FIC! PADACKLES! FORTS!
#1) In honor of Sock Puppet Theatre day, I figured I would bring a dose of dirtybadwrong to this journal for your sockpuppets to troll! (troll away, little puppets. TROLL AWAY!) That leads me to number two...
FIC!
This fic is a big fat everything into one fic.
Fort Padackles origin story that I promised helpwess? DONE!
The land of Jared/Jensen fanon and heavy-duty Texas clichés that we talked about over Sweetleaf Tea at Central Market? (Because really, really, if you're going to write TEXAS, you'd better know your shit, and sadly, some folk just don't know their shit.) COVERED.
Gratuitous making out against a wall? OH YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT.
Annoying fic formatting:
Fic: I'll Bring the Pillows aka FORT PADACKLES; or, TEXAS/TEXAS.
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles.
Rating: T for NON-STOP TEXASOSITY. And boykissing. Boykissing gets a "T", right?
Author: missdeviant
Words: 2,368
Dedication: For B. I wasn't born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.
WARNING: CONTAINS ENOUGH TEXAS TO SLAUGHTER A STEER WITH ONLY A WELL-TIMED LOOK.
Feedback = love and ponies.
If the Texas history books got it right - and truth be told, sometimes they didn't - the Mexicans lay siege to the Alamo for thirteen straight days. Every night, the Texans rebuilt their wall, trying to hold back an enemy that wouldn't quit.
On the thirteenth day, the wall finally fell.
I'll Bring the Pillows
Growing up in Texas, you're taught some things that aren't common in the rest of the world. Like that come April you'd best start praying for a cloud or two to come and cover up the heat that doesn't just hit at noon, it meanders along at nine a.m. and doesn't quit until the sun sinks below the horizon, if you're lucky, or until November, if you're not.
Or that you'd better layer up with Deep Woods Off if you're heading outside for longer than just to get the mail and put up your stars-and-stripes. That's because those Asian Tiger Mosquitoes that rode in on truck tires and spread out through Houston and beyond are nasty motherfuckers, and they bite in full sun on your porch just as much as they do in the waist deep weeds that are best for playing cowboys and Indians, or Cowboys and Mexicans, or Cowboys and Oilers - whatever big knock down drag out battle Texas is fighting this week.
Jared can't hear "the stars at night are big and bright" without busting out a four-clap staccato as followup.
Jensen misses driving down I-35 and seeing Longhorn steers under the four lane interchange.
You can take the boy out of Texas, but you can't take the Texas out of the boy.
That's what the well-meaning stylists always say when they're propping wide-brimmed hats on Jared and Jensen's heads for photo shoots. More often than not, Jared rolls his eyes at Jen and thumbs the silver Lone Star belt buckle that's affixed to the front of his jeans, as if to say the buckles are one thing, but HATS?
Texas schools teach Texas history like it's bible truth, like it's salvation. When Jensen gets to L.A. he's surprised that the whole world didn't grow up learning about the Runaway Scrape and that the pretty Yellow Rose isn't just a flower; everyone believes that the Alamo is huge and still standing (not just the chapel) and he's pretty sure that no one outside of Texas can remember when to pronounce the "x" all harsh and gritty, like the name of the state itself, and when to roll over it like Bexar, slurring your letters together like you've had a twelve-bottle Lone Star night.
Hell, even sometimes he's not sure if he's got it right.
The way Jen's got it figured, being from Texas says more about you as a person than what school you went to, what political bent you have, or which way you swing. Then again, being from Texas, people always assume the answers to those questions are as plain as the Rio Grande: UT or A & M, Republican redder than a ripe strawberry, and straight as an arrow.
Being from Texas also means the girls' thighs part a little quicker, though being prettier than a stormy sunset and on a television show helps too. Doesn't matter if he's really got an accent or not, all they have to do is believe he does. He'll give a wide-ass grin, throw in a "y'all" or two for effect and he's got 'em up against stall doors in a dusty bar bathroom or pressed against the bark of a tall tall tree in a forest preserve, or on their backs on a set of fine cotton sheets.
Folks from Texas got a lot of reputation to live up to. You've got to have heart big enough to hold the world, and dick big enough to fill it.
But there are some truths about being from Texas. High school boys drive pickup trucks up and down the main drags of dusty towns like they're in a Linklater film and sing the praises of football to the high heavens.
