Boats and Hoes | NC-17 | J2, Chad, Misha
Title: Boats and Hoes
Rating: NC-17: bad words and sex
Word Count: 5,000ish
Notes: Um, so moodswingers requested someone write Jared as a 90’s rapper and Jensen as a stuck-up sorta guy … I asked my flist for help and prompts, some I took, some are on the back burner for timestamps, and the rest is … kinda embarrassing. IDEK. Title and cut and numerous references of Boats and Hoes is purely from Step Brothers, hahaha. IDK.
Disclaimer: I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. This is absolutely intended as crack and lulz. Proceed at your own risk. Also, totally unedited and written in like 12 hours.
Jared Padalecki always knew he was destined for good things. He was tall like Big Foot, had some pretty fantastic hair (when he tried), and some killer dimples that made all the ladies fawn. So in 1998, the Fox Broadcasting Company says it’s a great idea to put him in their new TV sitcom, which features a pretty hip LA-kinda guy who is shipped off to his upscale uncle’s house in Pittsburgh. Hilarity ensues when the two cultures clash, especially when his best friend Chad - DJ Jazzy Chazz - visits and further throws the upper class family into a tizzy. It’s pretty much the vanilla Fresh Prince of Bell Air. Also, it kinda really sucks.
But Jared’s pratfalls, easy going nature, smile, and dimples win over enough ladies - and gays - to keep it on the air for a couple seasons, which allows him to sorta-kinda find where he fits in: Music. Rather, rapping. He pulls it off well enough with a little persona change to J-Boozie and radio-friendly hits that are also parent- and kid-friendly with their clean lyrics about having to do homework on Friday nights instead of going to Homecoming. Or how troubling it is when your parents won’t buy you your own car, so you have to drive around the split pea soup travesty of a station wagon on your first date with the head cheerleader. It’s all sanitized and the teenies eat it all up, showing up in droves at each mall appearance and crying tears of joy whenever he opens his mouth.
The whole charade carries J-Boozie and Chazz far enough that they’re millionaires by the time they’re 19 and they each buy Ocean-front homes just outside of Los Angeles, but they keep up the partying atmosphere for far too long. Because in 2005, their accountant calls them to a joint meeting with the sad news, “Well’s all dried up.”
“What? We gots syndication!” J-Boozie shrieks.
The accountant speaks up, “You’re getting pennies on a shitty TV show.”
“Our shit ain’t shitty,” Chazz argues.
But J-Boozie and the accountant both level a glare that says it kind of is and they should all stop pretending it isn’t.
“Also, you’re behind on your mortgage,” the accountant points out.
J-Boozie laughs at Chazz. “Bro, where’s all yo money go?”
Chazz shrugs. “Boats and hoes.”
The accountant clears his throat. “Both of you are behind.”
“What? No way, I’s paying. Or you was ... Someone …” J-Boozie scratches his head. “We really briz-oke?”
“Just about.”
“What da hells we gonna do?”
Chazz smacks the table. “Reunion.”
He squints at his friend. “There just two-a-us. And we always togethah. What we gonna reunite?”
“Okay, comeback tour.” Chazz points at the accountant and gets excited, “Yeah? You like that idea? You gonna come right?”
“Absolutely not.”
Next, they meet with their manager to figure out what’s left to their careers. But he’s pretty certain it’s nothing. “It was a total fluke you even made three seasons out of that junk. You can’t go anywhere else.”
J-Boozie looks between Chazz and their manager. “Thought tha sayin' was ‘anywhere but up?’”
“You haven’t done anything in five years. You missed the boat.”
“What? We’s only 23,” Chazz complains.
“Dude, I knows. What the fuzz?” J-Boozie cries.
“You guys better find something else to do before you get more problems.”
“Man, P Dids was right,” Chazz sighs. J-Boozie and the manager stare at him. “No money, mo’ problems.”
J-Boozie squints. “Dawg, I think it’s mo money, mo problems.”
“Hey, we ain’t gots no money and we’s got problems! Brotha couldn’t be more right.”
J-Boozie stares a little longer, but then he sits up excited, slapping his hands together. “That’s it! We do tha rappin’ game again.”
The manager rolls his eyes. “Right, because it worked so well before.”
“Nah, we dirty it up.”
“Like Dirty South!” Chazz yells.
“Nah, c’mon! We does it West Coast style.”
Chazz starts nodding to some beat no one else can hear. “It’s the first of da month and I ain’t been paid. Can’t make no payments on mah Escalade.”
“Alright,” J-Boozie nods with a smile, bopping his head with the same beat.
“Wait, guys,” the manager starts, but the two are tossing rhymes back and forth and ignoring him.
“Gots bitches smellin’ sweet like a perfume count-ah, and my mama’s at home making me some clam chow-dah.”
“You do know,” and then the manager clears his throat and leans forward. “Chad? Jared?”
They finally look and Chazz cries, “Who da fuck you talkin’ to?”
The manager says slowly, “You are white.”
Chazz shrugs, “So’s Vanilla Ice.”
“Bad, bro,” J-Boozie shakes his head.
“Eminem!”
His eyes go wide, “Yeaaaah. We need a crew!”
“And hoes.”
“And boats and gold,” J-Boozie nods and smirks. “Gangstas gots ta have gold.”
“We can swear, right?”
“Shit, Em does it. We best.”
It takes another year or two for anyone to put any money into this, but J-Boozie and Chazz argue that they have a built-in audience of tweens and teens who loved them from the TV show and would eat their shit up in a second. And surprisingly, they do. And somehow or another, all the college co-eds buy into their new hard edge, street career and they audition other rappers for their crew. It comes down to a skuzzy, scruffy-faced, possibly-unshowered dude named Misha Mic and a ridiculously pretty, but strangely quiet Tom-Tom.
“Alrights. Last q each,” Chazz announces from behind the desk in their manager’s office. “Misha Mic, what’s yo opinion on boats and hoes?”
Tom-Tom looks confused while Misha Mic looks like he’s considering all the possibilities. He finally says, rather calmly and rather well, “I think I’d like to have my hoes on a boat.” His eyebrows go high, “Yes?”
Chazz looks at J-Boozie and they start nodding slowly. “Tom-Tom. Whatchu think about bling?”
The guy looks between all members of the room, which includes their manager, the accountant and lawyers on hand for contracts, and about ten of Chazz’s worthiest hoes. Tom-Tom regards them each again, and looks longer at Chazz and J-Boozie. He finally says, “Yeah.”
With arms in the air, Chazz shouts, “Sign these fuckas up!”
