Big Boy Bed (a disclaimer!verse OneShot)
Nov. 9th, 2009 01:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
raeschaeTitle: Big Boy Bed
Author:raeschae
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
neutraldeviance
Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters/Pairings: Jared/Jensen, OMC (Brayden), Tom
Warnings: Just language, and a lot of man-whining.
Word Count: 2800+
Disclaimer: Still don't own them. I do, however, own my own big girl bed. :)
Summary: A new business venture stirs up issues Jared doesn't realize Jensen has.
Part of the disclaimer!verse
“No.”
“Jensen.”
“No.”
“Man, come on.”
“No.”
It's like fighting with a three-year-old, and Tom doesn't have the patience. There is too much on all of their agendas for the next, well, forever. They honestly don't have the time to sit around catering to their baby of a boss. Sometimes he wishes that he could just beat Jensen about the head and shoulders and tell him to grow the fuck up.
“You know it's a good idea,” Tom tries another route. Being as it's not that different from his other routes, though, he doesn't make much headway.
“Fuck off, Tommy. I'm not designing a motherfucking bedding line. Home furnishings? Really? What's next? Toothbrush holders and shower rings? Fuck that, man. No,” Jensen shakes his head and cards his fingers through his hair and returning to the design he was working on before his business manager walked in and started talking stupid.
Apparently, the product development folks at Macy's want him to design a line of bedding – comforters, sheets, and pillows – for their spring line. Fucking sheets and comforters. What the fuck does Jensen know about designing bedding? He draws pictures on tee shirts, for fuck's sake. Pro Skate Gear. That's how they've always marketed him at the national chain. Why the fuck would they even think that he would be interested in bedding? Fucking pillows!
“It makes sense,” Tom starts again, like Jensen hasn't shot him down the last six times he's tried this. “I mean, think about it. The kids come in here and buy their gear directly. Their parents shop at Macy's. Their parents are the ones who buy their sheets and shit, man. They're gonna eat it up.” At least, that's what the lady at Macy's told him to say. He's pretty sure that the lady at Macy's doesn't know Jensen when he's being difficult.
Jensen tosses his pencil onto his drafting table and looks up at the man standing near him. Too near him, really. Close enough for Jensen to take a swing, if Tom doesn't shut the fuck up for a second. “Dude, I'm not Martha fucking Stewart. I don't need an entire department of shit to make me feel accomplished. Not buildin' an empire here, Tommy. Just makin' some shirts.” He shrugs his shoulders and hopes to God that his eyes are conveying just how much he's not going to do this.
With a heavy sigh, Tom crosses the office and leans out the door. “I didn't wanna have to do this, man,” he shakes his head like the decision is really weighing on him or something. “BRAY!”
“Motherfucker,” Jensen hurls in his direction. It's not bad enough Jared uses the kid to win all of his arguments at home? Now Jensen has to put up with this shit from Tom, too? Who owns this goddamn company anyway?
The squeak of sneakers on concrete signal the rampaging arrival of the shop's youngest employee. His blond mop is practically stuck to his forehead as he leans in the door, cheeks flushed. “I swear, I was working on the sticker display,” he says, eyes wide and his breath short.
“That why your pants are unzipped?” Jensen asks, pierced eyebrow quirked as Brayden drops his eyes and then raises them with a roll. Kid always fucking falls for it. “Tell Dem I said hi,” he winks, and Brayden's cheeks blaze a bright pink.
“I hate you,” Brayden says, middle finger shooting up before he turns back to Tom. “Did you need somethin', man?”
Tom chuckles and leans against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Let me ask you a question,” he starts, eyes twinkling. “Would you put Ollie sheets on your bed? I mean, if there were Ollie sheets, would you want 'em?”
“Shittin' me?” Brayden laughs, shoving a handful of hair out of his face. “'Course. That'd be awesome!”
Winking, Tom nods toward the door. “Thanks, Kiddo,” he nods.
Brayden's blue eyes turn back to Jensen. “You gonna make bedding?” Jensen shakes his head and Brayden's face falls just a little bit. “Oh.” With a shrug, he seems to remember that he has more important things to do. “Whatever.” And he's gone.
