FIC: Of Your Desire
Nov. 25th, 2008 07:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Of Your Desire
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Renee Walker (OFC)
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Teenaged hormones and het. I have SHAME.
Texas, 1996
"It's not the end of the world," Jensen says, and pushes his glasses up. "I can help. It's easy."
Renee grunts and lights another cigarette.
The old tree is really too small for them now. It has been since Jensen grew about two feet overnight and Renee sprouted tits. That doesn't stop them. It has a crook that fits her right, lets her dangle over it like the black jungle cats she's seen on TV. She doesn't tell Jensen about the knot in that branch that hits her between the thighs. He'd probably get a nosebleed.
Jensen can't climb up anymore. The branches groan under his weight. But that's all right, he sits on the ground.
"Enjoy your lung cancer," Jensen says under his breath, and swats up at her as she drops ashes on him. "Anyway. English."
"Fuck English," Renee says. "Fuck high school. I'll get my GED."
Jensen ignores her, and she doesn't blame him. "You need to read a few sonnets and write a paper by Monday. That's nothing."
"Write it for me," she suggests. Rocking idly against the branch, she swings her foot down to hit him in the head. He dodges without looking up. It's an old routine, and she's bored with it. She's bored with their stupid town, the boys with their clumsy hands and the girls who call her a slut because she likes black eyeliner. A few more years of this and she'll become a cliche of herself, when a thousand compromises makes her into her mother.
Frowning up at her, Jensen says with typical geek outrage, "I'm not writing it for you. You wouldn't learn anything."
Renee huffs out a breath and takes another sip off her cigarette. She doesn't like the taste as much as the attention she gets, but hey, at least she's honest about it. "Why is everybody crazy about Shakespeare anyway? Overrated hack."
Sometimes she says shit just to get Jensen riled. He's pretty like that. Poor guy's the prettiest one in town, all green eyes and lush mouth and freckles, skinny hips and pianist hands. Half the girls in school want to get in his pants but he's oblivious, too busy ducking his head and reading his books. Renee remembers sharing grape juice with him and punching the boys who shoved him off of swings. He's like her brother, her wicked-smart drama nerd of a brother. It should make her feel filthy at night, when she's got one hand circling, thinking about his mouth on her, thinking of how he'd blush. It only makes her wetter.
Jensen's eyes go sharp and he points up at her, real stern. "Shakespeare isn't overrated. Putting aside the fact that he's lasted this long, all he writes is sex and violence. Half these sonnets are addressed to his underaged boyfriends. I mean, Marlow's still better, but--"
"Whoever that is," she says, like she doesn't know.
Jensen actually sputters.
Shifting a little, Renee catches him before he can go off on a rant. She tries to sound like some old movie star, all smoky voiced: "So read me the sexy ones, Jensen."
He hesitates, his long fingers on the spine of his textbook. The back of his neck is pale and bare. She wants to touch it and see if it feels as soft as it looks. "You should read them," he says, but it's soft. Half-hearted.
"It's better when you do it," Renee says, and it's so damn wrong to move a little so she can rub against the knot. Her little secret, balmy wet between her thighs while he talks to her. Could she do it like this?
Jensen sighs but opens the book, paging through. It's marked up on the margins with his notes. He pauses on one page, holding it open with two spread fingers. "'Thy b-bosom is...'" Stopping abruptly, Jensen coughs into his fist and turns another page. "Not that one."
"But it has bosoms in it," she teases. "Bosoms are sexy."
The blush creeps up the back of his neck. He coughs again and settles on another poem, resting his fingers on the words. It's dogeared and has notes all over it. His favorite? The sudden intimacy of it creeps up on her, makes her sweat a little. Her cigarette tastes stale now, so she drops it and Jensen automatically grinds it out for her. She drapes an arm over the branch, near her face, and presses her mouth against it. She used to practice kissing like that.