*
They go platinum with their debut album: Ain’t Nuthin But a Ho Thang, which features the hits “Gold Chain Gang” (samples from Sam Cooke), “Let’s Get This Muthaf*ckin’ Shizz Started,” and the 22-week chart-topping cover of Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight,” guest starring Misha Mic and Tom-Tom.
Late 2008, their second album drops, Gots Mo Money Dan Hoes. The critics blast it and call it “the most reprehensive piece of filth put to music,” but the kids? They chew it all up, spitting back up at concerts and events as they repeat every single word J-Boozie and Chazz’s so eloquently written.
Next thing they know, they’re back to being billionaires and they decide to upgrade their homes and eventually just build some dozen-or-so-bedroom palace so the whole crew can stay; J-Boozie, Chazz, Misha, and Tom get their own little quarter of the house but almost always hang together in the large game room in the basement where a dozen or so fans-slash-hoes are always stashed.
They hit up a round of talk shows to promote the second single on the second album, “Trash Mah Ho.” It’s NYC where it all falls apart for J-Boozie because he spots the hottest guy in the history of men. And for a second he stares but then he marches right up to the guy, unable to take his eyes off the juicy lips or ignore how thick, geeky, black glasses frame bright, bright green eyes.
“Help you?” the guy grumbles with confusion.
“You, uh … you works here?” he tries lamely.
“No, I don’t,” the guy answers slowly. “Why?”
“Nah, nuthin’, I just, you know … needin’ some mo water.”
“Did you?” The guy stares at the five gold chains hanging around his neck then up to the crooked San Francisco Giants hat on his head. J-Boozie thinks he’s hooked. But he continues on, “Did you really just say ‘needin’ mo water’?”
“In da green room, ya know?”
“Yeah, I don’t work here,” he laughs bitterly. Then he nods to a scantily clad girl in the doorway to the green room, just eighteen. “Maybe Little Susie can help you?”
J-Boozie smirks a little. “Then what’s yo name?”
He laughs and just walks away, and J-Boozie frowns.
*
Chazz drags the crew to some new club and buys any girl in a twenty-foot radius shots. J-Boozie takes down Patron after Patron and eventually spots the hot guy he saw earlier that day, and he smiles as best he can, rocking a little in his steps when he nears him. “Hey, ‘s you.” J-Boozie bumps his fist at the guy’s shoulder and then smiles again.
The guy looks at him, squinting, and then laughs. He goes so far as to tug at the brim of J-Boozie’s Giants hat and straightens it. “You’re such a fucking poser.”
“What? C’mon, you ain’t meanin’ that.” And here, J-Boozie’s ghettoness is pretty much gone, and the alcohol slips on his born-and-bred Texas accent. “What’s your name?” he asks as he leans in.
There’s loads of confusion on the guy’s face and he says flatly, “Jensen,” and then just stares at J-Boozie.
“You likin’ what you seein’?”
He laughs, ducking his head as he grabs his beer and takes another healthy sip. “I’m hatin’ what I’m hearin’,” he replies, his own southern lil tripping him up.
“Texas boy!” J-Boozie smiles. “C’mon now, we gots lots in common now.”
Jensen laughs and drinks more, basically ignoring anything J-Boozie’s sending his way by means of his best drunken, flirty eyes.
“So what’s it you do?”
There’s nothing but critical confusion on Jensen’s face, but he doesn’t leave, so J-Boozie considers that to be a pretty big sign that he’ll get lucky. It’s been pretty damned long since he’s gotten more than a sloppy blow job. Being gay and rapping about hoes and bitches and all that doesn’t really lend itself to getting him laid.
“Ya know who I am?” he asks just so Jensen keeps looking at him.
Jensen laughs. “Yeah, pretty unfortunately, I do. I’m Aclkes of RamshAckles.” J-Boozie stays silent with the same raised eyebrow and drunken leer. “The blog? Music blog?”
“You’s a writer?” That’s hot, fo’ sho.”
He leans away when J-Boozie leans in. “I trashed your album and then you bitched to Rolling Stone that I was a talentless yo-yo who didn’t know my dick from a stick.”
J-Boozie laughs, nearly giggles. “I mos’ certainly said that. Fuck, you’s prettier in person.”
An eyebrow goes high and Jensen continues looking confused.
“So ya know, I gots a chill pad at the hotel. You wants to come?”
His head turns a bit but he continues eying J-Boozie with an awkward smile. His mouth opens to answer, but then there’s a push at Jensen’s shoulder as someone rushes by and lands a fist at J-Boozie’s cheek.
Another body’s jumping into the fold and they’re pushing at J-Boozie, who just keeps yelling, “What the fuck, yo!” Jensen pulls his buddies off and a split second later Chazz, Misha Mic, and Tom-Tom are pushing their way in, holding J-Boozie away from the fight.
Jensen’s holding tight on the guy who J-Boozie recognizes as Alabama Steve, and who’s yelling at them with his own crooked southern accent. “You boys done stole our goods!”
Pushing behind the both of them is Insane Kane, Alabama Steve’s partner-in-crime on the East Coast rap circles. He starts yelling at them, “Yeah, you fools startin’ shit! Who’s the punkass now?”
*
J-Boozie’s at the hotel bar by himself, ice pack to his face while Chazz, Misha Mic, and Tom-Tom are crowded into the corner booth, surrounded by skimpy, loose women. He can hear Misha’s even, calming voice coo them all. “Laaaaadies. You know after the hotel party, it’s the after-after party. My crib.”
The girls giggle and a hand or two disappear under the table and likely into his pants, but J-Boozie just grumbles and turns back to the bartender. He drops his hat to the bar and tsks. “Hey, my man, I gets Hennessey?”
When he goes into the fat pockets of his five-sizes-too-large jeans, he comes up empty handed and curses. “What the fuzz, yo!” J-Boozie turns around and yells at the crew, “Yo, you bitches got my wallet?”
“Fuck yo shit,” Chazz replies, but J-Boozie flips him off.
“Yo, dawg,” he calls the bartender over. “You puts it on mah room?”
The bartender’s nodding while rolling his eyes. J-Boozie downs his drinks quickly, and orders a second, and a third, along with a fresh bag of ice, all to dull the pain on his face.
His eyes are drooping and he’s about one minute from falling asleep, he’s sure, when his wallet drops onto the bar in front of him and Jensen plops himself into the stool next to him. “Jensen,” he breaks loudly with a huge smile. “My fuckin’ man.” He slaps him on the back, pretty hard but then leans in with an arm around the guy’s neck. “Knew you wanted in on J-Boozie’s shit.”
Jensen gives him that same controlled confusion as he nudges the wallet. “I was just returning this. Probably need the hotel key?”
J-Boozie smiles brightly anyway, but then he winces when his cheek flares up again in pain. “Fuck dis shit,” he grumbles and brings the ice pack back to his face.