When Tom turns back around, Jensen is glaring in his direction. “Not gonna fuckin' work, asshole,” he warns.
Tom shrugs. “Kid's room's already decked out in posters and shit. You made him a goddamn headboard out of decks,” he reminds. Jensen was so proud of his creation, he invited everyone over for a party just to show the damn thing off. “Don't you think he should have sheets to go with that?”
“Sure,” Jensen nods his agreement. “I'll make somethin' for his birthday,” he offers. “Don't mean I gotta do it for the whole fuckin' world.” It's not Tom's fault that Jensen lies awake at night, thinking of ways to combat Jared's Brayden-centric arguments. He's getting better at saying no.
A knock on the office door interrupts the conversation. “You busy?”
Jensen smiles, Tom forgotten that quick. “Nope. What's up?”
Jared steps into the office and nods his greeting to Tom before rounding Jensen's table and resting a hand on his shoulder. When Jensen tips his face, Jared drops a kiss on his full lips and then rests his forehead against his. “Big news,” he smiles, his lips brushing Jensen's. “I got the Trash commission.”
“What's the Trash commission?” Tom asks.
But by the time Jared opens his mouth to speak, Jensen's too busy shoving his tongue down his boyfriend's throat for him to answer. This is fucking huge, and it deserves a full-scale 'congratulations.'
While he's the king of body art, Jared's always had this semi-secret passion for painting, as well. He doesn't talk about it a lot, though a few of his celebrity clients have hit him up for original work. When he decided to put a bid in for the Trash job, Jensen almost lept out of his skin. It's epic, in terms of what it could do for Jared's career. Eight original pieces to hang around the club that is pretty much the most buzzed-about, soon-to-open hotspot in Hollywood. It's supposed to be the new Hyde, and the fact that Jared's work is going to be featured there? It's fucking huge.
He has Jared backed up against the wall, biting at the Japanese dragon on his neck when Tom clears his throat. Jensen pulls back and turns his head just enough to make it clear who he's talking to. “Paintings,” he answers the other man's question with a growl, before adding, “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Tom answers simply, but makes no move to leave. “Just sign off on this contract and I'll get outta your hair.”
The 'smug' is dripping off of his words and Jensen wants to give the order and have Jared rip Tom apart right here in the office. Fuckin' manipulative bastard. “I'll think about it,” he concedes, pointing. “Don't let it hit ya in the ass on your way out,” he adds.
Before Jensen can get back to effectively turning Jared to goo, the kid grabs his hips and pulls back, head leaning against the wall as he considers Jensen carefully. “What's goin' on with you?”
“Nothing,” Jensen discounts the question quickly. Too quickly. “We're not talkin' about me. We're celebrating you,” he grins a toothy, cheesy, smart ass grin and Jared rolls his eyes. But when Jensen starts to kneel, Jared grabs his elbow and hauls him back to his feet. “C'mon, man,” Jensen protests. “Let me show you how proud I am of you.”
“Oh, believe me, I will.” Jared winks and Jensen's grin nearly splits his face in half. “After you tell me what contract Tom wants you to sign.” Turns out, Jared's got a toothy, cheesy, smart ass grin of his own.
Stepping back, Jensen leans against the edge of his table, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. “Macy's wants me to do another line,” he mumbles. Jared doesn't ask questions. He doesn't have to when his eyebrows do that 'raise' thing and it's clear he's thinking, 'So?' “They want me to do bedding, man! Sheets and fuckin' throw pillows and shit,” he throws his arms up in the air, and the still-confused look on Jared's face just pisses him off. “I'm not Vera fucking Wang, goddammit!”
Jared rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously,” he agrees. “You're clearly not Asian.”
Jensen is not amused. “Did you just call me a woman?”
“You wear a lot of eyeliner. . . nail polish. . . have a lot of hair products.”
“I hate you.”
The silence stretches out between them – Jared watching Jensen, and Jensen watching his shoes. He doesn't want to talk about this. Figures he shouldn't have to. He said 'no.' Why should he have to explain himself?
“Jensen,” Jared's voice breaks the silence as he crosses the minimal distance between them and hooks his finger through Jensen's belt loop. His thumb draws lazily over the '9.16' he tattooed against Jensen's hip more than five years ago. “Dude, what is the big fuckin' deal? You sketch some stuff out in a rectangle, FedEx it to New York and collect your check. It's not like it's gonna be that mentally draining.”