In Texas, you either play football, or you cheer on the boys.
Jensen cheered on the boys.
*
"Oh, man, remember fourth grade?"
"The year of Texas history, how could I forget?"
"We acted out all the battles…"
"Hey, we SANG out the battles."
"I played the mighty Mexican General Santa Anna."
"I bet you did, soldier. I'm sure they left out the part about the sultry lady of the night who aided in your downfall."
"They always do."
*
The fact that Jensen and Jared are both from Texas is enough for some people to group them together for a lump-sum payment. A giant two for one deal with enough drawl and slang and swagger to keep your panties moist for a week.
It's one hell of a PR scheme.
Jared lets the generalizations roll off his back, but it scratches under Jen's skin, and if he stops fighting it long enough for it to catch, he ends up spending the rest of the day with a permanent scowl.
Texas is one big state, and he and Jared? Hell, there's a lot more than a 275 mile stretch of steaming multi lane blacktop between where they're from.
People forget that San Antonio sits on a battleground. When Jensen thinks about where Jared came from, that feels just about accurate.
*
"You ever think about the cardboard sets and construction paper fires we had in those dinky little shows back then? Kinda makes this feel all the more magical."
"What? Acting? Fake blood and fake guts and CGI monsters that're added in post-production?"
"Yeah."
"Here, I run from a piece of green paper on a stick. Back then, when I hit James Bowie with my sword, he really bled."
"If I remember your version of your fourth grade play correctly, Bowie was a chick in a striped leotard and pigtails."
"You're saying that's NOT scary?"
"I'm saying you made a girl bleed."
"Touche."
*
Jensen's tired of bumper stickers that read "I'm not from Texas, but I got here as fast as I could." Not when he spent his first free moments of adulthood running the other way. High school graduation and out like a shot, to his chance at fame and fortune and - well, he's gonna admit it - a few roles he could have lived without.
But getting away from Texas had its advantages.
L.A doesn't care who you fuck, as long as you look pretty while you do it.
*
"This is a dumb idea."
"You always say that you're trying to recapture your youth."
"I meant I wanted to be sixteen again, with magically reloading hard-ons."
Jared peeks out from under the king sized blanket that's draped over his set of dining room chairs. "Do you want sulk, or do you want to give me the chance to play a good guy this time?"
Jensen sighs, rubs the back of his neck with his hand. Squats down and peeks inside the makeshift tent
"Fine. But if you cross me, Bowie, I'm getting you with my sword."
*
Building the fort is Jared's lousy idea. The sky's been black for three days straight and leaving the house to go to a bar means that they'll be left squeezing out the cuffs of their jeans in bathroom sinks for a good ten minutes after they get wherever they're going.
It only takes three beers to start reminiscing, three more and Jared's pulled all of the covers off his bed, arranged the chairs in the middle of the living room, and set up a pile of unpacked boxes as a makeshift barricade. Jensen lounges on the sofa during all of this, lips around a bottle and surfing the flickering cable until he happens upon a History Channel documentary.
It's grainy black and white, all about the Nazis. Those History Channel shows always are. But he figures its function is to set the mood, anyway, and as long as there's a war raging somewhere in the background, it seems fitting.
Jared's tall enough that his head scrapes the lighting fixtures in his dining room, so when he pops on a cowboy hat and folds himself up like the world's most overgrown nine year old to get inside their tent of blankets, Jensen bursts out laughing at the absurdity of it all.
He climbs inside anyway, folds his legs Indian style.
"Welcome to Fort…" Jared trails off. His face is flushed.
"Griffin? McKavett? Clark? Davis?" Jensen ticks them off his fingers, talking slower than usual cause the beer and the rain and goddamn Jared Padalecki in a cowboy hat grinning like he's in fourth grade have taken hold of his thoughts. But they're in there all right, long forgotten names drilled into his head at age nine that somehow managed to stick. "Or, wait. Isn't this supposed to be the Alamo?"
"I was thinking…maybe it could be called something with our names in it," Jared says. "It's ours, you know."
The way he says 'ours' is enough to make Jensen's gut clench, the way Jared's face gets red when he says it sends it twisting.
Then, with a boom and a crack, the lights go out.