There’s laugh and Jensen nudges him. “Man, Steve got you good.”
He turns, keeping the pack up and he eyes Jensen. “Know those bitches?”
Jensen’s smirking. “Yeah, grew up with them. Old time buddies.”
“Insane Kane, too?” Jensen nods with a laugh. “Fuckin’ figs. Balls, man. Fuckin’ balls.” J-Boozie sees the awkward confusion returns. “Fuckin’ sweetest ass I seen in years and you know those diggas.”
“Diggas?”
He shrugs strangely and looks embarrassed. “Yeah, like dicks and … shit, man, ya know.”
Jensen shakes his head like he doesn’t want to be here, but he orders himself a beer, Hennessey for J-Boozie, then a round of Patron two minutes later. J-Boozie keeps leering and Jensen coughs to himself then says, “So, you’re gay.”
“That scare ya baby?”
“No, not really.”
J-Boozie’s hand caresses Jensen’s thigh and moves up high, fingertips barely grazing his dick. “I can takes good care-a ya.”
Jensen chuckles into his beer bottle. “You’re gay and you rap about hoes.”
He nods proudly. “And boats. And bling. And sometimes my mama. Love mah mama.”
“You rap about screwing … bitches. And hoes.”
“Fuck, yeah, man. I loves mah hoes.”
“You’re gay,” he says again.
“Mah mens be mah hoes.”
Jensen has to order more Patron to get through this.
It’s the tequila that takes them to making out in the elevator, Jensen pushing hard against J-Boozie while being groped so inappropriately for a public space. J-Boozie’s fingers grip tight at Jensen’s ass, tips poking him roughly while Jensen drunkenly ruts against J-Boozie, rubbing hard dick to hard dick. They’re barely into the hotel room when they’re both pushing pants and boxers down, shirts up and over heads, and then J-Boozie’s on the couch with Jensen’s mouth sucking him down. He’s cursing and panting out ridiculous lyrics like, “Sweet, sweet baby, with the dick suckin’ lips. Riding my cock with those fancy, fat hips.”
Jensen pops off and sighs. “Okay, you gotta shut up.”
J-Boozie cradles Jensen’s cheek and shakes his head. “C’mon baby, you makes dis feel so good.” Jensen rolls his eyes but moves back down and tries to ignore other crazy things coming out of J-Boozie’s mouth. “Yeah, suck dat shit. You’s got the best mouth, baby.”
He moves back again and declares simply, “Okay, my turn.” When they trade places and J-Boozie’s on his knees, sucking Jensen down, he groans with the pleasure of the heated mouth and tongue, and also at J-Boozie being fucking silent for once.
When they fuck on the bed, Jensen won’t stop kissing him. While J-Boozie thinks it’s because of how great he works his mouth, Jensen’s doing it just so there isn’t anything else crazy said between them.
They both agree that it’s really fucking hot between them … hardly finding guys built of the muscle and stamina they both bring, let alone how nearly perfect the fit of their dicks inside their asses is. When they’re worn out and on their backs, J-Boozie sighs happily and tries to cradle Jensen into his chest. “Yo cock is so fly, baby.”
Jensen sighs, so not happily and slides away. “’Kay, I have to go.”
“Aww, sugah, you stay da night, I gets you panacakes in the morn.”
He rolls his eyes but stays where he is as J-Boozie moves closer, kissing him again and he’s reminded of how fucking good it really is.
They do it five more times before check-out at noon, and J-Boozie’s a little too happy about doing it doggy style - “like mah man, Snoop!” he declared - until Jensen points out that it’s pretty much the most common gay sex position. J-Boozie frowns, “Bitch, can’t let me have nuthin’.”
*
Chazz is all over him in the morning, and continues to be because Jensen meets him at random hotels so they can just keep sleeping together. Only the Crew knows, and even that scares Jensen. Because Jensen is pretty, truly horrified at the fact that he really can’t say no to J-Boozie’s mouth or his dick or his tongue in his ass. Which he likes best because rimming is fucking awesome and it shuts J-Boozie up for long periods of time while he gets off. Other times, Jensen will cover J-Boozie’s mouth so he’s quiet, but somehow J-Boozie thinks it’s kinkier.
But J-Boozie loves it and they just keep doing it … running off in secret and fucking like rabbits. And somehow, J-Boozie equates it to being boyfriends, so he’s constantly gushing about Jensen to the Crew, and Chazz is constantly bitching him out for it.
“Fuck, jigga, that ho’s all over the East Coast Crew. Can’t trust those bitches.”
“I’m from the East Coast,” Misha Mic says calmly, a strangely curious look on his face.
“Yeah, and I don’t trust you neitha, bitch.”
“Yo, yo, yo, hats down, a’ight?” J-Boozie cuts in. “I ain’ts gonna stop fuckin’ Jens, now. So you gots to just deals.”
“Fuck yours!” Chazz calls out.
J-Boozie just smirks, “Alls-ready got Jens doing dat.”
“And in da ass? What tha fuck you’s thinkin’?”
He shoots back defensively, “I’s thinking it feels gooood.” Then he shakes his head. “Shit, bros, I thinks … I thinks I’m in loves.”
“No fuckin’ way, jigga.”
Misha looks between them, even at Tom-Tom who just sits there staring at them all. “J, I think that’s beautiful. You be good and love that man.”
“Yeahs, thanks, bro.” Then J-Boozie looks to Tom-Tom. “What’s abouts you? You cools with me fuckin’ my boy?”
Tom-Tom raises and eyebrow and asks quietly, “Do I have to watch?”
“Only ifs ya want ta,” he smirks back. But Tom-Tom looks horrified, so J-Boozie says quickly, “Nah, bro. You don’t hafta.”
Tom-Tom shrugs.
“Alright, bitches, I wants to buy Jens something nice. Whatchoo say?”
Chad whines and turns from the conversation, trying to bring porn up on his iPhone. Misha Mic looks at J-Boozie for a few moments then says thoughtfully, “Well. My ladies love jewelry? Try that with Jensen?”
J-Boozie smiles broadly and nods. “Awwww, yeah. That’s the shit there.”
Next they meet up, J-Boozie snuggles Jensen extra long afterwards and somehow Jensen lets him. Pretty much thankful he’s not talking too much. But then he squeezes once and jumps up. “I gots you sumfin.”
“Jared, seriously. Use English.”
J-Boozie turns on him and stares angrily. “We talked ‘bout dat.”
Jensen sighs. “I am not calling you that. I know what you’re real name is. I’m using that.”
