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Seasonal Flavor

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Nobody really gets Tommy Oliver's deal.

Tommy Oliver has been at Angel Grove long enough that people are talking, but not long enough to stop them saying "the new kid." Tommy Oliver drives a motorcycle to school (the most popular rumor is that the Saturday detentions are for parking in the principal's spot the very first day), a sleek, black thing you can hear a block away. Tommy Oliver wears a vintage leather jacket and distressed jeans, or maybe it's the other way around, and the ass packed into the jeans make girls turn to watch it go, while the biceps under the jacket make their boyfriends take a second glance as well. Tommy Oliver sits in the back of every class and never says a word other than "here" at attendance. Tommy Oliver has an undercut sweeping back far enough to show off the piercings, but still enough hair on top to fall over one eye, making the arched eyebrow opposite look bored or sarcastic, or both.

Tommy Oliver looks for all the world like the living embodiment of does not give one single fuck, and it's that more than anything that makes attention naturally gravitate to her.

"What's your problem?!" Jordan (or maybe it's Jordyn, or Jada? Kimberly couldn't be fucked to remember the squad freshmen even back when she was supposed to) demands when Tommy jostles her as she squeezes past Jordan in the crowded hallway. Tommy doesn't even turn at Jordan's words, and Jordan scowls harder at being ignored, hands on her hips. "HEY!"

"Maybe you're her problem," Kimberly suggests, sliding in to cut off Jordan's line of sight. Kimberly takes a step into Jordan's space. "Maybe you're my problem, too, huh?"

"Class, ladies!" snaps a teacher from behind them, making Jordan turn, and Kimberly is glad to slip away at the interruption. There's making a point and then there's just asking for it, and contrary to popular opinion, she does actually know the difference.

In detention a few days later there's no crowded hallway to obscure the way Kimberly keeps looking, eyes drifting back to broken-in leather and the glint of an inner ear piercing Kimberly always forgets the name of. Tommy catches her at it, brown gaze even. Kimberly tries to meet it, to win, but she ends up looking away first, scowling at her barely halfway finished history assignment.

"She's fuckin' cute, right?" Trini says that afternoon, flopped across the end of her bed with a pillow clutched to her chest, feet swinging over the side. Kimberly comes over to her house after detention some Saturdays, since she knows how to turn on the charm just so for parents. Sometimes it makes Trini's mom unclench the tiniest bit, to know Trini's spending more time with "such a nice, level-headed girl." Shows what she knows.

Trini doesn't have to clarify that they are talking about Tommy Oliver.

"Mmn," Kimberly answers, noncommittal. She's leaning against Trini's headboard, flipping through a fashion magazine that she isn't even sure why she bought. Trini slaps at Kimberly's ankles for her full attention, like a cat. "What?"

"Come on, even Zack was into her," Trini presses.

Kimberly rolls her eyes. "Then you should've brought him home if you wanted to gossip about it."

"Nuh-uhhh, don't act like you weren't looking." Trini sits up suddenly to lean closer, into Kimberly's space. "I saw you. Like you were looking at a new flavor of ice cream in the freezer section."

"The clock was right above her head!" Kimberly retorts, but truthfully she can still picture it, Tommy's hair over her eye on one side and eyebrow arched high on the other, the tan curve of her shoulder and the hint of smirk when she'd caught Kimberly watching.

"A really good flavor," Trini continues, undeterred. She waggles her eyebrows. "Shit you can't get all the time. Seasonal."

"Shut the fuck UP," Kimberly demands, making Trini crack up. Kimberly shoves her away, biting on her lower lip not to laugh too.

Trini collapses back to her original position, arms thrown out like she's making a snow angel against her blankets, staring at the ceiling. "I wouldn't say no to a ride on that bike, though, right? Wonder what it's like to have that between your legs."

Kimberly doesn't have to wonder, but Trini doesn't know that. Nobody else knows that after Kimberly goes home and up to her room, she goes right back out through the window after sunset and cuts through the backyard of the house catty-corner to her own. She waits in the gathering dark, her back pressed against the rough bark of the tree that's shielding her from street view, digging the toe of her sneaker idly in the dirt.

It's ten minutes, fifteen max, before she hears the engine, and when its rumble is almost on top of her, she steps out, dusting bits of bark off her shoulders.

