![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
raeschaeTitle: Products and Forever (. . . And Forever 'Verse Time Stamp)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raeschae
Pairing:J2
Rating:PG
Word Count: 1600ish
Summary: As an actor, appearance is important. Jared thinks Jensen, of all people, should understand that.
Part of the . . . And Forever 'Verse. Takes place some time before Nachos and Forever.
A/N: For me, this 'verse is a way to reconcile the pretty, pretty boys we watch on television, with the guys' guys from Texas I believe Jared and Jensen to actually be. Hollywood stereotypes and discussions of shallow, appearance-driven society will abound.
Thanks to:billysgirl05, and neutraldeviance, for the beta. vamphile, for the persistent cheerleading.
Graphics by:raeschae (Under the cut)
For some reason, Jared still remembers the first time he went home to Texas after getting the job on Gilmore Girls. He remembers meeting up with his old high school friends and taking shit for going all “Hollywood” on them.
“The fuck did you do to yourself, man?”
“Smell like the fruity cologne counter at Dillard's.”
“Dude, is your hair fuckin' flat ironed?”
“Man, I knew you wanted to be a pansy-assed actor for a living and all, but did you have to turn into a giant girl to do it?”
He parroted back all of the arguments that his agent made back in her office in LA.
“Acting isn't just about talent, Jared. The schmuck waiting tables at the diner on the corner has fucking talent. It's about image. Image, cliché as it may be, is everything. You wanna work in this town, you treat your body like it's all you have to sell. It has to get you in the door. Nobody gives a shit about talent if you don't have the looks to back it up around here.”
He also remembers giving the same speech to his dad and his brother later the same weekend, when his brother busted on him for having some kiwi-infused moisturizer in his shaving kit. None of them understand what it's like to be a guy in Hollywood. None of them will ever get it, and he doesn't really fucking care to explain it to them anymore.
Letting himself into the house after a morning of running errands, Jared smiles at the sounds of loud country music pumping from the upstairs bedroom. Let 'em say what they want about his masculinity. At least one person in the world understands him.
He takes the stairs two at a time and nearly trips over Sadie, lazily guarding the bedroom doorway. Stopping to run a hand over her head, he lets his eyes drift around the room, to the stacks of clothing spread all over the bed. Who the hell needs that many white shirts?
“Jay?”
The voice sounds from the bathroom, and Jared straightens to his full height, running his hands over his jeans to smooth them.
Jensen. That's who needs fourteen white button-downs. Jensen, who's been his best friend for years, and his lover for months, and who is finally, finally moving out of the guest room downstairs and into Jared's room today. It's about damn time, if you ask Jared. They haven't slept in separate beds in a long time anyway.
“What's goin' on?” Jared asks, rounding the corner to find Jensen standing in the middle of the master bath with a bottle of shampoo in one hand, a jar of pomade in the other, and an overflowing box of something or other at his feet.
“You really need all this shit?” Jensen asks, nodding toward the pantry built into Jared's bathroom wall.
His face falls as he watches his boyfriend scrutinize the bottle with a raised eyebrow. He thought Jensen understood. Thought that Jensen, of all people, would just get it. “It's just shampoo,” he starts.
“I know,” Jensen nods and then pulls the shower curtain back. “But you already got two bottles of it in here. And another three unopened in the cabinet,” he nods back to the shelves. “Plus two different kinds of conditioner and four leave-ins.” He sets the shampoo on the sink and reaches for something else. “And you got so much anti-aging cream in here I'm startin' to wonder if you're not secretly ninety-three.”
Jared rolls his eyes and plucks the cream from Jensen's hand. “We work long hours. I can't look exhausted on screen,” he starts to defend. “And the hair thing,” he switches gears and grabs the pomade from Jensen's hand. “I mean, come on, man. You know my hair's like a character unto itself now.” He doesn't know why he's defending himself to the one person he's not supposed to have to do this with. He reaches around Jensen and grabs another bottle, something foamy, and checks the label. “And you know how my skin is, the way I sweat. If I don't treat it, I break out like a motherfucker. Nobody likes a pimply-faced Sam Winchester.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Jensen leans back against the counter and considers Jared as he continues through the myriad of bottles, tubes, and jars in his closet. There are enough of them that it takes awhile.