*
"God, don't you know forts are supposed to have flashlights?"
"I'm the fort expert?"
"You built the goddamn thing."
"This is the frontier. Real men don't need flashlights."
*
It's a mess and a hurry and they both stand up in the dark, slip-tangle in the blankets and fall all over. Jensen bangs his knee on one of the chairs holding up their contraption, knocks it over and hurtles off balance, but he's still connected to Jared through a blanket and he yanks him along with him until he hits the wall.
Jensen finds equilibrium quick enough but Jared takes a second longer, so that he's still leaning half his weight on Jensen when Jensen's already standing. That's the only explanation for the weight of Jared's hands pressing against his shoulders, pressing Jen's back into the wall, the knee pinning his thigh.
Right?
Jared's cowboy hat is pressed down so that his hair is in his eyes and the blanket-fort-blanket is around both their ankles and he's looking down at Jensen in a really un-Texas like fashion. Jensen doesn't have time to think about that long stretch of asphalt between them or the fort or Santa Anna and how his resolve was broken by one night by a freed black woman; how his men betrayed his disguise by saluting him as he was dressed as a common soldier and how he lost the war.
Jen's gotta be honest about defeat, because he's been losing to Jared since the first day he walked on set, shook Jared's hand, eyed the flash of his giant belt buckle and the shine of his teeth.
Jensen's back is up against the wall and the corner of a picture frame is digging into his back. Jared's looking down at him with his tongue all pink and peeking out of the corner of his mouth. He's got his hand fisted in the front of Jensen's shirt and Jen grins. Oh, yes, he grins, finally, FINALLY. One of his best, his "Fuck Y'all, I’m from Texas" grin.
"Pretty good fort you built, Jared," he says and licks his lips, tastes beer and salt.
That's enough preamble, then their mouths find each other, hot and wet and open. Bigger, wider, faster, because Texas never found a word it couldn't add an "-er" to. Jared's tongue finds the back of Jensen's teeth and he moans, no, growls.
Then their hands are inside each others shirts and pants in the dark. Jensen's glad it's likely black enough that Jared can't see his expression because he feels ridiculous, then his hand goes up to Jared's head and he feels that Jared is STILL wearing the cowboy hat and he feels slightly less ridiculous as he paws at Jared's back, his chest. He rolls a nipple under his fingers and Jared jerks against him.
Jared's knee thumps between his, against the wall, pinning Jensen. Jared's got at least three inches and god knows how many pounds on him and the weight and length of him makes Jensen instantly hard, though the way Jared was sucking on his earlobe would have worked its magic in a minute or two anyway.
Jen's head falls back and cracks against the picture frame, knocking it to the floor. Then Jared's laughing and he's laughing and that's the moment when the lights flicker and turn on.
Jared steps back like he's picked the wrong bean from the pot and offers a nervous-shy smile, high stepping his way out of the blankets. Jensen hesitates for a moment. His heart thuds against his ribs and the top button on his jeans is popped. Jared's shirt is rucked up around his middle and his cowboy hat is askew.
They're both panting.
Shit, boy, he thinks to himself, you sure stepped in a pile this time.
The silence has a buzz to it, Jensen thinks, then he realizes that's just the television, then the Nazis start shouting in German and Jared's dogs start barking and Jensen says, "Well, fuck. I don't remember that part from the fourth grade."
That's enough to break the silence and they both collapse on the heap of blankets, laughing.
They're still choking and sputtering like an old F-150 engine when Jared creaks out "Padackles. Fort Padackles. That's the name"
Jensen looks over at where Jared's lolling, head back and jeans tight across the front and for a second he wants to say, shit, that is the craziest thing I ever heard.
Except it's not. Cause Jared's hand is on his ass and they're lying on blankets next to knocked-down chairs from the goddamn FORT they just built, and he gets to feeling that he's on the verge of hearing something that's a lot more crazy, and he thinks - he thinks he's finally ready to shore up and hear it.
So instead he just clears his throat, stands up and says, "Best get to rebuilding. Got a long night ahead and this wall won't hold much longer."
- end -
A/N: In honor of Jensen and how he gave his all for Texas, piece by piece
A/N #2: I wrote part of this at work tonight and if you thought I had qualms about typing lines such as "L.A doesn't care who you fuck, as long as you look pretty while you do it" into Word while children were five feet away, you would be WRONG.