“I don't give a fuck about the money, Jay,” Jensen snaps and he wishes they could just get back to the making out. Jared's body is a hell of a lot more interesting than some fucking flat sheets. “I sold the fuck out when I agreed to work with them in the first place, man. I'm not finishing the job with motherfucking housewares!”
Relaxing slightly, Jared drops into Jensen's chair and swings his mile-long legs onto the table. His motorcycle boots rest next to Jensen's arm and he nudges his boyfriend with the toe until Jensen meets his eye. “This is a cred thing?”
It makes Jensen a little bit crazy sometimes that Jared doesn't seem to understand simple concepts. Of course, there's no reason for Jared to understand them when he doesn't have to worry about shit like this. “Grown ass men do not sleep on fucking skateboard sheets.”
“We would. If that's what Danneel and Sandy bought us,” Jared points out, because honestly? What do they know about buying their own sheets? Danneel bought the first pair for their bed in the new house, and she's been keeping them stocked ever since. Sometimes Sandy grabs some, if she thinks about it. They have better things to do in their bedroom than worry about thread count.
Ignoring the interruption, Jensen goes on. “They want me to design sheets for fucking kids, man. Fifteen to twenty-five,” he rolls his eyes as he repeats the demographic Tom was trying to explain to him earlier, like he's some kind of idiot.
“Well, yeah,” Jared nods like he can't understand the problem. “That's your key demo, man.”
“And you don't see the problem with that?” Is he fucking blind? “Jay, I used to be my key demo! Me. Now my key demo is my fuckin' kid!”
“Well, yeah, but technically, you didn't have that kid,” Jared starts.
Jensen's sure that Jared thinks he's being helpful, but he's really, really not. “I'm thirty-three, Jay. He's three weeks out from sixteen. Do the fucking math. I'm old enough to be that kid's damn father!” He doesn't want to act like a raving lunatic, but dammit. He still feels like the sixteen year old kid who used to skate around the park back in Texas. Doesn't feel like the sell-out who designs fucking comforters for the largest retailer in the fucking world.
To his credit, Jared's not trying to be an asshole. He just doesn't see the problem. “So, you're worried about being a sell-out? Or you're worried about being old?” he asks. “'Cause, dude, you're not even thirty-five,” he points out.
Jensen hangs his head between his shoulders and pinches the bridge of his nose. God bless him for trying to understand, but Jared's never going to get it. He's going to be cool forever. The older he gets, the more offers come his way. Television shows and art commissions from the coolest places in Hollywood. His client list only grows as he accumulates experience. But Jensen's a skater boy – always has been – and at some point, that stops being cool, and he starts being the pathetic guy who hangs around the skate park past his prime and designs fucking shower curtains for somebody's mom to buy them as a Christmas present.
“You get that those fifteen-year-old kids worship the ground you walk on, right?” Jared finally asks, moving his feet back to the floor. Hands on Jensen's hips, he guides his boyfriend between his knees and slides his fingers up and down the back of Jensen's thighs. “And so the fuck what if you're old enough to be their dad?” he rolls his shoulders like it's a trivial thing. “Your entire culture is rooted in respect, Jen. The guys you looked up to when you were a kid were the guys who had been around, and were still here, right? Those kids out there? They buy your shit because their idols buy your shit, man. And their idols buy your shit because they respect the hell out of you.
“Because you've been around, and you're still here, and you've earned it.” He shakes his head, a little bit tired from stringing so many fucking words together. Usually, he can calm Jensen down with a blow job, but never let it be said that Jared Padalecki can't come up with a kick ass inspirational speech off the top of his well-conditioned head if he wants to. “'Sides, man,” he shrugs, fingers digging into Jensen's hip bones. “Tony Hawk's, like, forty, and you still blush like a school girl every time he pops in.”
Kicking his foot out, Jensen grins with satisfaction when the toe of his shoe collides with Jared's shin and the younger man cringes. “You were so close to gettin' laid tonight, too,” he deadpans, pulling himself out of Jared's grasp to turn back to his designs.
