside of her, how his mouth plays over her skin, the slick heat she melts into when every part of them connects.

"Not now," Beck says, but he's out of breath, muttering it against the underside of her jaw where his mouth has latched. She can't stop shivering, has to clench her hands even tighter in his hair, scraping against his scalp, to keep from keeling over.

"Your windows are tinted," she points out, then breathes in so sharply that the sound— oooh —distracts her a little from the sting of the skin he's just bitten. "It's twenty minutes before school starts." Her knee hits the gearshift, and leaning down to find what she needs is just pushing their hips together harder, tighter, and now Beck's hand is fisted tight in her hair, just enough to hurt, and damn, if she doesn't get sex soon something's gonna blow. Her fingers lock around the lever she wants, and with a quick tug the driver's seat has fallen back, reclined enough so that her position in his lap has turned nicely into a straddle.

"We can't have sex in a car," Beck hisses, except he's totally staring at her tits, but that's okay; they are pretty awesome. She arches her back a little just to make sure he's thinking about what he should be, and the fingers that dig into her waist prove he is. His sharp grip on her is enough to send her thoughts spiraling to his nails scratching down her sides, forcing her mouth to his, pressing deep into the back of her neck. The fire between her legs kicks up another notch. Pain is her drug of choice and Beck more than knows how to utilize it.

"We can," she contradicts, toying with the edge of her black tank top, raising it just to the edge of indecent if anyone were to fling open the car door right that moment. "And we will." Her shirt is over her head before Beck can say anything else, flung into the passenger seat. She leans down to kiss him again, feeling the warmth of him seep into her skin, and when she rises up he comes with her, hands sliding up her back to unhook her bra, mouth ghosting over her lips, cheek, jaw. The taut fabric goes slack; she automatically drops her arms to let him slide it off.

His mouth replaces it so quickly that she honestly doesn't know where her bra ends up being tossed— to the side, to the back, magically transported through the metal walls —it doesn't really matter, because all she can do is fumble for a grip on his hair while his lips work their way around her breasts, one rough hand toying with whatever has to be neglected by his hot wet tongue, by the sucking and the biting, and hell are these going to be awkward hickeys to explain when she changes for dance class later today. But the thought only stays for a moment, fuzzy and worrying, before realization takes over that dance class isn't for hours and Beck is here right now, obviously the more important of the two— Beck is here, teasing her nipple with the shape of his mouth; Beck is here, sliding a hand up her back to make her arch even closer; Beck is here, using his other hand to grind her against him, and really, it's totally fucking worth it to have Cat asking innocently about the 'strawberry bruises' on her tits.

It takes her a moment to remember that she wants to fuck, not waste their time getting just horny enough to explode before the bell rings and they have to go to improv like this, all sweaty— on his part anyway, because she doesn't do that chiz —and panting, tucking their clothes into place, because really, people are way too intrigued by their sex life to begin with. Like they need to start any more gossip. So Jade pulls his head away from her, even when her breasts ache and throb from it, even when he smirks and pinches hard just to watch her whole lower body jerk in answer, searching madly for relief.

"Okay," she says, but really it comes out breathless (how lame). "Okay, Captain Foreplay, focus."

"Only you could make that an insult," Beck answers, rolling his eyes and leaning back slightly. He's propped on his elbows now, fingers playing across her hipbones and stomach like she's his personal piano, like he knows exactly what song he wants to draw out of her. The heat there thrums, shoots lower, makes her squirm again.

"Only me," she scoffs, shifting back although it lessens the thick pressure between her legs. She bites back a groan and says hurriedly, "If you pants don't come off in five seconds I swear I'll get myself off right here and you get nothing."

He's grinning when she looks back at his face instead of the bulge in his jeans (wow, she's stereotypically ruled by her hormones, isn't she?). "Yes ma'am," he says, tugging at his belt, and Jesus, there's only so much one horny teenage girl can take, seriously. So she leans over and bats his hands away, glaring when he tries to take over again, and no she's totally not subtly rubbing herself against the part of his thigh she's still straddling— or apparently not-so-subtly, because Beck groans and says, "Could you maybe save that for the next activity, please?"