A/N #3: Fort Padackles TM buffyx.
FIC!
This fic is a big fat everything into one fic.
Fort Padackles origin story that I promised helpwess? DONE!
The land of Jared/Jensen fanon and heavy-duty Texas clichés that we talked about over Sweetleaf Tea at Central Market? (Because really, really, if you're going to write TEXAS, you'd better know your shit, and sadly, some folk just don't know their shit.) COVERED.
Gratuitous making out against a wall? OH YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT.
Annoying fic formatting:
Fic: I'll Bring the Pillows aka FORT PADACKLES; or, TEXAS/TEXAS.
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles.
Rating: T for NON-STOP TEXASOSITY. And boykissing. Boykissing gets a "T", right?
Author: missdeviant
Words: 2,368
Dedication: For B. I wasn't born in Texas, but I got here as fast as I could.
WARNING: CONTAINS ENOUGH TEXAS TO SLAUGHTER A STEER WITH ONLY A WELL-TIMED LOOK.
Feedback = love and ponies.
If the Texas history books got it right - and truth be told, sometimes they didn't - the Mexicans lay siege to the Alamo for thirteen straight days. Every night, the Texans rebuilt their wall, trying to hold back an enemy that wouldn't quit.
On the thirteenth day, the wall finally fell.
I'll Bring the Pillows
Growing up in Texas, you're taught some things that aren't common in the rest of the world. Like that come April you'd best start praying for a cloud or two to come and cover up the heat that doesn't just hit at noon, it meanders along at nine a.m. and doesn't quit until the sun sinks below the horizon, if you're lucky, or until November, if you're not.
Or that you'd better layer up with Deep Woods Off if you're heading outside for longer than just to get the mail and put up your stars-and-stripes. That's because those Asian Tiger Mosquitoes that rode in on truck tires and spread out through Houston and beyond are nasty motherfuckers, and they bite in full sun on your porch just as much as they do in the waist deep weeds that are best for playing cowboys and Indians, or Cowboys and Mexicans, or Cowboys and Oilers - whatever big knock down drag out battle Texas is fighting this week.
Jared can't hear "the stars at night are big and bright" without busting out a four-clap staccato as followup.
Jensen misses driving down I-35 and seeing Longhorn steers under the four lane interchange.
You can take the boy out of Texas, but you can't take the Texas out of the boy.
That's what the well-meaning stylists always say when they're propping wide-brimmed hats on Jared and Jensen's heads for photo shoots. More often than not, Jared rolls his eyes at Jen and thumbs the silver Lone Star belt buckle that's affixed to the front of his jeans, as if to say the buckles are one thing, but HATS?
Texas schools teach Texas history like it's bible truth, like it's salvation. When Jensen gets to L.A. he's surprised that the whole world didn't grow up learning about the Runaway Scrape and that the pretty Yellow Rose isn't just a flower; everyone believes that the Alamo is huge and still standing (not just the chapel) and he's pretty sure that no one outside of Texas can remember when to pronounce the "x" all harsh and gritty, like the name of the state itself, and when to roll over it like Bexar, slurring your letters together like you've had a twelve-bottle Lone Star night.
Hell, even sometimes he's not sure if he's got it right.
The way Jen's got it figured, being from Texas says more about you as a person than what school you went to, what political bent you have, or which way you swing. Then again, being from Texas, people always assume the answers to those questions are as plain as the Rio Grande: UT or A & M, Republican redder than a ripe strawberry, and straight as an arrow.
Being from Texas also means the girls' thighs part a little quicker, though being prettier than a stormy sunset and on a television show helps too. Doesn't matter if he's really got an accent or not, all they have to do is believe he does. He'll give a wide-ass grin, throw in a "y'all" or two for effect and he's got 'em up against stall doors in a dusty bar bathroom or pressed against the bark of a tall tall tree in a forest preserve, or on their backs on a set of fine cotton sheets.
Folks from Texas got a lot of reputation to live up to. You've got to have heart big enough to hold the world, and dick big enough to fill it.
But there are some truths about being from Texas. High school boys drive pickup trucks up and down the main drags of dusty towns like they're in a Linklater film and sing the praises of football to the high heavens.
In Texas, you either play football, or you cheer on the boys.