He stands tall and is ridiculously indignant, but the whole mood is diminished by the fact that he’s stark naked, fat cock swinging when tosses his hands in the air. “My name’s J-Boozie. You knows dat.”
“Fuck, man,” Jensen groans as he shoots his legs over the side of the bed and gets his pants on. “I’m never calling you that.”
J-Boozie sighs and shakes his head. “You’s ruinin’ da moment.”
“What moment?”
“I was gonna gives you mah gift.”
Jensen stands to pull his jeans up, zipping and buttoning the fly shut. “You got me a gift?”
“Hells yeah,” J-Boozie grins broadly. “You’s mah ho. Gots ta take cares you.”
When J-Boozie’s gone from the bedroom, Jensen sighs roughly and tugs his shirt back on. “I really gotta find another way to get laid.”
“A’ight,” he says once he’s in the doorway. “Close yo eyes.”
“Oh, Christ,” he sighs again, but follows the directive.
“Dere’s ya go.”
Jensen feels something cold wrap around his neck and a weight at his chest. He’s terribly nervous to open his eyes, and really scared of the giddiness in J-Boozie’s voice. He cracks one eyelid up and then shoots them both fully open. Horrified is an understatement because he’s wearing a two-inch thick golden rope with a four-inch-long glittered-up “J” hanging from it. “What? The fuck?”
J-Boozie slides close, palms stroking over Jensen’s ass. “You likes baby?”
He sighs again and sounds resigned. “You bought me bling?”
“Only da best for my ho.”
“I’m not.” Jensen pushes J-Boozie back, but not too hard. Just enough to be out of his space. “I’m not your ho.”
He truly looks confused. “Den what?”
“I’m just … we’re.” Jensen looks away, almost scared for a second before he looks back. “Jared, we’re just - ”
“Fuck, ‘s no Jay-red, bitch.” And he spits the name out like he don’t even know how it’s really said. Like he’s never heard it before.
He rolls his eyes. “Then what?”
“J-Boozie, you know.”
Jensen looks pretty pissed and tips his head up and down quickly, like he can’t even manage this moment. “No. Fuck that name. I am not calling you that.”
“Well, I don’ts go by Jay-red.”
“Then what?”
“Sugah?”
“I am not … ” He shrugs angrily then tosses hands out. “Okay, fine. How about J? That good for you?”
“Yeah, dat’s good, baby,” J-Boozie smirks. But then his phone rings and he launches himself onto the bed to answer. “Wha’s up Chazzizzle?”
*
"Jens loved da chain. Thanks much Misha Mic!” he calls out when he sees the Crew next. He hugs him full on and laughs, “You’s my new giftin’ bitch, yeah?”
“He really liked it?” Misha Mic asks, looking truly happy with himself. “I’m so glad. Anytime you want help, I’m there,” he adds on, a comforting hand at J-Boozie’s back.
“Yeah, dis da thing, though,” J-Boozie frowns. “Jens keeps callin’ me Jay-red. How da fuck I break that?”
Misha Mic leans back in his armchair, head tipping back as he thinks. “Hmm, have you tried asking him to use your proper name?”
“Fucks, yeah, I’s do. But den da boy gets even mo pissed. Yellin’ at me like I ain’t the one screwin’ him. Shi-et.”
He snaps and sits forward again. “I think we should go jewelry again. Cheer him right back up.”
*
J-Boozie’s grinning from ear to ear, two solid dimples puncturing his cheeks. And Jensen’s smiling back pretty easily because secretly? Loves those dimples; it’s a huge weakness. He even leans forward to poke one after they kiss dirty on the couch. “I gots sumfin for you.”
Jensen rolls his eyes and sighs, remembering the J-chain. “What is it now?”
His mouth tips up high and he jumps off, running to the bedroom and sliding on the edges of his way-too-long and way-too-baggy jeans. He yelps a little when he skates right into the doorway. And even Jensen has to laugh at that. J-Boozie jogs back into the room and jumps back onto Jensen, covering him with his body and there’s heat between their bare chests. He brings his hands up to Jensen’s chest, a box trapped beneath them. “A’ight. This tooks lotsa thoughts, so I hopes you dig it.”
He eyes J-Boozie oddly and finally opens the box to a simple silver ring. His eyebrows crinkle down and he wonders for a moment if J-Boozie actually considered what Jensen would like and not just something that fit into his own life. Because it’s so plain but seems classy with the shine and the smooth edges. Jensen smirks a little and even kisses J-Boozie, gentle and caring. “Wow. Thank you.”
“Look at da inside, yeah?”
Jensen turns it in his hands and then freezes, sighing roughly at the delicate cursive. Jens + J-Boozie 4-Evs
“You likes baby?” J-Boozie asks while pushing hands down Jensen’s chest and groping him above the jeans.
Jensen kicks his legs up to stop it and he rolls his eyes. “I’m not fucking calling you J-Boozie.”
“What? You don’t like? Misha Mic says jewelry’s da way to a ho’s heart.”
“I’m not your ho.”
For a long moment, J-Boozie actually is hurt and he’s frowning, those dimples dissolving into his cheeks.
And for another long moment Jensen frowns. He shifts up on the couch and actually holds the ring in his palm, trying to ignore the sight of the inscription. “Alright, look. You have to stop talking so ridiculously and just talk to me. Alright?”
“Like what? Abouts yo dick?”
Jensen rolls his eyes. “No. About your name.”
“J-Boozie,” he says proudly.
“Fuck.”
“Yeahs, whens we gonna do that?”
He sighs and resigns himself to what they always do. “If you shut up, we can do it right now.”
“Foshizzle,” J-Boozie giggles and starts pulling Jensen’s pants down. “Mah boy ain’t no ho,” he starts chanting happily as he draws down the boxers. “If you don’t know, now ya know.”
Jensen actually laughs and shakes his head as he watches J-Boozie take down his own pants, which isn’t hard once the belt is released. Everything baggy just slips down without help. J-Boozie straddles Jensen’s hips, rubbing his ass against Jensen’s dick. And Jensen’s moaning for it, appreciating the touch and that J-Boozie’s being quiet. For once.
But it doesn’t last long, because J-Boozie starts panting against Jensen’s mouth as they keep grinding. “I’m gonna writes mah baby a song.”
“Oh, fuck,” Jensen whines, partly in protest but also because J-Boozie’s dick is leaking on his stomach and it’s turning him on.
“LA face with an Oakland booty. Hump my boy like it’s mah duty.”
He rolls his eyes and tries to block out J-Boozie’s voice, focusing more on the slide of asscheeks over his own dick.
“J, E … N, S … E, N. Gonna put his stick in mah end.”
“Just fucking blow me, please?”
“Sho nuff, baby!”
