Disclaimer: Sh*t Happens (sequel to Disclaimer: We Will Not Be Held Responsible . . .) 1/5

[raeschae]

Title: Disclaimer: Sh*t Happens (1/5)
Author: raeschae
Rating: Hard R
Characters/Pairings: Jared/Jensen, Danneel, Julie, Brock, OMC (Brayden); (Mentions of pretty much everyone else.)
Warnings: None, really, outside the usual sexing and swearing. It's the disclaimer!verse, after all.
Word Count: 4300
Disclaimer: I still don't own them . . . though you'd think they might offer me a decent deal at this point, huh?

Summary: “Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.” -John Lennon, Beautiful Boy
(Sequel to Disclaimer: We Will Not Be Held Responsible . . . I won't say you absolutely have to read that one first, but I will say you might be a little lost if you don't.)

A/N: Just a couple of things to get out of the way: The tentative title, when I started this mess, was One Call, so if you're looking for that one, this is it. I was never fully happy with that title, and once you read the story, I think you'll see that this one fits this 'verse, and this story, so much better.

Thanks, as always, go to my beta and all-around boy-authority, neutraldeviance. I can sincerely say that this story would NOT be what it is without you. You know why, and I'll get into more detail toward the end of the story. But for now, thank you. A million times over.

And also a thanks to everyone who's been sending me cookies and disclaimer!dances and cheers and flails along the way. Y'all know who you are, and I hope you know how much I friggin' love all of you.

And I should probably let you guys know that this story is completely finished, so I'll be posting it frequently . . . probably once a day unless I get uber-excited and just have to post more than once. I'm not good at holding out like some people (cough vamphile cough).

One more quick thing? Graphics under the cut, so watch out if you need to.






“Rise and shine, Princess.”

Burrowing deeper into the thick blankets surrounding him like a cocoon, Jensen mumbles something unintelligible and then grunts. A shadow falls over his pillow and he barely manages to pry one eye open into a slit to notice the over-sized coffee mug being held over his prone form.

With another groan, he scrubs his hand over his face and fights his way out of his bubble of warmth and happiness. “The fuck are you doin' up so early?” he grunts when his eyes fall on the bedside clock. It is seven o'clock. In the motherfucking morning. Jared clearly has a death wish.

If he remembers clearly, and it's hard to say that he does at this ungodly hour, they didn't even get home until after midnight. Jared had some thing with his crew at some club downtown. Jensen was in San Diego until long after the sun went down. By the time they both stumbled into their bedroom and managed to fuck each other stupid, it was well after three. He may be morning foggy, but his thighs remember that there was sex. Hard, fast, dirty sex. Fucking fantastic sex.

And yet Jared stands beside the bed, fully dressed. At seven o'clock. In the fucking morning. What a freak.

Lowering himself to the edge of the bed, Jared thrusts the coffee into Jensen's hand and leans forward to press his lips against his boyfriend's. “Anybody ever tell you that you're too damn fuckable for your own good first thing in the morning?” he asks with a shit-eating grin that says he'd like to follow that statement up with a demonstration.

“Man, get off me,” Jensen shoves Jared back with his free hand. After a longer-than-human gulp of the coffee Jared always makes too strong to be healthy for anyone, he takes his time swallowing and then raises an eyebrow in the larger man's direction. “Pretty sure I pegged your ass through this mattress and into the floor a few hours ago,” he points to the bed and then sets his mug on the bedside table. “The fuck you doin' up, and what the hell is it gonna cost me?”

Jared watches as Jensen rolls out of the bed, his toned body on unabashed display in the moments that it takes the older man to search the floor for his shorts. If there's anything about Jensen's body that isn't absolutely perfect, Jared doesn't know what it is. From the Ultra Violet tips of his hair to the platinum rings in his ears and lip, to the smattering of freckles and tattoos over his lean body, he's pure. . . perfection. Even with the smudged eyeliner he never washed off last night, and the chipped polish on his nails, Jensen is every inch the man Jared loves. Sometimes he forgets just how much.

It's all Jared can do not to burst into laughter as his boyfriend grumbles and curses his way to the bathroom, moving a little more gingerly than normal. He knows full well it's his own fault. He rode Jensen like a Derby horse earlier this morning, and that other position they managed to get themselves into? It's a miracle and a half they don't both need a chiropractor. Hell, Jared's having enough trouble just perching himself on the edge of the mattress without cringing.