Jensen cheered on the boys.
*
"Oh, man, remember fourth grade?"
"The year of Texas history, how could I forget?"
"We acted out all the battles…"
"Hey, we SANG out the battles."
"I played the mighty Mexican General Santa Anna."
"I bet you did, soldier. I'm sure they left out the part about the sultry lady of the night who aided in your downfall."
"They always do."
*
The fact that Jensen and Jared are both from Texas is enough for some people to group them together for a lump-sum payment. A giant two for one deal with enough drawl and slang and swagger to keep your panties moist for a week.
It's one hell of a PR scheme.
Jared lets the generalizations roll off his back, but it scratches under Jen's skin, and if he stops fighting it long enough for it to catch, he ends up spending the rest of the day with a permanent scowl.
Texas is one big state, and he and Jared? Hell, there's a lot more than a 275 mile stretch of steaming multi lane blacktop between where they're from.
People forget that San Antonio sits on a battleground. When Jensen thinks about where Jared came from, that feels just about accurate.
*
"You ever think about the cardboard sets and construction paper fires we had in those dinky little shows back then? Kinda makes this feel all the more magical."
"What? Acting? Fake blood and fake guts and CGI monsters that're added in post-production?"
"Yeah."
"Here, I run from a piece of green paper on a stick. Back then, when I hit James Bowie with my sword, he really bled."
"If I remember your version of your fourth grade play correctly, Bowie was a chick in a striped leotard and pigtails."
"You're saying that's NOT scary?"
"I'm saying you made a girl bleed."
"Touche."
*
Jensen's tired of bumper stickers that read "I'm not from Texas, but I got here as fast as I could." Not when he spent his first free moments of adulthood running the other way. High school graduation and out like a shot, to his chance at fame and fortune and - well, he's gonna admit it - a few roles he could have lived without.
But getting away from Texas had its advantages.
L.A doesn't care who you fuck, as long as you look pretty while you do it.
*
"This is a dumb idea."
"You always say that you're trying to recapture your youth."
"I meant I wanted to be sixteen again, with magically reloading hard-ons."
Jared peeks out from under the king sized blanket that's draped over his set of dining room chairs. "Do you want sulk, or do you want to give me the chance to play a good guy this time?"
Jensen sighs, rubs the back of his neck with his hand. Squats down and peeks inside the makeshift tent
"Fine. But if you cross me, Bowie, I'm getting you with my sword."
*
Building the fort is Jared's lousy idea. The sky's been black for three days straight and leaving the house to go to a bar means that they'll be left squeezing out the cuffs of their jeans in bathroom sinks for a good ten minutes after they get wherever they're going.
It only takes three beers to start reminiscing, three more and Jared's pulled all of the covers off his bed, arranged the chairs in the middle of the living room, and set up a pile of unpacked boxes as a makeshift barricade. Jensen lounges on the sofa during all of this, lips around a bottle and surfing the flickering cable until he happens upon a History Channel documentary.
It's grainy black and white, all about the Nazis. Those History Channel shows always are. But he figures its function is to set the mood, anyway, and as long as there's a war raging somewhere in the background, it seems fitting.
Jared's tall enough that his head scrapes the lighting fixtures in his dining room, so when he pops on a cowboy hat and folds himself up like the world's most overgrown nine year old to get inside their tent of blankets, Jensen bursts out laughing at the absurdity of it all.
He climbs inside anyway, folds his legs Indian style.
"Welcome to Fort…" Jared trails off. His face is flushed.
"Griffin? McKavett? Clark? Davis?" Jensen ticks them off his fingers, talking slower than usual cause the beer and the rain and goddamn Jared Padalecki in a cowboy hat grinning like he's in fourth grade have taken hold of his thoughts. But they're in there all right, long forgotten names drilled into his head at age nine that somehow managed to stick. "Or, wait. Isn't this supposed to be the Alamo?"
"I was thinking…maybe it could be called something with our names in it," Jared says. "It's ours, you know."
The way he says 'ours' is enough to make Jensen's gut clench, the way Jared's face gets red when he says it sends it twisting.
Then, with a boom and a crack, the lights go out.
*
"God, don't you know forts are supposed to have flashlights?"
"I'm the fort expert?"
"You built the goddamn thing."