And now! The Sequel! Seashells and Tidal Waves
Bonus Artz!
Rating: NC-17: bad words and sex
Word Count: 5,000ish
Notes: Um, so moodswingers requested someone write Jared as a 90’s rapper and Jensen as a stuck-up sorta guy … I asked my flist for help and prompts, some I took, some are on the back burner for timestamps, and the rest is … kinda embarrassing. IDEK. Title and cut and numerous references of Boats and Hoes is purely from Step Brothers, hahaha. IDK.
Disclaimer: I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. This is absolutely intended as crack and lulz. Proceed at your own risk. Also, totally unedited and written in like 12 hours.
Jared Padalecki always knew he was destined for good things. He was tall like Big Foot, had some pretty fantastic hair (when he tried), and some killer dimples that made all the ladies fawn. So in 1998, the Fox Broadcasting Company says it’s a great idea to put him in their new TV sitcom, which features a pretty hip LA-kinda guy who is shipped off to his upscale uncle’s house in Pittsburgh. Hilarity ensues when the two cultures clash, especially when his best friend Chad - DJ Jazzy Chazz - visits and further throws the upper class family into a tizzy. It’s pretty much the vanilla Fresh Prince of Bell Air. Also, it kinda really sucks.
But Jared’s pratfalls, easy going nature, smile, and dimples win over enough ladies - and gays - to keep it on the air for a couple seasons, which allows him to sorta-kinda find where he fits in: Music. Rather, rapping. He pulls it off well enough with a little persona change to J-Boozie and radio-friendly hits that are also parent- and kid-friendly with their clean lyrics about having to do homework on Friday nights instead of going to Homecoming. Or how troubling it is when your parents won’t buy you your own car, so you have to drive around the split pea soup travesty of a station wagon on your first date with the head cheerleader. It’s all sanitized and the teenies eat it all up, showing up in droves at each mall appearance and crying tears of joy whenever he opens his mouth.
The whole charade carries J-Boozie and Chazz far enough that they’re millionaires by the time they’re 19 and they each buy Ocean-front homes just outside of Los Angeles, but they keep up the partying atmosphere for far too long. Because in 2005, their accountant calls them to a joint meeting with the sad news, “Well’s all dried up.”
“What? We gots syndication!” J-Boozie shrieks.
The accountant speaks up, “You’re getting pennies on a shitty TV show.”
“Our shit ain’t shitty,” Chazz argues.
But J-Boozie and the accountant both level a glare that says it kind of is and they should all stop pretending it isn’t.
“Also, you’re behind on your mortgage,” the accountant points out.
J-Boozie laughs at Chazz. “Bro, where’s all yo money go?”
Chazz shrugs. “Boats and hoes.”
The accountant clears his throat. “Both of you are behind.”
“What? No way, I’s paying. Or you was ... Someone …” J-Boozie scratches his head. “We really briz-oke?”
“Just about.”
“What da hells we gonna do?”
Chazz smacks the table. “Reunion.”
He squints at his friend. “There just two-a-us. And we always togethah. What we gonna reunite?”
“Okay, comeback tour.” Chazz points at the accountant and gets excited, “Yeah? You like that idea? You gonna come right?”
“Absolutely not.”
Next, they meet with their manager to figure out what’s left to their careers. But he’s pretty certain it’s nothing. “It was a total fluke you even made three seasons out of that junk. You can’t go anywhere else.”
J-Boozie looks between Chazz and their manager. “Thought tha sayin' was ‘anywhere but up?’”
“You haven’t done anything in five years. You missed the boat.”
“What? We’s only 23,” Chazz complains.
“Dude, I knows. What the fuzz?” J-Boozie cries.
“You guys better find something else to do before you get more problems.”
“Man, P Dids was right,” Chazz sighs. J-Boozie and the manager stare at him. “No money, mo’ problems.”
J-Boozie squints. “Dawg, I think it’s mo money, mo problems.”
“Hey, we ain’t gots no money and we’s got problems! Brotha couldn’t be more right.”
J-Boozie stares a little longer, but then he sits up excited, slapping his hands together. “That’s it! We do tha rappin’ game again.”
The manager rolls his eyes. “Right, because it worked so well before.”
“Nah, we dirty it up.”
“Like Dirty South!” Chazz yells.
“Nah, c’mon! We does it West Coast style.”
Chazz starts nodding to some beat no one else can hear. “It’s the first of da month and I ain’t been paid. Can’t make no payments on mah Escalade.”
“Alright,” J-Boozie nods with a smile, bopping his head with the same beat.
“Wait, guys,” the manager starts, but the two are tossing rhymes back and forth and ignoring him.
“Gots bitches smellin’ sweet like a perfume count-ah, and my mama’s at home making me some clam chow-dah.”
“You do know,” and then the manager clears his throat and leans forward. “Chad? Jared?”
They finally look and Chazz cries, “Who da fuck you talkin’ to?”
The manager says slowly, “You are white.”
Chazz shrugs, “So’s Vanilla Ice.”
“Bad, bro,” J-Boozie shakes his head.
“Eminem!”
His eyes go wide, “Yeaaaah. We need a crew!”
“And hoes.”
“And boats and gold,” J-Boozie nods and smirks. “Gangstas gots ta have gold.”
“We can swear, right?”
“Shit, Em does it. We best.”
It takes another year or two for anyone to put any money into this, but J-Boozie and Chazz argue that they have a built-in audience of tweens and teens who loved them from the TV show and would eat their shit up in a second. And surprisingly, they do. And somehow or another, all the college co-eds buy into their new hard edge, street career and they audition other rappers for their crew. It comes down to a skuzzy, scruffy-faced, possibly-unshowered dude named Misha Mic and a ridiculously pretty, but strangely quiet Tom-Tom.
“Alrights. Last q each,” Chazz announces from behind the desk in their manager’s office. “Misha Mic, what’s yo opinion on boats and hoes?”
Tom-Tom looks confused while Misha Mic looks like he’s considering all the possibilities. He finally says, rather calmly and rather well, “I think I’d like to have my hoes on a boat.” His eyebrows go high, “Yes?”
Chazz looks at J-Boozie and they start nodding slowly. “Tom-Tom. Whatchu think about bling?”
The guy looks between all members of the room, which includes their manager, the accountant and lawyers on hand for contracts, and about ten of Chazz’s worthiest hoes. Tom-Tom regards them each again, and looks longer at Chazz and J-Boozie. He finally says, “Yeah.”
With arms in the air, Chazz shouts, “Sign these fuckas up!”
*
They go platinum with their debut album: Ain’t Nuthin But a Ho Thang, which features the hits “Gold Chain Gang” (samples from Sam Cooke), “Let’s Get This Muthaf*ckin’ Shizz Started,” and the 22-week chart-topping cover of Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight,” guest starring Misha Mic and Tom-Tom.
