Fic: Poking at Bears - Jensen/Misha, NC-17
Title: Poking at Bears
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen.
Summary: In which a Texan boy goes camping in the wilds of Canada.
A/N: Thanks to blue_fjords for the beta and kadiel_krieger for the prompt, you are both made of awesome.
Poking at Bears
As far as Jensen’s concerned, there are only a few valid reasons for water to be involved with camping.
One is if there is a waterway or lake. Boating on it, fishing in it. Feet dangling in muddy estuaries, lines lax, mosquitoes as big as your head, splatting crimson and coal on tanned skin with the lucky thwack of an errant palm.
Two, is if it’s bottled. Hiking out in the middle of the desert, sun so piercingly hot it seers the skin off your shoulders. Water from a tilted canteen, filling parched mouths and sluicing down chins and throats, sparkling as it catches the light, evaporating in seconds.
Where water should not be involved with camping is where it’s coming down from the fucking sky.
Which is what it’s doing right now. It does not fill Jensen with joy.
Hell, he thinks, scrunched up in the small tent with a paperback and a bad-as-piss mood, he doesn’t even know why the fuck he agreed to this. Camping with Misha. Like, what the ever-loving fuck, man?
The second he saw the colour of the sky, grey and oppressive, thick as soup, he’d known this was a bad idea. He’d said as much to Misha. But Misha still seemed excited to go, and Jensen felt obligated for no other reason than he’d said yes in the first place. He may have his faults, but his mama taught him manners.
He likes the outdoors. He’s from Texas fer chrissake. But he clearly didn’t think this through. Here there are no horizons that stretch as far as the imagination, no rusty dust kicking up beneath his boots or rattlers to sidestep.
No, here, in the wilds of British Columbia there is just a whole lot of fucking rain. A wall of trees a foot in front of your face and razor sharp undergrowth, black as pitch mud that squelches and suctions his feet to the forest floor, and hell, Jensen thinks morosely, the place is probably full of fucking bears.
Bears, man.
For his part, Misha has only laughed at Jensen’s mood, as if he finds his pain amusing.
Clearly the rain hasn’t brought Misha down, made him snap and scowl and hide inside walls of canvas as if they could possibly make up for a lack of solid walls and ceiling.
Misha is as happy as a prize-swine in mud.
God only knows what he’s out there doing. Collecting leaves and acorns, communing with squirrels, chiselling things. Jensen doesn’t rightly know. Nor does he care.
He just wants the whole damned weekend over so he can return to civilisation. He wants cold beer, dry clothes and not to have to watch where he puts his hand in case he squashes a damned slug.
And hell yeah, he knows he’s being an utter shit, having a silent hissy-fit in the tent. Because he did agree to this when Misha had asked him with unbridled enthusiasm if he wanted to join him on an adventure. The invite had come from so far out of the blue that he said yes, because why the hell not?
He’s still okay with being an ungrateful ass about it now. And okay, maybe his manners don’t extend so far as he’d have thought.
There’s a wet crunching noise from outside and the zip of the tent ratchets down, revealing a very wet Misha. His hair is dripping down his forehead and into his eyes. He climbs into the tent with a toothy grin, splashing water everywhere like a damned rabid dog.
Jensen just scowls harder.
Of course, that’s when Misha starts to strip, peeling his saturated t-shirt up from his ribs and over his arms.
“What the hell, man?” Jensen sputters, momentarily stunned out of his mood by the expanse of naked skin suddenly in front of him.
Misha just raises an eyebrow.
“Wet,” he says simply, throwing the wet lump of cotton into a corner of the tent, and damned if the guy’s hands don’t then reach down and start undoing his jeans.
Jensen doesn’t really know what to say to that, and Misha must interpret his silence as confusion, because he adds with a wicked grin, “It’s kinda raining out there.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Jensen says, averting his eyes as Misha shimmies out of his wet jeans, clad now only in boxers.
Misha rolls his eyes at that, pulls a dry but hideously orange t-shirt out of his pack and drags it on over his head.
Jensen just huffs his breath out in annoyance. “Why anyone would want to camp in a fuckin’ deluge is beyond me. Only you, man.”