“Yeah,” Jared laughs, pressing his chest to Jensen's back and catching his earlobe between his teeth. “Like I'm not still gettin' laid tonight,” he whispers, hand drifting over Jensen's hip, traveling the junction of his hip and his pelvis. “I scored Trash,” he reminds as his wet lips trace the scorpion peeking out of Jensen's tee shirt.
“I'll buy you a cookie,” Jensen answers him, tone belying every racing beat of his heart as Jared's hand cups loosely over his dick.
“Can buy my own cookies,” Jared says, hips grinding against Jensen's ass. “I'm rich like that.” He sucks harder at the tattoo and flexes his fingers around the growing bulge in his hand. “What I can't do is suck my own dick,” he goes on. “So I'm gonna need you to sign that contract and come home early.” He smiles into Jensen's skin when he finally breaks and moans softly, deep in his throat. “Can you do that for me, Jen?” His palm presses flat as his hips rolls forward once again.
“Jesus Christ, fine!” Jensen nearly shouts and pushes Jared away with an elbow. “I'll design the fuckin' line, okay?!”
Like he's been listening from just outside the door the whole time, Tom pops in, contract in hand. He's grinning like an idiot, and Jensen kind of wants to punch him in the face. “Thanks, Jay,” he says and Jensen just rolls his eyes and takes the papers.
“Tommy?” Jared says without glancing up, hand and eyes gliding slowly over the curve of Jensen's ass. “Believe me when I say it had nothing to do with you.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to the back of Jensen's neck as his boyfriend signs his name to the contract to design a line of fucking sheets for fucking Macy's.
When Jensen hands it back, he's not exactly smiling, but at least he's not freaking out anymore. “I will do a set of sheets, a comforter, and a couple pillows. That's it,” he states, as though he has any say whatsoever in this negotiation. “Not doin' any accessories. No fucking dust ruffles,” he narrows his eyes at Tom, even as Tom rolls his.
“The fuck do you even know what a dust ruffle is?” Jared asks in a tone that says he sure as hell doesn't.
Jensen just shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and presses his fingers over his boyfriend's lips. “Just,” he kisses Jared quickly and then shoots him another toothy, cheesy grin, “Stand there and look pretty.”
Author:
raeschae Beta:
neutraldeviance Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters/Pairings: Jared/Jensen, OMC (Brayden), Tom
Warnings: Just language, and a lot of man-whining.
Word Count: 2800+
Disclaimer: Still don't own them. I do, however, own my own big girl bed. :)
Summary: A new business venture stirs up issues Jared doesn't realize Jensen has.
Part of the disclaimer!verse
“No.”
“Jensen.”
“No.”
“Man, come on.”
“No.”
It's like fighting with a three-year-old, and Tom doesn't have the patience. There is too much on all of their agendas for the next, well, forever. They honestly don't have the time to sit around catering to their baby of a boss. Sometimes he wishes that he could just beat Jensen about the head and shoulders and tell him to grow the fuck up.
“You know it's a good idea,” Tom tries another route. Being as it's not that different from his other routes, though, he doesn't make much headway.
“Fuck off, Tommy. I'm not designing a motherfucking bedding line. Home furnishings? Really? What's next? Toothbrush holders and shower rings? Fuck that, man. No,” Jensen shakes his head and cards his fingers through his hair and returning to the design he was working on before his business manager walked in and started talking stupid.
Apparently, the product development folks at Macy's want him to design a line of bedding – comforters, sheets, and pillows – for their spring line. Fucking sheets and comforters. What the fuck does Jensen know about designing bedding? He draws pictures on tee shirts, for fuck's sake. Pro Skate Gear. That's how they've always marketed him at the national chain. Why the fuck would they even think that he would be interested in bedding? Fucking pillows!
“It makes sense,” Tom starts again, like Jensen hasn't shot him down the last six times he's tried this. “I mean, think about it. The kids come in here and buy their gear directly. Their parents shop at Macy's. Their parents are the ones who buy their sheets and shit, man. They're gonna eat it up.” At least, that's what the lady at Macy's told him to say. He's pretty sure that the lady at Macy's doesn't know Jensen when he's being difficult.