When Jensen speaks again, it's in the voice she knows from drama and from English class. Pitched low and soft, it could be meant for anybody, but he's talking to her tonight. "'Being your slave, what should I do but tend / upon the hours and times of your desire?'"
The words are old, and she could never feel them on her own. Not just ink on a page. But in Jensen's voice, she can feel the longing and the sweetness of it. She grinds lazily against the knot, listening to the rhythm of his words, and feels... she feels good. Desired. It's heady and it's dangerous, this creeping warmth in her belly, coiling like a snake around her spine. She feels dangerous, like she could drop from the tree and pin Jensen to the ground, eating those pretty words out of his mouth.
It's powerful. She's powerful.
"... he thinks no ill.'" The words drain out of Jensen, a hoarse whisper. His spread fingers curl in towards his palm. She can see that he's sweating, too, feverish. She can see him wet his lips, a shy motion that makes her hips jerk cruelly forward, and then he closes the book with a snap. "I should-- it's late."
And she sees. She sees every time they practiced kissing, every look he gave her, every boy she toyed with in front of him. Every girl he turned down. For her, it was for her.
Renee sits up, and she can smell herself, ripe like a fruit. Swinging her leg over the branch, she drops in front of Jensen and stands over him. His lowered head is so close to her, and some wild urge in her says to grab him and press his face there, where she's hottest. Instead, she says, "Hey."
"Don't." That one word is dangerous. Not her little brother, no, a bristling male anger. "I don't want to hear it, whatever you're gonna say."
"What if I'm saying yes?"
"Leave me a little fucking dignity, just this once--" Jensen stops and raises his head to blink at her. "Yes?"
"Yes, I said." Renee kneels beside him. The tree, their tree, is hidden enough from view. Their little secret. Reaching out, she takes his hands off his book. He trembles in her grip and that's a high as sweet as honey. "Yes," she repeats, and eases his hands up under her shirt. They're cold and rougher than she thought. Her breath shudders out, and he looks at her, wonder in his eyes. Her cupped hands close around his, trapping them to her breasts, and she says, "Yes."
Author:
nilchanceRating: Adult
Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Renee Walker (OFC)
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Teenaged hormones and het. I have SHAME.
Texas, 1996
"It's not the end of the world," Jensen says, and pushes his glasses up. "I can help. It's easy."
Renee grunts and lights another cigarette.
The old tree is really too small for them now. It has been since Jensen grew about two feet overnight and Renee sprouted tits. That doesn't stop them. It has a crook that fits her right, lets her dangle over it like the black jungle cats she's seen on TV. She doesn't tell Jensen about the knot in that branch that hits her between the thighs. He'd probably get a nosebleed.
Jensen can't climb up anymore. The branches groan under his weight. But that's all right, he sits on the ground.
"Enjoy your lung cancer," Jensen says under his breath, and swats up at her as she drops ashes on him. "Anyway. English."
"Fuck English," Renee says. "Fuck high school. I'll get my GED."
Jensen ignores her, and she doesn't blame him. "You need to read a few sonnets and write a paper by Monday. That's nothing."
"Write it for me," she suggests. Rocking idly against the branch, she swings her foot down to hit him in the head. He dodges without looking up. It's an old routine, and she's bored with it. She's bored with their stupid town, the boys with their clumsy hands and the girls who call her a slut because she likes black eyeliner. A few more years of this and she'll become a cliche of herself, when a thousand compromises makes her into her mother.
Frowning up at her, Jensen says with typical geek outrage, "I'm not writing it for you. You wouldn't learn anything."
Renee huffs out a breath and takes another sip off her cigarette. She doesn't like the taste as much as the attention she gets, but hey, at least she's honest about it. "Why is everybody crazy about Shakespeare anyway? Overrated hack."