When he returns, eyeliner washed away, Jared grabs Jensen and pulls the older man down on top of him, letting their momentum carry him back until he's lying flat. “You have no fucking idea what you do to me,” he growls into Jensen's throat, hips rolling into the friction as he scrapes his teeth over the stubble beneath his mouth.

“The fuck has gotten into you?” Jensen asks, dipping his face to accept a dirty wet kiss before anchoring himself on the bed, elbows on either side of Jared's head. “Actin' weird,” he adds, this time sucking Jared's bottom lip between his own.

Jared just grabs Jensen's hips and rolls them both until he's hovering over his boyfriend, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Got some good . . . nngh,” he grunts when Jensen grabs Jared's ass with both hands and pulls him further into the friction. “News,” he finishes, not even stuttering the rhythm they're grinding against each other.

Jensen just clears his throat, rolls again, and pins Jared's ridiculously long arms at his sides. “So tell me,” he manages over the guttural noises fighting to escape his throat as he rubs himself against the man beneath him.

In a brief flash, Jared remembers nights on the couch in their old apartment, tangled up like high school kids, making out for the entirety of some epic movie neither of them really cared about that much anyway. It wasn't really even about getting off on those night, or even about foreplay. It was just about feeling and touching and tasting and . . . connecting.

They don't do that much anymore.

“Show got renewed,” Jared finally springs his big news.

Except, at the moment, Jensen couldn't care less if Jared just told him they won the fucking lottery or front row tickets to Manson. Jared's hard as a fucking rock, one layer of denim, and the thin nylon of Jensen's basketball shorts, away. His fingers are digging possessive bruises into Jensen's hips. And it's been too damn long since they talked like this.

And yeah, it's not like it's a real conversation or anything. But it's more than they've had in the last eight months, so Jensen's going to fucking take it. “Awesome,” he manages, but neither are sure if he means Jared's news, or the way his hand is snaking into Jensen's shorts.

It's not like there's anything wrong between them. They're not not talking or anything. It's just that life gets in the way sometimes, and they're both busier than they've ever been.

Jensen, for one, bought an old surf shop down on the beach in San Diego, and he's renovating it to open his second pro shop. Ollie's sister store, Grind, is set to open next weekend and his entire crew has been hauling ass to bring it to life before the deadline. Not to mention the fact that Jensen, Mike, and the newest member of their design team, Jake, decided they could come up with a whole new line for the grand opening. Romantic walks on the beach and candlelit dinners kind of take a back seat to more pressing business issues, is all. Well, the Jared/Jensen equivalent of all that girlie bull shit, anyway.

And it's not like Jared's mourning the loss of their private time. He hasn't had time to notice that Jensen isn't around since he started filming his own reality show for NBC Universal's cable network, Bravo. Aptly titled Slinging Ink, the show has been a slow building success, and it was touch-and-go for awhile as to whether or not the suits would actually greenlight a second season of Jared and his crew's crazy in-shop antics. Turns out, a giant gay tattoo artist with a heart of gold is worth taking a second chance on, apparently.

The offer was kind of the biggest thing that had ever happened, professionally, to Jared, and Jensen was so fucking excited, he busted out the box under the bed and they didn't leave the house for three days. The execs at Bravo wanted Jensen to be a part of the show, stressing that it was going to highlight both the professional and personal sides of the Slinging Ink crew. But Jensen wasn't then, and still isn't, interested in exploiting his relationship for the sake of ratings, or anything else.

Those crazy artists have enough drama on their own, anyway. Hell, between Genevieve's revolving door of smokin' hot lesbian flings, Sandy's cleavage, and Jared's newest hire, Katie's, sarcasm? There's enough entertainment value to fuel three shows. Add Chad and Sophia to the mix, and there's more drama than every one of those CW teen soaps combined.

Besides, as Mike so succinctly put it while they were scouting locations for the new store last summer, “Ain't one of those goddamn fake-ass reality couple's ever actually made it through havin' their lives broadcast to the whole fucking world, man.” He's right. Jensen can't remember a single fucking couple that's ever survived the circus that is reality television. He likes being with Jared, thank you very much. He's not going to tempt fate just because some hags up in LA want to watch him and his boyfriend make out on camera.

Of course, there's one person who has taken to his new-found reality psuedo-fame like a true champ. Brayden has only appeared in a few episodes, but there's no denying the proud puff of his chest each time one of the scantily-clad girls from the Pier recognizes him.