Late 2008, their second album drops, Gots Mo Money Dan Hoes. The critics blast it and call it “the most reprehensive piece of filth put to music,” but the kids? They chew it all up, spitting back up at concerts and events as they repeat every single word J-Boozie and Chazz’s so eloquently written.
Next thing they know, they’re back to being billionaires and they decide to upgrade their homes and eventually just build some dozen-or-so-bedroom palace so the whole crew can stay; J-Boozie, Chazz, Misha, and Tom get their own little quarter of the house but almost always hang together in the large game room in the basement where a dozen or so fans-slash-hoes are always stashed.
They hit up a round of talk shows to promote the second single on the second album, “Trash Mah Ho.” It’s NYC where it all falls apart for J-Boozie because he spots the hottest guy in the history of men. And for a second he stares but then he marches right up to the guy, unable to take his eyes off the juicy lips or ignore how thick, geeky, black glasses frame bright, bright green eyes.
“Help you?” the guy grumbles with confusion.
“You, uh … you works here?” he tries lamely.
“No, I don’t,” the guy answers slowly. “Why?”
“Nah, nuthin’, I just, you know … needin’ some mo water.”
“Did you?” The guy stares at the five gold chains hanging around his neck then up to the crooked San Francisco Giants hat on his head. J-Boozie thinks he’s hooked. But he continues on, “Did you really just say ‘needin’ mo water’?”
“In da green room, ya know?”
“Yeah, I don’t work here,” he laughs bitterly. Then he nods to a scantily clad girl in the doorway to the green room, just eighteen. “Maybe Little Susie can help you?”
J-Boozie smirks a little. “Then what’s yo name?”
He laughs and just walks away, and J-Boozie frowns.
*
Chazz drags the crew to some new club and buys any girl in a twenty-foot radius shots. J-Boozie takes down Patron after Patron and eventually spots the hot guy he saw earlier that day, and he smiles as best he can, rocking a little in his steps when he nears him. “Hey, ‘s you.” J-Boozie bumps his fist at the guy’s shoulder and then smiles again.
The guy looks at him, squinting, and then laughs. He goes so far as to tug at the brim of J-Boozie’s Giants hat and straightens it. “You’re such a fucking poser.”
“What? C’mon, you ain’t meanin’ that.” And here, J-Boozie’s ghettoness is pretty much gone, and the alcohol slips on his born-and-bred Texas accent. “What’s your name?” he asks as he leans in.
There’s loads of confusion on the guy’s face and he says flatly, “Jensen,” and then just stares at J-Boozie.
“You likin’ what you seein’?”
He laughs, ducking his head as he grabs his beer and takes another healthy sip. “I’m hatin’ what I’m hearin’,” he replies, his own southern lil tripping him up.
“Texas boy!” J-Boozie smiles. “C’mon now, we gots lots in common now.”
Jensen laughs and drinks more, basically ignoring anything J-Boozie’s sending his way by means of his best drunken, flirty eyes.
“So what’s it you do?”
There’s nothing but critical confusion on Jensen’s face, but he doesn’t leave, so J-Boozie considers that to be a pretty big sign that he’ll get lucky. It’s been pretty damned long since he’s gotten more than a sloppy blow job. Being gay and rapping about hoes and bitches and all that doesn’t really lend itself to getting him laid.
“Ya know who I am?” he asks just so Jensen keeps looking at him.
Jensen laughs. “Yeah, pretty unfortunately, I do. I’m Aclkes of RamshAckles.” J-Boozie stays silent with the same raised eyebrow and drunken leer. “The blog? Music blog?”
“You’s a writer?” That’s hot, fo’ sho.”
He leans away when J-Boozie leans in. “I trashed your album and then you bitched to Rolling Stone that I was a talentless yo-yo who didn’t know my dick from a stick.”
J-Boozie laughs, nearly giggles. “I mos’ certainly said that. Fuck, you’s prettier in person.”
An eyebrow goes high and Jensen continues looking confused.
“So ya know, I gots a chill pad at the hotel. You wants to come?”
His head turns a bit but he continues eying J-Boozie with an awkward smile. His mouth opens to answer, but then there’s a push at Jensen’s shoulder as someone rushes by and lands a fist at J-Boozie’s cheek.
Another body’s jumping into the fold and they’re pushing at J-Boozie, who just keeps yelling, “What the fuck, yo!” Jensen pulls his buddies off and a split second later Chazz, Misha Mic, and Tom-Tom are pushing their way in, holding J-Boozie away from the fight.
Jensen’s holding tight on the guy who J-Boozie recognizes as Alabama Steve, and who’s yelling at them with his own crooked southern accent. “You boys done stole our goods!”
Pushing behind the both of them is Insane Kane, Alabama Steve’s partner-in-crime on the East Coast rap circles. He starts yelling at them, “Yeah, you fools startin’ shit! Who’s the punkass now?”
*
J-Boozie’s at the hotel bar by himself, ice pack to his face while Chazz, Misha Mic, and Tom-Tom are crowded into the corner booth, surrounded by skimpy, loose women. He can hear Misha’s even, calming voice coo them all. “Laaaaadies. You know after the hotel party, it’s the after-after party. My crib.”
The girls giggle and a hand or two disappear under the table and likely into his pants, but J-Boozie just grumbles and turns back to the bartender. He drops his hat to the bar and tsks. “Hey, my man, I gets Hennessey?”
When he goes into the fat pockets of his five-sizes-too-large jeans, he comes up empty handed and curses. “What the fuzz, yo!” J-Boozie turns around and yells at the crew, “Yo, you bitches got my wallet?”
“Fuck yo shit,” Chazz replies, but J-Boozie flips him off.
“Yo, dawg,” he calls the bartender over. “You puts it on mah room?”
The bartender’s nodding while rolling his eyes. J-Boozie downs his drinks quickly, and orders a second, and a third, along with a fresh bag of ice, all to dull the pain on his face.
His eyes are drooping and he’s about one minute from falling asleep, he’s sure, when his wallet drops onto the bar in front of him and Jensen plops himself into the stool next to him. “Jensen,” he breaks loudly with a huge smile. “My fuckin’ man.” He slaps him on the back, pretty hard but then leans in with an arm around the guy’s neck. “Knew you wanted in on J-Boozie’s shit.”
Jensen gives him that same controlled confusion as he nudges the wallet. “I was just returning this. Probably need the hotel key?”
J-Boozie smiles brightly anyway, but then he winces when his cheek flares up again in pain. “Fuck dis shit,” he grumbles and brings the ice pack back to his face.