With Chris, Jensen would have already been clocked one by this stage, or at least cuffed around the ear. With Misha? Jensen has no clue. He briefly wonders just how mad Misha would have to be to start swinging. But then, it’s just as probable that any second now the guy will resort to hair-pulling. Or pinching.
“Seriously, what’s your problem, Jensen?” Misha finally cracks after long moments spin away in silence. His eyes are narrow, glinting dangerously sharp.
Jensen ignores the warning signs, wilfully. Apparently he can’t leave well enough alone.
“It’s fucking raining.”
Because that explains everything, he feels.
“There are no rainchecks on life,” Misha responds, deadpan.
Jensen throws up his arms in frustration, “What the fuck does that even mean, man.”
Misha doesn’t respond, is deadly silent. They sit there, tense; the only sound the rain beating down staccato against the canvas.
“No one forced you to come, you know.” Misha says eventually, voice too calm.
“Whatever,” Jensen growls, knowing he has absolutely no come back to Misha’s words, because he is, of course, damn well right. No one did force him. Which is what makes this all the more annoying; he has no one to blame but his own fool self.
Misha stills in his search for dry pants, stares at Jensen with an intensity that makes him want to squirm. “Why did you come?”
Well, fuck. If he’s going to start asking hard questions...
“No idea,” he answers, flustered and feeling like he’s been backed into a corner. He wishes he had a beer in his hand. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“And now?” Misha is still staring at him, piercingly intense.
“And now, it’s raining,” Jensen snaps, because really, he still doesn’t have any better answer. He knows he’s being childish, but that’s just where he is right now.
Annoyance flashes lightening fast across Misha’s features, and Jensen has at least an ounce of self-preservation and shame left to think shit, before Misha lunges forward, his palms hitting Jensen’s chest hard and shoving him down onto his sleeping bag.
Misha throws his leg over Jensen’s hips before he can even blink, pins him to the ground. Briefly, Jensen wonders if he’s gonna try to beat the shit out of him. He then decides he doesn’t really care.
“So. What.” Misha grits out.
Fine, if Misha wants to test him, he’s happy to rise to the occasion like a whore at a truck stop.
“Are we going to build a fuckin’ ark? There’s nothing to do out here!”
“Is that so,” Misha growls out and grinds his pelvis down into Jensen’s, hard and grating and really fucking deliberately.
Jensen imagines his eyes must blow obscenely wide, cartoon wide, because what the fuck, man? He did not see that coming.
“Um, what the...Misha?”
Jensen hears the stutter in his voice, but considering his co-worker, a guy he doesn’t really even know all that well, has just rubbed against him like a long-tail cat in heat, he figures he can probably be forgiven the non-manly tremble and pitch that threads into his vocal chords.
“You want something to do?” Misha’s eyes flash with glittered irritation, “I’m giving you something to do.”
Jensen doesn’t even have a moment to reply, to say something, anything, because Misha is holding his shoulders against the ground with surprising strength. He pitches forward and his teeth latch onto Jensen’s neck, biting down hard into tendon and skin in rebuke.
Jensen bucks up against Misha at the unexpected sharpness, it isn’t that hard, but it shocks the hell out of him.
“That’s right, cowboy,” Misha leans back and leers at him, sarcasm dripping off him like the rain from his hair onto Jensen’s chest.
“Jesus,” Jensen shudders through his teeth as all the blood in his body rushes to his groin.
“Mhmm,” Misha murmurs with a satisfied nod, annoyance bleeding out into amused lust.
Misha leans down again, his hands sliding off Jensen’s shoulders to lay flat on the ground either side of Jensen’s head. He presses his lips softly to Jensen’s, and Jensen finds himself unable to stop his mouth from opening to him. The kiss is soft and smoulders in a slow burn, shivers sliding down Jensen’s spine as Misha’s tongue slips into this mouth and tangles languidly.
He finds Misha’s hips, clings and urges and it’s all it takes for Misha to start rocking, slow and certain, pelvis canted down and the hard heat of their arousal pressing through cotton and denim.
Misha sucks at Jensen’s bottom lip, nips lightly and then pulls back enough to focus on Jensen’s face.
“Okay?” Misha asks, surprisingly tender considering the force with which he initiated the current situation.