Jensen tosses his pencil onto his drafting table and looks up at the man standing near him. Too near him, really. Close enough for Jensen to take a swing, if Tom doesn't shut the fuck up for a second. “Dude, I'm not Martha fucking Stewart. I don't need an entire department of shit to make me feel accomplished. Not buildin' an empire here, Tommy. Just makin' some shirts.” He shrugs his shoulders and hopes to God that his eyes are conveying just how much he's not going to do this.
With a heavy sigh, Tom crosses the office and leans out the door. “I didn't wanna have to do this, man,” he shakes his head like the decision is really weighing on him or something. “BRAY!”
“Motherfucker,” Jensen hurls in his direction. It's not bad enough Jared uses the kid to win all of his arguments at home? Now Jensen has to put up with this shit from Tom, too? Who owns this goddamn company anyway?
The squeak of sneakers on concrete signal the rampaging arrival of the shop's youngest employee. His blond mop is practically stuck to his forehead as he leans in the door, cheeks flushed. “I swear, I was working on the sticker display,” he says, eyes wide and his breath short.
“That why your pants are unzipped?” Jensen asks, pierced eyebrow quirked as Brayden drops his eyes and then raises them with a roll. Kid always fucking falls for it. “Tell Dem I said hi,” he winks, and Brayden's cheeks blaze a bright pink.
“I hate you,” Brayden says, middle finger shooting up before he turns back to Tom. “Did you need somethin', man?”
Tom chuckles and leans against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Let me ask you a question,” he starts, eyes twinkling. “Would you put Ollie sheets on your bed? I mean, if there were Ollie sheets, would you want 'em?”
“Shittin' me?” Brayden laughs, shoving a handful of hair out of his face. “'Course. That'd be awesome!”
Winking, Tom nods toward the door. “Thanks, Kiddo,” he nods.
Brayden's blue eyes turn back to Jensen. “You gonna make bedding?” Jensen shakes his head and Brayden's face falls just a little bit. “Oh.” With a shrug, he seems to remember that he has more important things to do. “Whatever.” And he's gone.
When Tom turns back around, Jensen is glaring in his direction. “Not gonna fuckin' work, asshole,” he warns.
Tom shrugs. “Kid's room's already decked out in posters and shit. You made him a goddamn headboard out of decks,” he reminds. Jensen was so proud of his creation, he invited everyone over for a party just to show the damn thing off. “Don't you think he should have sheets to go with that?”
“Sure,” Jensen nods his agreement. “I'll make somethin' for his birthday,” he offers. “Don't mean I gotta do it for the whole fuckin' world.” It's not Tom's fault that Jensen lies awake at night, thinking of ways to combat Jared's Brayden-centric arguments. He's getting better at saying no.
A knock on the office door interrupts the conversation. “You busy?”
Jensen smiles, Tom forgotten that quick. “Nope. What's up?”
Jared steps into the office and nods his greeting to Tom before rounding Jensen's table and resting a hand on his shoulder. When Jensen tips his face, Jared drops a kiss on his full lips and then rests his forehead against his. “Big news,” he smiles, his lips brushing Jensen's. “I got the Trash commission.”
“What's the Trash commission?” Tom asks.
But by the time Jared opens his mouth to speak, Jensen's too busy shoving his tongue down his boyfriend's throat for him to answer. This is fucking huge, and it deserves a full-scale 'congratulations.'
While he's the king of body art, Jared's always had this semi-secret passion for painting, as well. He doesn't talk about it a lot, though a few of his celebrity clients have hit him up for original work. When he decided to put a bid in for the Trash job, Jensen almost lept out of his skin. It's epic, in terms of what it could do for Jared's career. Eight original pieces to hang around the club that is pretty much the most buzzed-about, soon-to-open hotspot in Hollywood. It's supposed to be the new Hyde, and the fact that Jared's work is going to be featured there? It's fucking huge.
He has Jared backed up against the wall, biting at the Japanese dragon on his neck when Tom clears his throat. Jensen pulls back and turns his head just enough to make it clear who he's talking to. “Paintings,” he answers the other man's question with a growl, before adding, “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Tom answers simply, but makes no move to leave. “Just sign off on this contract and I'll get outta your hair.”