She grins, mimicking him. "Working on it, babe." Finally his jeans are off, or hell, at least far enough down to be dubbed "good enough." It's only then that she realizes he still has a shirt on and she's still wearing her own pants. Shit, this is why quickies irritate her, fun as they can be: as much as she makes fun of Beck for it, she likes taking her sweet damn time too. Now the whole day will be spent squeezing her thighs together and waiting until they get back to the RV, to fall into bed and make up for this, two or three or four times over. (They're very thorough people, what can she say?)

To compensate, Jade slides one hand under his shirt, a black wife beater, his flannel tossed somewhere in the back because she had been wearing it when they went to bed, and she also has a bad habit of dressing for school, doing her makeup, and brushing her hair all during the car ride to school. Beck closes his eyes for just as long as it takes for her free hand to snap onto his boxers, tugging harshly enough that he has no choice but to raise himself up to help her out, but she still ends up struggling around the fabric for a few seconds— getting them fully out of her way means sitting up, lifting off, and that doesn't sit too well with her right now.

"Problems?" Beck chuckles. She scowls, thinks fuck it and raises up onto her knees, pulling his boxers out of they way while simultaneously avoiding hitting her head on the roof of the car. Beck would never let her live that one down.

Triumphant, she sinks down again. Her hand automatically reaches for him, that warm hard length, and he curses quietly under his breath. "Hot," she mutters, not able to resist sliding her hand up and down a few times, and if they had more than ten minutes there would be some major mouth-to-dick contact going on here— she can't help it, and whatever, fate was kind enough to gift her with a boyfriend who's equally enthusiastic about eating her out, so it's all good. Nymphomaniacs of the world unite.

"Jade," Beck grunts, narrowing his eyes, and fuck she loves it when he says her name like that, all rough and panting. Belatedly she remembers her jeans, her soaking underwear, and whimpers in frustration. She can feel her clit throbbing in time with every breath he takes, her muscles clenching rhythmically; anybody who says there's no female equivalent of blue balls should just try interrupting her right about now.

Her gaze slides to the green glow of the clock. Shit. She lets go of him, takes both her hands back, and sits up on her knees again. The button on her jeans doesn't want to slide through; her underwear clings to her hips. "Fuckin' A," she tries to growl, but it comes out more like moan. "I hate clothes, I hate them, why the fuck aren't we nudists?"

"Here," Beck says, half-exasperated and half-amused, which is the tone he uses with her most of the time. Her pushes the denim down, works on the final layer of lace, his fingers so close that they're making her lose her focus, making everything go blurry at the edges. It's around then, actually, that she also loses her balance, her knees shaking and then forcing her to tumble over, palms hitting the seat behind Beck's head with a soft thump.

"Shit," she breathes, rolling her eyes. Her legs work to kick off the rest of her clothes.

"So," he says, smiling, their faces inches apart. "Come here often?"

She's laughing at the unintentional pun even as she drags her fingers from between her legs—yeah, more than wet enough —to the thick base of him, her free arm reaching out for some kind of balance and finding it on the car roof as she returns to her earlier position. Beck's hand slides from her hip to the place she'd just abandoned, nostrils flaring the moment he brushes the heat, the wet.

"I can't hover forever," she snaps, raised arm shaking slightly, along with the rest of her. His fingers slip seamlessly inside her, then just as quickly back out to rub and tease and slide and oh—

Her will to make this last as long as possible escapes her completely, vanishing with a magician's puff of smoke. They moan together the moment she sinks down, taking all of him into her, inner muscles clamping down so hard she's surprised she can even move. This feeling, Beck all hard and hot inside of her, the clench of his fingers on her soft side, the desperate urge to lean back and rock, writhe— she gives up trying not to, just listens to what her body's telling her, and lets go of the roof to fall forward. Beck catches her, murmurs something into her hair, hands finding hers and locking them with his.

They come up together, Beck shifting so they can both sit. She whimpers reflexively at the motion, the movement of him inside her, the hard grip of his hands. He doesn't stay for long, leans back and catches himself on the one hand he's disengaged from hers, but she shakes the other off quickly to grasp his forearms instead. It makes her moan to lift off of him, but falling back down again is even sweeter.