Two years ago, when the guys met the kid for the first time, he was a scrawny, little, introverted pipsqueak who barely looked up through his shaggy bangs. Some things haven't changed. He's still built like a stick figure, and his shoulder-length hair still covers most of his face. But somewhere between thirteen and fourteen, he shot up about twelve inches, and Jared swears he's not done growing yet. God help them all if he ends up as ginormous as Jensen's boyfriend.

Never mind that it's damn-near impossible to shut the kid up these days. Jensen thinks that his charm and enthusiasm over art and music make him Jared's (sort of) Mini-Me. Jared says that the kids passion for boarding and asking too many questions make him more like Jensen. And, yeah, they're both aware that they're not his parents and he probably came by all of those interests and traits honestly. But still, it's kind of hard not to notice how much he's turning out to be just like them.

Two years ago, he wanted to be a tat artist, like Jared. These days, he swears he hasn't given up on it, but he wants to give the pro-skating circuit a shot first. The goal, at least this week, is to start on the amateur scene here in Southern California in the next few months, and then shoot for going pro by the time he's sixteen. With the moves Jensen's been teaching him, and the ease with which he picks them up, there's no doubt in either Jared or Jensen's mind that he'll be on the podium at the X-Games in no time.

Of course, the schedules that both guys have been maintaining lately haven't allowed a lot of time for the kid. But Jensen's already invited him to the Grind grand opening next weekend, and Jared plans on making sure that he has a more substantial role in the second season of his show. They'll make it up to him, one way or another.

“C'mon, man,” Jared encourage low and dirty against Jensen's ear as Jensen's hips snap into the channel of Jared's fist. “Come for me.”

“Ruin your,” Jensen grunts and bites off a curse as Jared's fist tightens, “shirt, asshole.”

Laughter rumbles through Jared's chest, and he doesn't really remember Jensen opening his pants or thrusting his hand inside, but dammit, it feels good. “Fuck it,” he growls, and Jensen honestly doesn't know if he means the shirt, or his hand, anymore.

Doesn't fuckin' matter because the damn tee's as good as stuck to his chest in the next instant, Jensen's eyes squeezing as tight as his fingers around Jared's cock as he cries out his boyfriend's name into the morning stillness. It's okay, though, seeing as the front of Jensen's shorts are pretty much soaked through when Jared does the same a second later.

“Damn you, Stretch,” Jensen groans when he's rolled onto the bed at Jared's side. Neither is sure where the nickname came from, or exactly when Jensen started using it, but Jared's not complaining. He doesn't so much mind it. “Wake me up for stupid fucking orgasms,” he adds.

Actually, Jared woke Jensen up to tell him about the renewal. The stupid fucking orgasm was a pleasant side effect.

“So, the network's making the announcement about the show in New York next weekend,” he rolls his face toward Jensen and explains. “They're gonna fly us out on Thursday afternoon, and hold a press conference about their fall line-up on Friday morning.” Propping himself up on his elbow, he smiles down on his boyfriend with a near-childlike grin. “There's a party on Friday night, and then we're doin' some press and shit on Saturday. You think Tom'll let you get away for a few days?”

Jensen shakes his head, tongue going dry in his mouth. “Uh, no,” he answers, the words acidic on his tongue. “Seeing as my grand opening is Saturday night, that's probably not gonna work for me.” He makes his way to his feet and grabs a pair of jeans from the floor. He's not even trying to hide the anger in his eyes when he adds, “That'd be the grand opening you promised to be at, by the way.”

The shower is running by the time Jared runs his hands over his face and moans in frustration. When did this shit between them stop being easy and start feeling like work? Dammit.



“How, I ask you, does a place get so fucking filthy before it even opens?” Danneel asks, nose scrunched in disgust from her post on the step ladder as she rotates at the waist and grabs the dust rag that Julie is offering her from the floor. “I swear, Jensen, this place is disgusting!”

Jensen just rolls his eyes and fights the urge to point out that Danneel thinks hospitals are filthy, too. She's the neatest neat freak he knows. Hell, she'd probably find a speck of dirt on his mother's scrubbed-with-a-toothbrush-for-the-holidays kitchen floor. Assuming that his mother still, ya know, does that. Not like he knows anymore.

“OH!” Julie squeals before Jensen has a chance to tell Danneel to control her OCD. “It's nine!” She makes grabby hands all the way across the half-dressed store to grab the television remote. Aiming it like a gun at the flat screen hanging over the cash register, she shrieks in delight when the Slinging Ink theme song starts thrumming loudly.