The longer he talks, the more frustrated Jared becomes. “I hate this shit,” he tosses the bronzer onto the counter and then grabs something else. “You need a razor, Jen? Whatcha need? Straight blade? Disposable? Electric? You prefer a trimmer or a clipper?” The plastic basket sits beside Jensen on the counter, and he barely moves his eyes long enough to see the plethora of blades before Jared's whipping a jar of Gigi's Honee Wax at his chest. “Easier to just wax myself and call it a day, since the 'leading man' handbook says body hair isn't sexy.”
Fuck all, he doesn't mean to sound bitter, but sometimes he wishes that he could just get up, take a shower, and go to work. Sometimes he wishes that he didn't have to spend three hours in a chair getting his hair flat-ironed and his make up sprayed on and his nails fucking manicured so they're all the same length and shape. Sometimes he wishes he could just be a guy again.
A silence stretches between them, and Jared realizes he's breathing heavy when Jensen raises an eyebrow and moves his hands to brace them on the counter behind him. “You done?” When Jared doesn't answer, Jensen nudges the box at his feet. “Dude, I was just tryin' to make room for my own shit. I've got twice as many bronzers as you do and about four times as many moisturizers.” He shrugs. “That's just one box of seven.”
A tiny voice in the back of Jared's brain wonders if any of his other friends have this problem when co-habitating. And if he shouldn't have already known that Jensen has just as many beauty products as he does. Also, how the hell they're supposed to cling to their manly pride if their entire bathroom is over run with more shit than a Clinique warehouse.
He answers the first with a simple 'probably not.' Their friends don't worry, because their friends live normal, product-free lives. The second answer is really just as easy. He and Jensen fuck, sometimes in the shower, but it's always more about the fucking and less about the showering. And really? What the fuck do they care how they look good, as long as they keep looking good to each other?
The third answer is a little more difficult, but he considers it for a second and then tilts his head to the side. “You could always keep usin' your bathroom? Just move your clothes and shit, but keep all that in your bathroom downstairs.,” he suggests.
“I thought the whole point of this merger,” Jensen nods toward the bedroom, “was that there's no more yours and mine,” he repeats the words Jared said to him the other night when he was making his case for why Jensen should move upstairs in the first place. “House is just ours now?”
Rolling his eyes, Jared reaches out and pulls Jensen into his chest. “I know I didn't sound that goddamn bitchy when I said it,” he argues, dropping his forehead to rest against Jensen's.
The smile that could illuminate an entire room on its own spreads over Jensen's lips as his fingers dig into Jared's sides. “I don't know, man. You can get pretty bitchy,” he teases, punctuating his statement with a quick kiss. “It's alright, though. I mean, now, I know it's just all the chemicals you rub into your skin. Probably affects your mood or some shit.”
Somehow, Jared ends up manhandling Jensen out of the bathroom and onto the bed, effectively knocking twenty-four white shirts onto the floor.
“Dude, stop throwin' my stuff all over!”
Jared huffs and buries his face in Jensen's neck. “Like you don't have thirty-eight more over there,” he mumbles.
“Really?” Jensen pushes his head into the mattress in order to create some room. “You wanna talk about clothes now?” Jensen rolls his head in the direction of the closet. “'Cause I got plenty to say about which fuckin' shirts you're tossin' to make room, man.”
“Why?” Jared challenges, hips rolling slowly against Jensen's. “Not like you need to put all four hundred white shirts in the closet at the same time. We could box a couple hundred up, throw 'em in storage, and then bring 'em out when the others get too worn out.”
Jensen thrusts in protest, and Jared growls low in his throat.
“Yeah,” he nods in agreement, leaning up just long enough to rip his tee shirt over his head and watch Jensen do the same. “We're totally not talkin' about clothes now.”