Tommy has the same leather jacket and olive tank top from that morning; she eyes Kimberly's mini-skirt with a raised eyebrow. "That's your idea of appropriate motorcycle clothing?" she asks. Her voice is pitched low, and Kimberly isn't sure whether it's just for the quiet or if it sounds like that all the time.

Kimberly puts her hands on her hips. "You gonna send me back up to my room to change, Dad?"

Tommy snorts softly as she hands over the spare helmet. It's tight, crushing Kimberly's hair flat, but beggars can't be choosers unless she wants to buy her own, so she straps it on without complaint and straddles the back of the bike. The bike is too loud for the suburban evening, making Kimberly grit her teeth, but they're out of the development soon enough, the road opening up in front of them as Kimberly leans into Tommy's back. Riding pillion is mostly a matter of kinesthetics, of leaning into turns when Tommy does; it's easy to melt into the vibration of the bike between her thighs, Tommy's waist warm under her palms, the jacket butter soft against her cheek.

This time Kimberly takes Tommy up to the cliff face, even though it's too cold to swim tonight and it stormed earlier, making the water too rough to chance a dive anyway. Kimberly wonders what would happen if next time she told Tommy to jump, or if she just did it herself without warning. It's clear out, the same wind that's scudding the few remaining clouds over the stars brushing over Kimberly's bare legs and arms, leaning her tight into Tommy's side.

"You know," Tommy starts, clearly about to start in about the mini-skirt again, but Kimberly sits up to straddle Tommy's thighs and sinks down into the warmth of her lap, the denim of Tommy's jeans rough against the inside of her thighs in a way that sends warmth spreading over her skin. Tommy's mouth is even warmer, opening easily to Kimberly's pressure.

If nobody in Angel Grove gets Tommy's deal, then they certainly don't know any of this: the feel of Tommy's undercut under Kimberly's fingertips, the heat of Tommy's palm sliding up under the back of Kimberly's T-shirt, down along the back of her thigh, the wet of her mouth moving down Kimberly's neck and into the curve of her shoulder, the sharp edge of her teeth against Kimberly's collarbone. Those same hands push Kimberly's shirt up out of the way, her mouth closing over Kimberly's nipple, making her back arch. Kimberly scrabbles for a grip on the leather covering Tommy's shoulders, then slides her hands underneath so she can dig her nails into skin instead, making Tommy grunt against her skin.

Abruptly Tommy tips her forward to fall on her back, only a split second of cold air against wet skin before Tommy follows, pressing flush against her. The grass is damp against Kimberly's back, but Tommy is warm enough to make up for it, her mouth back on Kimberly's and hands on Kimberly's sides, tracing the edges of Kimberly's ribs with her thumbs. Tommy is the aggressor of the kiss this time; Kimberly gives up control willingly. It feels so good to lose herself in the heat of Tommy's skin and the roughness of her grip, to not think about anything besides the slick, open-mouthed kisses Tommy trails between her breasts and down her stomach. When she goes too slowly, Kimberly works her fingers into the longer strands of hair on the back of Tommy's head and pushes.

Tommy pauses with Kimberly's skirt hiked up nearly to her waist, making Kimberly squirm with impatience.

"What?" Kimberly demands.

"It's just." Tommy trails a finger along the elastic edge of Kimberly's panties, half on the cotton, half on Kimberly's overheated skin. "Are you wearing anything that isn't pink?"

"Who gives a fuck?" Kimberly demands, giving Tommy's hair a yank, but it's the wrong thing to do because Tommy only chuckles and takes exactly as much time as she damn well pleases, the wet heat of her mouth lingering on the inside of Kimberly's thigh until she's strung taut as a wire.

Eventually they watch the moon rise between the tree branches, Tommy's head in Kimberly's lap and her jacket on Kimberly's shoulders. It smells like leather and gasoline and grass, like summer.

"Did you really park in the principal's spot?" Kimberly asks. She pushes Tommy's hair back with her fingers, so that she can see both eyes for once.

Tommy traces shapes on Kimberly's skin just above her knee, circles and figure eights. "What do you think?"

"How should I know?" Kimberly shrugs a shoulder, the jacket lining shifting silkily against her skin. "Nobody at school really gets your deal."

"Mm." Tommy smiles faintly, just the corner of her mouth curling up. "What makes you think they get yours?"