"This is the frontier. Real men don't need flashlights."
*
It's a mess and a hurry and they both stand up in the dark, slip-tangle in the blankets and fall all over. Jensen bangs his knee on one of the chairs holding up their contraption, knocks it over and hurtles off balance, but he's still connected to Jared through a blanket and he yanks him along with him until he hits the wall.
Jensen finds equilibrium quick enough but Jared takes a second longer, so that he's still leaning half his weight on Jensen when Jensen's already standing. That's the only explanation for the weight of Jared's hands pressing against his shoulders, pressing Jen's back into the wall, the knee pinning his thigh.
Right?
Jared's cowboy hat is pressed down so that his hair is in his eyes and the blanket-fort-blanket is around both their ankles and he's looking down at Jensen in a really un-Texas like fashion. Jensen doesn't have time to think about that long stretch of asphalt between them or the fort or Santa Anna and how his resolve was broken by one night by a freed black woman; how his men betrayed his disguise by saluting him as he was dressed as a common soldier and how he lost the war.
Jen's gotta be honest about defeat, because he's been losing to Jared since the first day he walked on set, shook Jared's hand, eyed the flash of his giant belt buckle and the shine of his teeth.
Jensen's back is up against the wall and the corner of a picture frame is digging into his back. Jared's looking down at him with his tongue all pink and peeking out of the corner of his mouth. He's got his hand fisted in the front of Jensen's shirt and Jen grins. Oh, yes, he grins, finally, FINALLY. One of his best, his "Fuck Y'all, I’m from Texas" grin.
"Pretty good fort you built, Jared," he says and licks his lips, tastes beer and salt.
That's enough preamble, then their mouths find each other, hot and wet and open. Bigger, wider, faster, because Texas never found a word it couldn't add an "-er" to. Jared's tongue finds the back of Jensen's teeth and he moans, no, growls.
Then their hands are inside each others shirts and pants in the dark. Jensen's glad it's likely black enough that Jared can't see his expression because he feels ridiculous, then his hand goes up to Jared's head and he feels that Jared is STILL wearing the cowboy hat and he feels slightly less ridiculous as he paws at Jared's back, his chest. He rolls a nipple under his fingers and Jared jerks against him.
Jared's knee thumps between his, against the wall, pinning Jensen. Jared's got at least three inches and god knows how many pounds on him and the weight and length of him makes Jensen instantly hard, though the way Jared was sucking on his earlobe would have worked its magic in a minute or two anyway.
Jen's head falls back and cracks against the picture frame, knocking it to the floor. Then Jared's laughing and he's laughing and that's the moment when the lights flicker and turn on.
Jared steps back like he's picked the wrong bean from the pot and offers a nervous-shy smile, high stepping his way out of the blankets. Jensen hesitates for a moment. His heart thuds against his ribs and the top button on his jeans is popped. Jared's shirt is rucked up around his middle and his cowboy hat is askew.
They're both panting.
Shit, boy, he thinks to himself, you sure stepped in a pile this time.
The silence has a buzz to it, Jensen thinks, then he realizes that's just the television, then the Nazis start shouting in German and Jared's dogs start barking and Jensen says, "Well, fuck. I don't remember that part from the fourth grade."
That's enough to break the silence and they both collapse on the heap of blankets, laughing.
They're still choking and sputtering like an old F-150 engine when Jared creaks out "Padackles. Fort Padackles. That's the name"
Jensen looks over at where Jared's lolling, head back and jeans tight across the front and for a second he wants to say, shit, that is the craziest thing I ever heard.
Except it's not. Cause Jared's hand is on his ass and they're lying on blankets next to knocked-down chairs from the goddamn FORT they just built, and he gets to feeling that he's on the verge of hearing something that's a lot more crazy, and he thinks - he thinks he's finally ready to shore up and hear it.
So instead he just clears his throat, stands up and says, "Best get to rebuilding. Got a long night ahead and this wall won't hold much longer."
- end -
A/N: In honor of Jensen and how he gave his all for Texas, piece by piece
A/N #2: I wrote part of this at work tonight and if you thought I had qualms about typing lines such as "L.A doesn't care who you fuck, as long as you look pretty while you do it" into Word while children were five feet away, you would be WRONG.
A/N #3: Fort Padackles TM buffyx.