Author:
raeschaePairing:J2
Rating:PG
Word Count: 1600ish
Summary: As an actor, appearance is important. Jared thinks Jensen, of all people, should understand that.
Part of the . . . And Forever 'Verse. Takes place some time before Nachos and Forever.
A/N: For me, this 'verse is a way to reconcile the pretty, pretty boys we watch on television, with the guys' guys from Texas I believe Jared and Jensen to actually be. Hollywood stereotypes and discussions of shallow, appearance-driven society will abound.
Thanks to:
billysgirl05, and neutraldeviance, for the beta. vamphile, for the persistent cheerleading.Graphics by:
raeschae (Under the cut)
For some reason, Jared still remembers the first time he went home to Texas after getting the job on Gilmore Girls. He remembers meeting up with his old high school friends and taking shit for going all “Hollywood” on them.
“The fuck did you do to yourself, man?”
“Smell like the fruity cologne counter at Dillard's.”
“Dude, is your hair fuckin' flat ironed?”
“Man, I knew you wanted to be a pansy-assed actor for a living and all, but did you have to turn into a giant girl to do it?”
He parroted back all of the arguments that his agent made back in her office in LA.
“Acting isn't just about talent, Jared. The schmuck waiting tables at the diner on the corner has fucking talent. It's about image. Image, cliché as it may be, is everything. You wanna work in this town, you treat your body like it's all you have to sell. It has to get you in the door. Nobody gives a shit about talent if you don't have the looks to back it up around here.”
He also remembers giving the same speech to his dad and his brother later the same weekend, when his brother busted on him for having some kiwi-infused moisturizer in his shaving kit. None of them understand what it's like to be a guy in Hollywood. None of them will ever get it, and he doesn't really fucking care to explain it to them anymore.
Letting himself into the house after a morning of running errands, Jared smiles at the sounds of loud country music pumping from the upstairs bedroom. Let 'em say what they want about his masculinity. At least one person in the world understands him.
He takes the stairs two at a time and nearly trips over Sadie, lazily guarding the bedroom doorway. Stopping to run a hand over her head, he lets his eyes drift around the room, to the stacks of clothing spread all over the bed. Who the hell needs that many white shirts?
“Jay?”
The voice sounds from the bathroom, and Jared straightens to his full height, running his hands over his jeans to smooth them.
Jensen. That's who needs fourteen white button-downs. Jensen, who's been his best friend for years, and his lover for months, and who is finally, finally moving out of the guest room downstairs and into Jared's room today. It's about damn time, if you ask Jared. They haven't slept in separate beds in a long time anyway.
“What's goin' on?” Jared asks, rounding the corner to find Jensen standing in the middle of the master bath with a bottle of shampoo in one hand, a jar of pomade in the other, and an overflowing box of something or other at his feet.
“You really need all this shit?” Jensen asks, nodding toward the pantry built into Jared's bathroom wall.
His face falls as he watches his boyfriend scrutinize the bottle with a raised eyebrow. He thought Jensen understood. Thought that Jensen, of all people, would just get it. “It's just shampoo,” he starts.
“I know,” Jensen nods and then pulls the shower curtain back. “But you already got two bottles of it in here. And another three unopened in the cabinet,” he nods back to the shelves. “Plus two different kinds of conditioner and four leave-ins.” He sets the shampoo on the sink and reaches for something else. “And you got so much anti-aging cream in here I'm startin' to wonder if you're not secretly ninety-three.”
Jared rolls his eyes and plucks the cream from Jensen's hand. “We work long hours. I can't look exhausted on screen,” he starts to defend. “And the hair thing,” he switches gears and grabs the pomade from Jensen's hand. “I mean, come on, man. You know my hair's like a character unto itself now.” He doesn't know why he's defending himself to the one person he's not supposed to have to do this with. He reaches around Jensen and grabs another bottle, something foamy, and checks the label. “And you know how my skin is, the way I sweat. If I don't treat it, I break out like a motherfucker. Nobody likes a pimply-faced Sam Winchester.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Jensen leans back against the counter and considers Jared as he continues through the myriad of bottles, tubes, and jars in his closet. There are enough of them that it takes awhile.