The 'smug' is dripping off of his words and Jensen wants to give the order and have Jared rip Tom apart right here in the office. Fuckin' manipulative bastard. “I'll think about it,” he concedes, pointing. “Don't let it hit ya in the ass on your way out,” he adds.
Before Jensen can get back to effectively turning Jared to goo, the kid grabs his hips and pulls back, head leaning against the wall as he considers Jensen carefully. “What's goin' on with you?”
“Nothing,” Jensen discounts the question quickly. Too quickly. “We're not talkin' about me. We're celebrating you,” he grins a toothy, cheesy, smart ass grin and Jared rolls his eyes. But when Jensen starts to kneel, Jared grabs his elbow and hauls him back to his feet. “C'mon, man,” Jensen protests. “Let me show you how proud I am of you.”
“Oh, believe me, I will.” Jared winks and Jensen's grin nearly splits his face in half. “After you tell me what contract Tom wants you to sign.” Turns out, Jared's got a toothy, cheesy, smart ass grin of his own.
Stepping back, Jensen leans against the edge of his table, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. “Macy's wants me to do another line,” he mumbles. Jared doesn't ask questions. He doesn't have to when his eyebrows do that 'raise' thing and it's clear he's thinking, 'So?' “They want me to do bedding, man! Sheets and fuckin' throw pillows and shit,” he throws his arms up in the air, and the still-confused look on Jared's face just pisses him off. “I'm not Vera fucking Wang, goddammit!”
Jared rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously,” he agrees. “You're clearly not Asian.”
Jensen is not amused. “Did you just call me a woman?”
“You wear a lot of eyeliner. . . nail polish. . . have a lot of hair products.”
“I hate you.”
The silence stretches out between them – Jared watching Jensen, and Jensen watching his shoes. He doesn't want to talk about this. Figures he shouldn't have to. He said 'no.' Why should he have to explain himself?
“Jensen,” Jared's voice breaks the silence as he crosses the minimal distance between them and hooks his finger through Jensen's belt loop. His thumb draws lazily over the '9.16' he tattooed against Jensen's hip more than five years ago. “Dude, what is the big fuckin' deal? You sketch some stuff out in a rectangle, FedEx it to New York and collect your check. It's not like it's gonna be that mentally draining.”
“I don't give a fuck about the money, Jay,” Jensen snaps and he wishes they could just get back to the making out. Jared's body is a hell of a lot more interesting than some fucking flat sheets. “I sold the fuck out when I agreed to work with them in the first place, man. I'm not finishing the job with motherfucking housewares!”
Relaxing slightly, Jared drops into Jensen's chair and swings his mile-long legs onto the table. His motorcycle boots rest next to Jensen's arm and he nudges his boyfriend with the toe until Jensen meets his eye. “This is a cred thing?”
It makes Jensen a little bit crazy sometimes that Jared doesn't seem to understand simple concepts. Of course, there's no reason for Jared to understand them when he doesn't have to worry about shit like this. “Grown ass men do not sleep on fucking skateboard sheets.”
“We would. If that's what Danneel and Sandy bought us,” Jared points out, because honestly? What do they know about buying their own sheets? Danneel bought the first pair for their bed in the new house, and she's been keeping them stocked ever since. Sometimes Sandy grabs some, if she thinks about it. They have better things to do in their bedroom than worry about thread count.
Ignoring the interruption, Jensen goes on. “They want me to design sheets for fucking kids, man. Fifteen to twenty-five,” he rolls his eyes as he repeats the demographic Tom was trying to explain to him earlier, like he's some kind of idiot.
“Well, yeah,” Jared nods like he can't understand the problem. “That's your key demo, man.”
“And you don't see the problem with that?” Is he fucking blind? “Jay, I used to be my key demo! Me. Now my key demo is my fuckin' kid!”
“Well, yeah, but technically, you didn't have that kid,” Jared starts.
Jensen's sure that Jared thinks he's being helpful, but he's really, really not. “I'm thirty-three, Jay. He's three weeks out from sixteen. Do the fucking math. I'm old enough to be that kid's damn father!” He doesn't want to act like a raving lunatic, but dammit. He still feels like the sixteen year old kid who used to skate around the park back in Texas. Doesn't feel like the sell-out who designs fucking comforters for the largest retailer in the fucking world.