"God," Jade pants, riding him harder and harder, "it would be awkward if someone opened the door right now."

Beck tries to make a face at her and groan at the same time. He ends up laughing instead, grasping the back of her neck and inching his fingers up until they can comfortably fist in the now-thickened knots of her hair. He waits until she's hovering again, just the first few inches of him throbbing inside of her, before he yanks. Her answering noise is somewhere between a moan and a yelp; goose bumps trail up her neck. Beck's hips are rising up to meet hers, moving easily on the downbeat, a better rhythmic routine than she could ever learn in dance class.

"Hey," he pants, hands sliding to her ass, pulling and pushing and good God— "It would be even more awkward if you managed to hit the horn."

She pauses, frowns, and glares witheringly in the span of about two seconds. "That your way of telling me my ass is in the way? Thanks." But she rolls her hips again anyway, gasping out punctuation, and tries to hold in a variety of sounds when Beck's apology is to slip his fingers between her legs, working at her so well that she has to stop moving for just a moment to let her body catch up with everything. Blood rushes hot and heavy through her, the fingers on and around her clit alternating between the mind-numbing extremes of too much and not enough, until Beck finally pushes up again to latch his mouth onto her neck and help her start moving again.

She's a mess, she really is; her thighs are shaking around his, the sear of him so deep inside stealing almost every coherent brain function. "Beck," she moans, without realizing she's done it until the sound fills up the air around them, moving even faster because she was right, earlier, exactly right: Beck is reasonable at guitar and competent at keyboard, but he has a musician's hands for her body, every part of it; a gift for knowing which stroke will leave her trembling and which will leave her aching for another.

A sharp sting brings everything into closer focus a moment later. Beck releases his teeth from her neck, pulls her hair again, and the little bites of pain only add to the steady thrum between her legs as she twitches around him, throbs, feels that buildbuildbuild of ohitfeelssoGOOD.

"I-I," she whimpers brokenly, her nails leaving crescents in his shoulders where she's found her grip, rising and falling with his movements to aid her, drawing him deeper, harder. "Oh god, I-I'm-"

It's always like this, when she's right on the edge: like time freezes over for a second, just long enough to savor the razorblade-thin moment of sosososoCLOSE. Just long enough for Beck to grab one of her hips, slam her back down, still with his thumb rolling over her swollen clit, just long enough for him to reach up and pull her closer, probably leaving marks on her upper arm when he does, and whisper, "Right now, Jade, right now—"

Nobody orders Jade West around but fuck it all, she listens, burying her face in his hair to muffle the wail that would probably alert plenty of people outside to what's going on right now. Her whole body flushes with heat and pleasure, radiating from between her legs where Beck is still hard inside of her, and her answer to all of it is to cry out again, shaking everywhere, throbbing so hard and so deeply that her fingers have to scrabble for purchase and end up finding Beck's rough hands to clench tight in hers. And just like every other time, she's beyond sure that nothing else has ever felt this fucking good before.

Beck mutters a few more curses under his breath, fuck fuck FUCK, and then his nails are digging into the backs of her hands, he's letting them go to crush her to him, and she whines softly when it only draws out the aftershocks, the feel of him even harder inside and breathing her name against her temple, stroking away the crescent marks on her knuckles, her hips. It takes almost a full minute for them to catch their breath.

"Love," Beck starts blearily, but he's cut off by the shrill ring of the late bell from outside the cocoon they've managed to make. He blinks. "—you."

The rustle of backpacks and papers and shrill voices grows fainter and finally disappears. "We're really dumb," Jade says into the quiet. "Like, for real."

He nods, lets his shoulders drop. "Okay, come on. We have to—"

"No we don't."

"Jade—"

"Well, we're already late," she says impatiently, not moving in the slightest. She wraps her arms around his neck. "Might as well make it worth it."

Beck rolls his eyes. "Oh, and that wasn't?"

She raises an eyebrow and tries not to laugh. "I mean, there was some fumbling going around and you were a little off your form, just saying—"

"Oh, shut up," Beck groans, then kisses her.

It's probably going to be a good day, she figures.