The longer he talks, the more frustrated Jared becomes. “I hate this shit,” he tosses the bronzer onto the counter and then grabs something else. “You need a razor, Jen? Whatcha need? Straight blade? Disposable? Electric? You prefer a trimmer or a clipper?” The plastic basket sits beside Jensen on the counter, and he barely moves his eyes long enough to see the plethora of blades before Jared's whipping a jar of Gigi's Honee Wax at his chest. “Easier to just wax myself and call it a day, since the 'leading man' handbook says body hair isn't sexy.”
Fuck all, he doesn't mean to sound bitter, but sometimes he wishes that he could just get up, take a shower, and go to work. Sometimes he wishes that he didn't have to spend three hours in a chair getting his hair flat-ironed and his make up sprayed on and his nails fucking manicured so they're all the same length and shape. Sometimes he wishes he could just be a guy again.
A silence stretches between them, and Jared realizes he's breathing heavy when Jensen raises an eyebrow and moves his hands to brace them on the counter behind him. “You done?” When Jared doesn't answer, Jensen nudges the box at his feet. “Dude, I was just tryin' to make room for my own shit. I've got twice as many bronzers as you do and about four times as many moisturizers.” He shrugs. “That's just one box of seven.”
A tiny voice in the back of Jared's brain wonders if any of his other friends have this problem when co-habitating. And if he shouldn't have already known that Jensen has just as many beauty products as he does. Also, how the hell they're supposed to cling to their manly pride if their entire bathroom is over run with more shit than a Clinique warehouse.
He answers the first with a simple 'probably not.' Their friends don't worry, because their friends live normal, product-free lives. The second answer is really just as easy. He and Jensen fuck, sometimes in the shower, but it's always more about the fucking and less about the showering. And really? What the fuck do they care how they look good, as long as they keep looking good to each other?
The third answer is a little more difficult, but he considers it for a second and then tilts his head to the side. “You could always keep usin' your bathroom? Just move your clothes and shit, but keep all that in your bathroom downstairs.,” he suggests.
“I thought the whole point of this merger,” Jensen nods toward the bedroom, “was that there's no more yours and mine,” he repeats the words Jared said to him the other night when he was making his case for why Jensen should move upstairs in the first place. “House is just ours now?”
Rolling his eyes, Jared reaches out and pulls Jensen into his chest. “I know I didn't sound that goddamn bitchy when I said it,” he argues, dropping his forehead to rest against Jensen's.
The smile that could illuminate an entire room on its own spreads over Jensen's lips as his fingers dig into Jared's sides. “I don't know, man. You can get pretty bitchy,” he teases, punctuating his statement with a quick kiss. “It's alright, though. I mean, now, I know it's just all the chemicals you rub into your skin. Probably affects your mood or some shit.”
Somehow, Jared ends up manhandling Jensen out of the bathroom and onto the bed, effectively knocking twenty-four white shirts onto the floor.
“Dude, stop throwin' my stuff all over!”
Jared huffs and buries his face in Jensen's neck. “Like you don't have thirty-eight more over there,” he mumbles.
“Really?” Jensen pushes his head into the mattress in order to create some room. “You wanna talk about clothes now?” Jensen rolls his head in the direction of the closet. “'Cause I got plenty to say about which fuckin' shirts you're tossin' to make room, man.”
“Why?” Jared challenges, hips rolling slowly against Jensen's. “Not like you need to put all four hundred white shirts in the closet at the same time. We could box a couple hundred up, throw 'em in storage, and then bring 'em out when the others get too worn out.”
Jensen thrusts in protest, and Jared growls low in his throat.
“Yeah,” he nods in agreement, leaning up just long enough to rip his tee shirt over his head and watch Jensen do the same. “We're totally not talkin' about clothes now.”