To his credit, Jared's not trying to be an asshole. He just doesn't see the problem. “So, you're worried about being a sell-out? Or you're worried about being old?” he asks. “'Cause, dude, you're not even thirty-five,” he points out.
Jensen hangs his head between his shoulders and pinches the bridge of his nose. God bless him for trying to understand, but Jared's never going to get it. He's going to be cool forever. The older he gets, the more offers come his way. Television shows and art commissions from the coolest places in Hollywood. His client list only grows as he accumulates experience. But Jensen's a skater boy – always has been – and at some point, that stops being cool, and he starts being the pathetic guy who hangs around the skate park past his prime and designs fucking shower curtains for somebody's mom to buy them as a Christmas present.
“You get that those fifteen-year-old kids worship the ground you walk on, right?” Jared finally asks, moving his feet back to the floor. Hands on Jensen's hips, he guides his boyfriend between his knees and slides his fingers up and down the back of Jensen's thighs. “And so the fuck what if you're old enough to be their dad?” he rolls his shoulders like it's a trivial thing. “Your entire culture is rooted in respect, Jen. The guys you looked up to when you were a kid were the guys who had been around, and were still here, right? Those kids out there? They buy your shit because their idols buy your shit, man. And their idols buy your shit because they respect the hell out of you.
“Because you've been around, and you're still here, and you've earned it.” He shakes his head, a little bit tired from stringing so many fucking words together. Usually, he can calm Jensen down with a blow job, but never let it be said that Jared Padalecki can't come up with a kick ass inspirational speech off the top of his well-conditioned head if he wants to. “'Sides, man,” he shrugs, fingers digging into Jensen's hip bones. “Tony Hawk's, like, forty, and you still blush like a school girl every time he pops in.”
Kicking his foot out, Jensen grins with satisfaction when the toe of his shoe collides with Jared's shin and the younger man cringes. “You were so close to gettin' laid tonight, too,” he deadpans, pulling himself out of Jared's grasp to turn back to his designs.
“Yeah,” Jared laughs, pressing his chest to Jensen's back and catching his earlobe between his teeth. “Like I'm not still gettin' laid tonight,” he whispers, hand drifting over Jensen's hip, traveling the junction of his hip and his pelvis. “I scored Trash,” he reminds as his wet lips trace the scorpion peeking out of Jensen's tee shirt.
“I'll buy you a cookie,” Jensen answers him, tone belying every racing beat of his heart as Jared's hand cups loosely over his dick.
“Can buy my own cookies,” Jared says, hips grinding against Jensen's ass. “I'm rich like that.” He sucks harder at the tattoo and flexes his fingers around the growing bulge in his hand. “What I can't do is suck my own dick,” he goes on. “So I'm gonna need you to sign that contract and come home early.” He smiles into Jensen's skin when he finally breaks and moans softly, deep in his throat. “Can you do that for me, Jen?” His palm presses flat as his hips rolls forward once again.
“Jesus Christ, fine!” Jensen nearly shouts and pushes Jared away with an elbow. “I'll design the fuckin' line, okay?!”
Like he's been listening from just outside the door the whole time, Tom pops in, contract in hand. He's grinning like an idiot, and Jensen kind of wants to punch him in the face. “Thanks, Jay,” he says and Jensen just rolls his eyes and takes the papers.
“Tommy?” Jared says without glancing up, hand and eyes gliding slowly over the curve of Jensen's ass. “Believe me when I say it had nothing to do with you.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to the back of Jensen's neck as his boyfriend signs his name to the contract to design a line of fucking sheets for fucking Macy's.
When Jensen hands it back, he's not exactly smiling, but at least he's not freaking out anymore. “I will do a set of sheets, a comforter, and a couple pillows. That's it,” he states, as though he has any say whatsoever in this negotiation. “Not doin' any accessories. No fucking dust ruffles,” he narrows his eyes at Tom, even as Tom rolls his.
“The fuck do you even know what a dust ruffle is?” Jared asks in a tone that says he sure as hell doesn't.
Jensen just shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and presses his fingers over his boyfriend's lips. “Just,” he kisses Jared quickly and then shoots him another toothy, cheesy grin, “Stand there and look pretty.”