“Yes,” Jensen answers without thinking, pauses as his brain catches up, “I mean if you’re sure…” he trails off.
Misha just smirks and rolls his eyes, levers himself back against Jensen’s mouth and steps the kiss up a notch, turning it just a little bit filthy with a curl of his tongue. Jensen groans into it, fingers clutching tighter around Misha’s hipbones.
And then Misha is gone, leaving a cold vacuum in his wake as he slithers down Jensen’s body.
Cold fingers slide under the waist of his jeans, undoing the button and sliding down the zip. Misha places his mouth against the taut material of his briefs, huffs hot moist breath against the hardness underneath it. Jensen’s breath hitches in his throat, slides into a soft moan as Misha mouths at the length of his cock.
Jensen can do little more than lay back and stare at the army green canvas above him in the descending gloom. He curls his fingers into the sleeping bag on either side of him, knuckles of one hand brushing the side of the tent and coming away wet and cold. Misha levers his briefs over his cock, the cold air hitting sensitive skin and forcing a hiss of surprise through Jensen’s lips.
But the cold goes away as quickly as it came as Misha’s mouth closes hot and moist over him. Jensen’s fingers clutch the sleeping bag tighter. His hips strain to push up into the delicious heat of Misha’s mouth, but Misha finds his hips and presses him to the ground, drags one hand back to slide and scratch in the hair at the base of him.
When Misha curls the same hand around him, sucks harder and tighter, Jensen loses what grip on reality he had left and just lets himself fall into the glorious build of tension that tightens in his belly.
The cold from the ground seeps up through the sleeping bag and into his back, but he doesn’t give a damn, sighs and stutters as Misha works at him in slick slides and curled teases.
There’s a slide of teeth and the hand tightens around him with a flick of a wrist and Jensen lets himself be pulled into oblivion, spilling into Misha’s mouth, eyes closed tight and chest heaving in an effort to suck air into his lungs.
Misha laps at him with soft swipes of his tongue, gently sucking as Jensen twitches under his ministrations.
It’s all Jensen can do to lay there and let his pulse slow to a race.
Misha crawls back up his body, gazes down at Jensen with an openly fond expression and dips to kiss him softly. Jensen can taste himself on Misha’s tongue.
Misha pulls back and grins widely down at him, “Feeling better?”
“Fuck, yeah,” Jensen concedes, slides his hands up and down Misha’s cold arms where they prop him upright.
“Good. So if you’ve finished with your fucking moping can we try and have some fun this weekend?”
Jensen arches an eyebrow, the guy is one cocky sonofabitch, he’ll give him that.
“It’s still raining,” he points out, smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Misha looks up at the sky, though considering they’re inside it’s clearly all show, before finding Jensen’s gaze again, serenely.
“So it is.”
“I guess you’ll just have to find me something else to do,” Jensen feels the grin splitting his face. It feels good.
Misha nods sagely, “I can think of a few things.” And he’s shucking himself out of his boxers and lying next to Jensen, hard and leaking against his stomach.
Maybe camping in Canada isn’t so bad after all, Jensen thinks, as he slides over and slithers down Misha’s torso.
It’s not Texas, but it’s not bad.
Even if it’s fucking raining.
Author: qthelights
Pairing: Jensen/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Not mine, didn't happen.
Summary: In which a Texan boy goes camping in the wilds of Canada.
A/N: Thanks to blue_fjords for the beta and kadiel_krieger for the prompt, you are both made of awesome.
Poking at Bears
As far as Jensen’s concerned, there are only a few valid reasons for water to be involved with camping.
One is if there is a waterway or lake. Boating on it, fishing in it. Feet dangling in muddy estuaries, lines lax, mosquitoes as big as your head, splatting crimson and coal on tanned skin with the lucky thwack of an errant palm.
Two, is if it’s bottled. Hiking out in the middle of the desert, sun so piercingly hot it seers the skin off your shoulders. Water from a tilted canteen, filling parched mouths and sluicing down chins and throats, sparkling as it catches the light, evaporating in seconds.
Where water should not be involved with camping is where it’s coming down from the fucking sky.
Which is what it’s doing right now. It does not fill Jensen with joy.