There’s laugh and Jensen nudges him. “Man, Steve got you good.”
He turns, keeping the pack up and he eyes Jensen. “Know those bitches?”
Jensen’s smirking. “Yeah, grew up with them. Old time buddies.”
“Insane Kane, too?” Jensen nods with a laugh. “Fuckin’ figs. Balls, man. Fuckin’ balls.” J-Boozie sees the awkward confusion returns. “Fuckin’ sweetest ass I seen in years and you know those diggas.”
“Diggas?”
He shrugs strangely and looks embarrassed. “Yeah, like dicks and … shit, man, ya know.”
Jensen shakes his head like he doesn’t want to be here, but he orders himself a beer, Hennessey for J-Boozie, then a round of Patron two minutes later. J-Boozie keeps leering and Jensen coughs to himself then says, “So, you’re gay.”
“That scare ya baby?”
“No, not really.”
J-Boozie’s hand caresses Jensen’s thigh and moves up high, fingertips barely grazing his dick. “I can takes good care-a ya.”
Jensen chuckles into his beer bottle. “You’re gay and you rap about hoes.”
He nods proudly. “And boats. And bling. And sometimes my mama. Love mah mama.”
“You rap about screwing … bitches. And hoes.”
“Fuck, yeah, man. I loves mah hoes.”
“You’re gay,” he says again.
“Mah mens be mah hoes.”
Jensen has to order more Patron to get through this.
It’s the tequila that takes them to making out in the elevator, Jensen pushing hard against J-Boozie while being groped so inappropriately for a public space. J-Boozie’s fingers grip tight at Jensen’s ass, tips poking him roughly while Jensen drunkenly ruts against J-Boozie, rubbing hard dick to hard dick. They’re barely into the hotel room when they’re both pushing pants and boxers down, shirts up and over heads, and then J-Boozie’s on the couch with Jensen’s mouth sucking him down. He’s cursing and panting out ridiculous lyrics like, “Sweet, sweet baby, with the dick suckin’ lips. Riding my cock with those fancy, fat hips.”
Jensen pops off and sighs. “Okay, you gotta shut up.”
J-Boozie cradles Jensen’s cheek and shakes his head. “C’mon baby, you makes dis feel so good.” Jensen rolls his eyes but moves back down and tries to ignore other crazy things coming out of J-Boozie’s mouth. “Yeah, suck dat shit. You’s got the best mouth, baby.”
He moves back again and declares simply, “Okay, my turn.” When they trade places and J-Boozie’s on his knees, sucking Jensen down, he groans with the pleasure of the heated mouth and tongue, and also at J-Boozie being fucking silent for once.
When they fuck on the bed, Jensen won’t stop kissing him. While J-Boozie thinks it’s because of how great he works his mouth, Jensen’s doing it just so there isn’t anything else crazy said between them.
They both agree that it’s really fucking hot between them … hardly finding guys built of the muscle and stamina they both bring, let alone how nearly perfect the fit of their dicks inside their asses is. When they’re worn out and on their backs, J-Boozie sighs happily and tries to cradle Jensen into his chest. “Yo cock is so fly, baby.”
Jensen sighs, so not happily and slides away. “’Kay, I have to go.”
“Aww, sugah, you stay da night, I gets you panacakes in the morn.”
He rolls his eyes but stays where he is as J-Boozie moves closer, kissing him again and he’s reminded of how fucking good it really is.
They do it five more times before check-out at noon, and J-Boozie’s a little too happy about doing it doggy style - “like mah man, Snoop!” he declared - until Jensen points out that it’s pretty much the most common gay sex position. J-Boozie frowns, “Bitch, can’t let me have nuthin’.”
*
Chazz is all over him in the morning, and continues to be because Jensen meets him at random hotels so they can just keep sleeping together. Only the Crew knows, and even that scares Jensen. Because Jensen is pretty, truly horrified at the fact that he really can’t say no to J-Boozie’s mouth or his dick or his tongue in his ass. Which he likes best because rimming is fucking awesome and it shuts J-Boozie up for long periods of time while he gets off. Other times, Jensen will cover J-Boozie’s mouth so he’s quiet, but somehow J-Boozie thinks it’s kinkier.
But J-Boozie loves it and they just keep doing it … running off in secret and fucking like rabbits. And somehow, J-Boozie equates it to being boyfriends, so he’s constantly gushing about Jensen to the Crew, and Chazz is constantly bitching him out for it.
“Fuck, jigga, that ho’s all over the East Coast Crew. Can’t trust those bitches.”
“I’m from the East Coast,” Misha Mic says calmly, a strangely curious look on his face.
“Yeah, and I don’t trust you neitha, bitch.”
“Yo, yo, yo, hats down, a’ight?” J-Boozie cuts in. “I ain’ts gonna stop fuckin’ Jens, now. So you gots to just deals.”
“Fuck yours!” Chazz calls out.
J-Boozie just smirks, “Alls-ready got Jens doing dat.”
“And in da ass? What tha fuck you’s thinkin’?”
He shoots back defensively, “I’s thinking it feels gooood.” Then he shakes his head. “Shit, bros, I thinks … I thinks I’m in loves.”
“No fuckin’ way, jigga.”
Misha looks between them, even at Tom-Tom who just sits there staring at them all. “J, I think that’s beautiful. You be good and love that man.”
“Yeahs, thanks, bro.” Then J-Boozie looks to Tom-Tom. “What’s abouts you? You cools with me fuckin’ my boy?”
Tom-Tom raises and eyebrow and asks quietly, “Do I have to watch?”
“Only ifs ya want ta,” he smirks back. But Tom-Tom looks horrified, so J-Boozie says quickly, “Nah, bro. You don’t hafta.”
Tom-Tom shrugs.
“Alright, bitches, I wants to buy Jens something nice. Whatchoo say?”
Chad whines and turns from the conversation, trying to bring porn up on his iPhone. Misha Mic looks at J-Boozie for a few moments then says thoughtfully, “Well. My ladies love jewelry? Try that with Jensen?”
J-Boozie smiles broadly and nods. “Awwww, yeah. That’s the shit there.”
Next they meet up, J-Boozie snuggles Jensen extra long afterwards and somehow Jensen lets him. Pretty much thankful he’s not talking too much. But then he squeezes once and jumps up. “I gots you sumfin.”
“Jared, seriously. Use English.”
J-Boozie turns on him and stares angrily. “We talked ‘bout dat.”
Jensen sighs. “I am not calling you that. I know what you’re real name is. I’m using that.”
He stands tall and is ridiculously indignant, but the whole mood is diminished by the fact that he’s stark naked, fat cock swinging when tosses his hands in the air. “My name’s J-Boozie. You knows dat.”
