Poem: Red Carpet Closet (Jared/Jensen)
Title: Red Carpet Closet 
Author: waterofthemoon
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles (CW RPS)
Disclaimer: Jared and Jensen own themselves, and I also don't own anything related to Supernatural or the CW. No malice, libel, or insinuation of the facts is intended. Unless it's all true, in which case all bets are off. :)
Notes: I finally finished my Padackles poem! \o/ This may look vaguely familiar to the members of my mutual flist, who very kindly did not laugh at me when I made them audience a version of this a while back, but it's been expanded and edited and looked at by my poetry writing class since then, so YAY. Inspired by every fic I've ever read about them and, of course, the boys themselves. ♥
Red Carpet Closet
(or, "The Art of Fucking Your Co-Star")
So you think maybe this is how it begins: with glaring lights, flashing cameras,
Microphones pushing and demanding from all sides, the two of you taking refuge
In shadowed corners and filthy promises, too much, too fast, god, never stop.
It begins with ditched girlfriends, clueless reporters, and your self-conscious red carpet smiles,
With his warm hand heavy and steadying on your shoulder, fingers absent-minded at the collar,
And yours, resting firmly on his chest, feeling his heart pound sure and quick beneath your palm.
A million touches like this, a million pranks, sidelong glances, ruined takes captured on film,
In memory, spinning out and out and building a web of your shared breath,
Of all the things you never wanted before him.
You slot together like puzzle pieces, like you were made for this:
Broad shoulders and lean muscle under your shaking hands, narrow hips sliding home,
Your mouths curving to fit just there, just like this, hushed and secret under bright Vancouver stars,
And someone abruptly calling your names as you exhale on a vow and straighten your borrowed clothes.
And it feels like preservation, like desperation, like salvation,
Like the first time you met outside the low-lit network offices,
All sparking chemistry and easy flash of teeth; his hair curled at the nape even then.
It's just you and me, pal, you think you said, but mostly
You just remember wondering whether you were too old to believe in fate.
Three years later, the dimpled grin he offers is rough and ragged with the hour
As you drop down on the steps beside him, your shoulders bumping, weary and familiar,
Your thighs careworn with the bruises of stunt work next to the sharper ones you made together.
He smells like hard work and clean sweat, Texas sun scorching on your skin;
Sense memories of a place more'n ten years and two thousand miles back, but here, too,
In the gentle press and shiver along your spine, tracing out histories and futures for the taking,
Take them, take them. You can have this, all yours.
And you think maybe it's worth it, after all: the long hours, the forgotten lines,
All the half-truths you tell the press, all of it so damn worth it just for the way your breath ghosts
Warm and damp on the skin of his neck as he tugs you closer, his hazel eyes gone soft and sweet,
Focused pinpricks of light barely visible in the darkness. You brand each other
With furtive oaths, and you smile against his teeth, and you think,
This is home, God help us, this is home.
Author: waterofthemoon
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles (CW RPS)
Disclaimer: Jared and Jensen own themselves, and I also don't own anything related to Supernatural or the CW. No malice, libel, or insinuation of the facts is intended. Unless it's all true, in which case all bets are off. :)
Notes: I finally finished my Padackles poem! \o/ This may look vaguely familiar to the members of my mutual flist, who very kindly did not laugh at me when I made them audience a version of this a while back, but it's been expanded and edited and looked at by my poetry writing class since then, so YAY. Inspired by every fic I've ever read about them and, of course, the boys themselves. ♥
Red Carpet Closet
(or, "The Art of Fucking Your Co-Star")
So you think maybe this is how it begins: with glaring lights, flashing cameras,
Microphones pushing and demanding from all sides, the two of you taking refuge
In shadowed corners and filthy promises, too much, too fast, god, never stop.
It begins with ditched girlfriends, clueless reporters, and your self-conscious red carpet smiles,
With his warm hand heavy and steadying on your shoulder, fingers absent-minded at the collar,
And yours, resting firmly on his chest, feeling his heart pound sure and quick beneath your palm.
A million touches like this, a million pranks, sidelong glances, ruined takes captured on film,
In memory, spinning out and out and building a web of your shared breath,
Of all the things you never wanted before him.
You slot together like puzzle pieces, like you were made for this:
Broad shoulders and lean muscle under your shaking hands, narrow hips sliding home,
Your mouths curving to fit just there, just like this, hushed and secret under bright Vancouver stars,
And someone abruptly calling your names as you exhale on a vow and straighten your borrowed clothes.
And it feels like preservation, like desperation, like salvation,
Like the first time you met outside the low-lit network offices,
All sparking chemistry and easy flash of teeth; his hair curled at the nape even then.
It's just you and me, pal, you think you said, but mostly
You just remember wondering whether you were too old to believe in fate.
Three years later, the dimpled grin he offers is rough and ragged with the hour
As you drop down on the steps beside him, your shoulders bumping, weary and familiar,
Your thighs careworn with the bruises of stunt work next to the sharper ones you made together.
He smells like hard work and clean sweat, Texas sun scorching on your skin;
Sense memories of a place more'n ten years and two thousand miles back, but here, too,
In the gentle press and shiver along your spine, tracing out histories and futures for the taking,
Take them, take them. You can have this, all yours.
And you think maybe it's worth it, after all: the long hours, the forgotten lines,
All the half-truths you tell the press, all of it so damn worth it just for the way your breath ghosts
Warm and damp on the skin of his neck as he tugs you closer, his hazel eyes gone soft and sweet,
Focused pinpricks of light barely visible in the darkness. You brand each other
With furtive oaths, and you smile against his teeth, and you think,
This is home, God help us, this is home.