To his credit, Jensen tries to be resentful of the fact that Jared's partying it up in New York right now when he's supposed to be by Jensen's side for this huge opening in a couple of days. But it's really fucking hard when his boyfriend, who he knows he won't see for three days, makes his way through the back door of his tattoo parlor, looking thoroughly fucked out and larger than life on the huge flat screen. To the general viewing public, Jared probably appears to be hung over or exhausted. Jensen remembers the night before this was shot, though. He knows better.

Of course, it gets a hell of a lot easier to be pissed off when Jared passes through the curtain to the main floor and finds his number one super client, Brock fucking Kelly, laughing with Sandy at the front desk. “I hate that guy,” Jensen mutters, turning abruptly from the screen to begin unpacking another box of tee shirts.

It's not that he worries about guys flirting with Jared. Usually, Jensen likes it. Gives him a sick sense of satisfaction to know that other guys, and a lot of women for that matter, want his man. And that they can't have him. But there's something about that second-rate soap actor that bothers Jensen. Maybe it's Brock's blatant disregard for the fact that Jared's in a relationship. Or maybe it's the fact that Jared doesn't exactly encourage the kid, but he's not trying to shoot him down, either.

Especially in this very special episode of Slinging Ink, apparently. For the next fifteen minutes, he pretends not to notice the easy conversation between his boyfriend and his stalker. Tries not to listen to the way Jared laughs at damn-near everything Brock says. Tells himself repeatedly that Jared's a friendly guy and it doesn't mean a damn thing. Jared loves Jensen, for fuck's sake. He doesn't even like Brock. And he's nowhere near stupid enough to act like he does in front of a television camera.

It's been well-established on the show that Jared has a boyfriend. Even though Jensen's never been seen, they've aired conversations wherein his name has been mentioned. Jared's even talked about him in those little confessional interviews that the producers make all of the staff do to push the narrative along. It's not like the whole world doesn't already know that Jared's taken.

“How's your man?” Brock asks on the screen, and Jensen's shoulders stiffen instinctively. All motion behind him stops as Julie and Danneel wait to hear Jared's response to the question, and Jensen wishes he could tell them to get back to work. Wants to demand that they turn this bull shit off and finish up so there's an actual store to showcase on Saturday.

“Hot as ever,” Jared answers easily, and Jensen's posture relaxes in relief.

“He still jealous of your crush on me?” Brock prods. It sounds like maybe he's trying to be playful, aiming for a joke, kind of. But not really. It's pretty fucking obvious that he means it.

Jared huffs and Jensen can almost see him roll his eyes. He still doesn't turn. Can't look at the interaction, even though he can't stop listening. “You remind me of him,” are Jared's next words and Jensen thinks he might throw up. “Got those lips, man.” He makes that clicking sound, and Jensen wants to scream. Or throw something through the huge fucking picture window in front of him. That's the sound that only comes out when Jared is staring at him, 'I'm gonna fuck you inside out' look in his eyes.

“So I've heard,” Brock replies, coy like a fucking school girl or some shit.

“Please,” Danneel's voice sounds behind him just before the sound on the television goes dead. “He barely looks like you,” she says flatly. When Jensen risks a glance in her direction, she rolls her eyes. “He's like the gas station vending machine generic version of you, Jen.”

He smiles a little bit at her assessment, and half-listens as she and Julie list all of the ways that Brock Kelly isn't even in the same glalaxy as Jensen Ackles. He appreciates it, but Jensen's never given a damn what other people think of him.

Except Jared. And Jared thinks that Brock has “those” lips. He's heard those words enough to know exactly what his boyfriend meant. ”God, Jen, yeah . . . fuck, I love those lips. Feel so good wrapped around my cock, man. . . Those lips gonna fuckin' kill me, Jen. . . Fuck, like that, yeah. Gonna paint those pretty fuckin' lips, man.”

The words ring in his head for the rest of the night. As he stocks the shelves at Grind. While he weaves through traffic on the way back to Santa Monica. When he lays back on his empty bed at home.

At first, it fucking hurt like hell to hear his boyfriend babble all over someone else. But by the time the phone lights up with Jared's picture and ring tone at three in the morning, California time, it just pisses Jensen off. Who the hell does Jared Padalecki think he is? What? Being a television star gives him permission to be an world-class asshole, too?

“'lo,” Jensen asks, tone clipped and terse.

“Hey,” Jared's loose and happy on the other end of the phone.

Which, of course, only pisses Jensen off further. “Havin' fun?” he asks snidely.

There's no hesitation before Jared answers, “Yeah. 'Swrong with you?”