“Fuck, man,” Jensen groans as he shoots his legs over the side of the bed and gets his pants on. “I’m never calling you that.”
J-Boozie sighs and shakes his head. “You’s ruinin’ da moment.”
“What moment?”
“I was gonna gives you mah gift.”
Jensen stands to pull his jeans up, zipping and buttoning the fly shut. “You got me a gift?”
“Hells yeah,” J-Boozie grins broadly. “You’s mah ho. Gots ta take cares you.”
When J-Boozie’s gone from the bedroom, Jensen sighs roughly and tugs his shirt back on. “I really gotta find another way to get laid.”
“A’ight,” he says once he’s in the doorway. “Close yo eyes.”
“Oh, Christ,” he sighs again, but follows the directive.
“Dere’s ya go.”
Jensen feels something cold wrap around his neck and a weight at his chest. He’s terribly nervous to open his eyes, and really scared of the giddiness in J-Boozie’s voice. He cracks one eyelid up and then shoots them both fully open. Horrified is an understatement because he’s wearing a two-inch thick golden rope with a four-inch-long glittered-up “J” hanging from it. “What? The fuck?”
J-Boozie slides close, palms stroking over Jensen’s ass. “You likes baby?”
He sighs again and sounds resigned. “You bought me bling?”
“Only da best for my ho.”
“I’m not.” Jensen pushes J-Boozie back, but not too hard. Just enough to be out of his space. “I’m not your ho.”
He truly looks confused. “Den what?”
“I’m just … we’re.” Jensen looks away, almost scared for a second before he looks back. “Jared, we’re just - ”
“Fuck, ‘s no Jay-red, bitch.” And he spits the name out like he don’t even know how it’s really said. Like he’s never heard it before.
He rolls his eyes. “Then what?”
“J-Boozie, you know.”
Jensen looks pretty pissed and tips his head up and down quickly, like he can’t even manage this moment. “No. Fuck that name. I am not calling you that.”
“Well, I don’ts go by Jay-red.”
“Then what?”
“Sugah?”
“I am not … ” He shrugs angrily then tosses hands out. “Okay, fine. How about J? That good for you?”
“Yeah, dat’s good, baby,” J-Boozie smirks. But then his phone rings and he launches himself onto the bed to answer. “Wha’s up Chazzizzle?”
*
"Jens loved da chain. Thanks much Misha Mic!” he calls out when he sees the Crew next. He hugs him full on and laughs, “You’s my new giftin’ bitch, yeah?”
“He really liked it?” Misha Mic asks, looking truly happy with himself. “I’m so glad. Anytime you want help, I’m there,” he adds on, a comforting hand at J-Boozie’s back.
“Yeah, dis da thing, though,” J-Boozie frowns. “Jens keeps callin’ me Jay-red. How da fuck I break that?”
Misha Mic leans back in his armchair, head tipping back as he thinks. “Hmm, have you tried asking him to use your proper name?”
“Fucks, yeah, I’s do. But den da boy gets even mo pissed. Yellin’ at me like I ain’t the one screwin’ him. Shi-et.”
He snaps and sits forward again. “I think we should go jewelry again. Cheer him right back up.”
*
J-Boozie’s grinning from ear to ear, two solid dimples puncturing his cheeks. And Jensen’s smiling back pretty easily because secretly? Loves those dimples; it’s a huge weakness. He even leans forward to poke one after they kiss dirty on the couch. “I gots sumfin for you.”
Jensen rolls his eyes and sighs, remembering the J-chain. “What is it now?”
His mouth tips up high and he jumps off, running to the bedroom and sliding on the edges of his way-too-long and way-too-baggy jeans. He yelps a little when he skates right into the doorway. And even Jensen has to laugh at that. J-Boozie jogs back into the room and jumps back onto Jensen, covering him with his body and there’s heat between their bare chests. He brings his hands up to Jensen’s chest, a box trapped beneath them. “A’ight. This tooks lotsa thoughts, so I hopes you dig it.”
He eyes J-Boozie oddly and finally opens the box to a simple silver ring. His eyebrows crinkle down and he wonders for a moment if J-Boozie actually considered what Jensen would like and not just something that fit into his own life. Because it’s so plain but seems classy with the shine and the smooth edges. Jensen smirks a little and even kisses J-Boozie, gentle and caring. “Wow. Thank you.”
“Look at da inside, yeah?”
Jensen turns it in his hands and then freezes, sighing roughly at the delicate cursive. Jens + J-Boozie 4-Evs
“You likes baby?” J-Boozie asks while pushing hands down Jensen’s chest and groping him above the jeans.
Jensen kicks his legs up to stop it and he rolls his eyes. “I’m not fucking calling you J-Boozie.”
“What? You don’t like? Misha Mic says jewelry’s da way to a ho’s heart.”
“I’m not your ho.”
For a long moment, J-Boozie actually is hurt and he’s frowning, those dimples dissolving into his cheeks.
And for another long moment Jensen frowns. He shifts up on the couch and actually holds the ring in his palm, trying to ignore the sight of the inscription. “Alright, look. You have to stop talking so ridiculously and just talk to me. Alright?”
“Like what? Abouts yo dick?”
Jensen rolls his eyes. “No. About your name.”
“J-Boozie,” he says proudly.
“Fuck.”
“Yeahs, whens we gonna do that?”
He sighs and resigns himself to what they always do. “If you shut up, we can do it right now.”
“Foshizzle,” J-Boozie giggles and starts pulling Jensen’s pants down. “Mah boy ain’t no ho,” he starts chanting happily as he draws down the boxers. “If you don’t know, now ya know.”
Jensen actually laughs and shakes his head as he watches J-Boozie take down his own pants, which isn’t hard once the belt is released. Everything baggy just slips down without help. J-Boozie straddles Jensen’s hips, rubbing his ass against Jensen’s dick. And Jensen’s moaning for it, appreciating the touch and that J-Boozie’s being quiet. For once.
But it doesn’t last long, because J-Boozie starts panting against Jensen’s mouth as they keep grinding. “I’m gonna writes mah baby a song.”
“Oh, fuck,” Jensen whines, partly in protest but also because J-Boozie’s dick is leaking on his stomach and it’s turning him on.
“LA face with an Oakland booty. Hump my boy like it’s mah duty.”
He rolls his eyes and tries to block out J-Boozie’s voice, focusing more on the slide of asscheeks over his own dick.
“J, E … N, S … E, N. Gonna put his stick in mah end.”
“Just fucking blow me, please?”
“Sho nuff, baby!”
And now! The Sequel! Seashells and Tidal Waves
Bonus Artz!