Sometimes she says shit just to get Jensen riled. He's pretty like that. Poor guy's the prettiest one in town, all green eyes and lush mouth and freckles, skinny hips and pianist hands. Half the girls in school want to get in his pants but he's oblivious, too busy ducking his head and reading his books. Renee remembers sharing grape juice with him and punching the boys who shoved him off of swings. He's like her brother, her wicked-smart drama nerd of a brother. It should make her feel filthy at night, when she's got one hand circling, thinking about his mouth on her, thinking of how he'd blush. It only makes her wetter.
Jensen's eyes go sharp and he points up at her, real stern. "Shakespeare isn't overrated. Putting aside the fact that he's lasted this long, all he writes is sex and violence. Half these sonnets are addressed to his underaged boyfriends. I mean, Marlow's still better, but--"
"Whoever that is," she says, like she doesn't know.
Jensen actually sputters.
Shifting a little, Renee catches him before he can go off on a rant. She tries to sound like some old movie star, all smoky voiced: "So read me the sexy ones, Jensen."
He hesitates, his long fingers on the spine of his textbook. The back of his neck is pale and bare. She wants to touch it and see if it feels as soft as it looks. "You should read them," he says, but it's soft. Half-hearted.
"It's better when you do it," Renee says, and it's so damn wrong to move a little so she can rub against the knot. Her little secret, balmy wet between her thighs while he talks to her. Could she do it like this?
Jensen sighs but opens the book, paging through. It's marked up on the margins with his notes. He pauses on one page, holding it open with two spread fingers. "'Thy b-bosom is...'" Stopping abruptly, Jensen coughs into his fist and turns another page. "Not that one."
"But it has bosoms in it," she teases. "Bosoms are sexy."
The blush creeps up the back of his neck. He coughs again and settles on another poem, resting his fingers on the words. It's dogeared and has notes all over it. His favorite? The sudden intimacy of it creeps up on her, makes her sweat a little. Her cigarette tastes stale now, so she drops it and Jensen automatically grinds it out for her. She drapes an arm over the branch, near her face, and presses her mouth against it. She used to practice kissing like that.
When Jensen speaks again, it's in the voice she knows from drama and from English class. Pitched low and soft, it could be meant for anybody, but he's talking to her tonight. "'Being your slave, what should I do but tend / upon the hours and times of your desire?'"
The words are old, and she could never feel them on her own. Not just ink on a page. But in Jensen's voice, she can feel the longing and the sweetness of it. She grinds lazily against the knot, listening to the rhythm of his words, and feels... she feels good. Desired. It's heady and it's dangerous, this creeping warmth in her belly, coiling like a snake around her spine. She feels dangerous, like she could drop from the tree and pin Jensen to the ground, eating those pretty words out of his mouth.
It's powerful. She's powerful.
"... he thinks no ill.'" The words drain out of Jensen, a hoarse whisper. His spread fingers curl in towards his palm. She can see that he's sweating, too, feverish. She can see him wet his lips, a shy motion that makes her hips jerk cruelly forward, and then he closes the book with a snap. "I should-- it's late."
And she sees. She sees every time they practiced kissing, every look he gave her, every boy she toyed with in front of him. Every girl he turned down. For her, it was for her.
Renee sits up, and she can smell herself, ripe like a fruit. Swinging her leg over the branch, she drops in front of Jensen and stands over him. His lowered head is so close to her, and some wild urge in her says to grab him and press his face there, where she's hottest. Instead, she says, "Hey."
"Don't." That one word is dangerous. Not her little brother, no, a bristling male anger. "I don't want to hear it, whatever you're gonna say."
"What if I'm saying yes?"
"Leave me a little fucking dignity, just this once--" Jensen stops and raises his head to blink at her. "Yes?"
"Yes, I said." Renee kneels beside him. The tree, their tree, is hidden enough from view. Their little secret. Reaching out, she takes his hands off his book. He trembles in her grip and that's a high as sweet as honey. "Yes," she repeats, and eases his hands up under her shirt. They're cold and rougher than she thought. Her breath shudders out, and he looks at her, wonder in his eyes. Her cupped hands close around his, trapping them to her breasts, and she says, "Yes."