“Nothin',” Jensen answers just as quickly, though he sounds bitterly sarcastic to his own ears. “Watched the show tonight,” he tosses in, mostly because he's not in the mood to make small talk.

“Yeah? Whatcha think?” He sounds so hopeful. Like he has no idea that he's a dick of epic proportions.

“It was great, Jay,” Jensen pulls himself into a seated position at the end of the bed and kicks one of Jared's stupid shoes for good measure. “Specially the part where you were about to fuck Brock fucking Kelly over your fucking table.” God, he feels like a junior high girl. He needs to stop talking, but once the accusation's out there, it's not like he can take it back.

“The fuck are you,” Jared starts to ask and then stops short. “Are you drunk?”

“No, I'm not drunk,” Jensen fires back, on an angry roll now. “Did you think I wouldn't see it? That it wouldn't fucking kill me to watch you eye fuck that bastard? Oh!” Jensen stands and grips the first thing his hand finds on the dresser. “That part where you told him he reminds you of me? That's some damn good television right there, Jay.” He throws the object, strangely unsatisfied that Clogged Plumbing 2: Snaking the Pipes doesn't make more of an impact against the wall.

Jared's not a vindictive guy, but it's not really that hard to goad him into a fight, either. “I'm sure it was,” he answers, words sharp and cutting. “Dude, it's not like I have any control over how they edit that shit.”

“Oh, that is bull shit and you know it! They don't put the fucking words in your mouth, Jay. They can't edit you tellin' the kid he's got motherfucking cocksucker lips if you don't say the goddamn words!” It wouldn't be half as bad if Jensen didn't know that Jared's never been a guy who says shit he doesn't mean.

“I didn't tell him,” he starts to defend himself and then stops himself short. “Ya know what? I don't have time for this shit. I called to tell you that I fucking miss you, but I think I changed my mind,” Jared hisses.

Jensen doesn't have time to retaliate before the bastard hangs up the phone and leaves him with nothing but dead air. “Son of a BITCH!” he shouts, unaware that his phone has even left his hand until it bounces off their padded headboard and lands with a muted thud in the center of the bed.

Sinking to the bed, Jensen punches the mattress at his side and bites his bottom lip until it bleeds. Maybe he has no right to fly off the handle. Maybe he should try to be a little more understanding. But goddammit, it's been weeks, months since he spent any quality time with his own fucking boyfriend. And now he finds out that some jackass with teeth too white to be real and too big to fit in his fucking wide-ass mouth is doing it on national fucking television.

When his cell phone beeps with a text message, he answers instinctively. Coulda been you. Offered you a spot on the show. You said no.

Jensen's so angry at the accusation that he shoots off an answer, Fuck you, and then turns his phone off. He means it – fuck Jared, and Brock, and the whole fucking world.



By Saturday morning, Jensen's tired of being angry. He wants to stop, but it just keeps roiling up in his chest every time he thinks about Jared and Brock and JaredAndBrock. Which is basically every fucking second of the day. Coupled with his usual morning disposition, he's pretty fucking unpleasant.

So it's not Brayden's fault that he happens to show up for some practice time in the middle of Jensen's Fuck My Life party for one. And it's not his fault that he's happy as any day he gets to spend with one of his favorite people. Also not his fault that he can't stop fucking talking about the sick kick flip he mastered last night.

Certainly not his fault when Jensen looks up from his desk and spits, “Can you shut the fuck up for two seconds, Brayden? Jesus. Fuck!”

The kid recoils in an instant, like Jensen's words burn him. “S-s-sorry,” he stammers, backing away with wide eyes.

“No,” Jensen holds his hands up, eyes wide with shock at his own words, and stands from his desk. “I'm sorry, Bray. That was totally out of line. I'm sorry,” he repeats the apology. “Things are kinda tense right now, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm sorry.”

“It's cool,” Brayden shrugs his bony shoulders and hitches his board higher over his hip. “I'm just gonna go fuck around for a little bit. We can work some other time,” he assures Jensen, turning before he has a chance to apologize again.

The ache in Brayden's eyes, the rejection, feels too real. Too palpable. And he knows that he should go after the kid. Tell him that it's all good, and take him to get one of those corn dogs he loves so much from that weird vendor with the glass eye down the Pier. He should teach the kid a gnarly new trick.

Instead, he leans against the sales counter and watches Brayden drop into the pit with ease. The fuck is wrong with me? Jensen wonders. When did his life start to unravel? And how the fuck does he make it stop?

Chapter 2

Comments

[raeschae.livejournal.com]

Awe, thanks! I'm so glad you're enjoying it!