Hell, he thinks, scrunched up in the small tent with a paperback and a bad-as-piss mood, he doesn’t even know why the fuck he agreed to this. Camping with Misha. Like, what the ever-loving fuck, man?
The second he saw the colour of the sky, grey and oppressive, thick as soup, he’d known this was a bad idea. He’d said as much to Misha. But Misha still seemed excited to go, and Jensen felt obligated for no other reason than he’d said yes in the first place. He may have his faults, but his mama taught him manners.
He likes the outdoors. He’s from Texas fer chrissake. But he clearly didn’t think this through. Here there are no horizons that stretch as far as the imagination, no rusty dust kicking up beneath his boots or rattlers to sidestep.
No, here, in the wilds of British Columbia there is just a whole lot of fucking rain. A wall of trees a foot in front of your face and razor sharp undergrowth, black as pitch mud that squelches and suctions his feet to the forest floor, and hell, Jensen thinks morosely, the place is probably full of fucking bears.
Bears, man.
For his part, Misha has only laughed at Jensen’s mood, as if he finds his pain amusing.
Clearly the rain hasn’t brought Misha down, made him snap and scowl and hide inside walls of canvas as if they could possibly make up for a lack of solid walls and ceiling.
Misha is as happy as a prize-swine in mud.
God only knows what he’s out there doing. Collecting leaves and acorns, communing with squirrels, chiselling things. Jensen doesn’t rightly know. Nor does he care.
He just wants the whole damned weekend over so he can return to civilisation. He wants cold beer, dry clothes and not to have to watch where he puts his hand in case he squashes a damned slug.
And hell yeah, he knows he’s being an utter shit, having a silent hissy-fit in the tent. Because he did agree to this when Misha had asked him with unbridled enthusiasm if he wanted to join him on an adventure. The invite had come from so far out of the blue that he said yes, because why the hell not?
He’s still okay with being an ungrateful ass about it now. And okay, maybe his manners don’t extend so far as he’d have thought.
There’s a wet crunching noise from outside and the zip of the tent ratchets down, revealing a very wet Misha. His hair is dripping down his forehead and into his eyes. He climbs into the tent with a toothy grin, splashing water everywhere like a damned rabid dog.
Jensen just scowls harder.
Of course, that’s when Misha starts to strip, peeling his saturated t-shirt up from his ribs and over his arms.
“What the hell, man?” Jensen sputters, momentarily stunned out of his mood by the expanse of naked skin suddenly in front of him.
Misha just raises an eyebrow.
“Wet,” he says simply, throwing the wet lump of cotton into a corner of the tent, and damned if the guy’s hands don’t then reach down and start undoing his jeans.
Jensen doesn’t really know what to say to that, and Misha must interpret his silence as confusion, because he adds with a wicked grin, “It’s kinda raining out there.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Jensen says, averting his eyes as Misha shimmies out of his wet jeans, clad now only in boxers.
Misha rolls his eyes at that, pulls a dry but hideously orange t-shirt out of his pack and drags it on over his head.
Jensen just huffs his breath out in annoyance. “Why anyone would want to camp in a fuckin’ deluge is beyond me. Only you, man.”
With Chris, Jensen would have already been clocked one by this stage, or at least cuffed around the ear. With Misha? Jensen has no clue. He briefly wonders just how mad Misha would have to be to start swinging. But then, it’s just as probable that any second now the guy will resort to hair-pulling. Or pinching.
“Seriously, what’s your problem, Jensen?” Misha finally cracks after long moments spin away in silence. His eyes are narrow, glinting dangerously sharp.
Jensen ignores the warning signs, wilfully. Apparently he can’t leave well enough alone.
“It’s fucking raining.”
Because that explains everything, he feels.
“There are no rainchecks on life,” Misha responds, deadpan.
Jensen throws up his arms in frustration, “What the fuck does that even mean, man.”
Misha doesn’t respond, is deadly silent. They sit there, tense; the only sound the rain beating down staccato against the canvas.
“No one forced you to come, you know.” Misha says eventually, voice too calm.
“Whatever,” Jensen growls, knowing he has absolutely no come back to Misha’s words, because he is, of course, damn well right. No one did force him. Which is what makes this all the more annoying; he has no one to blame but his own fool self.
Misha stills in his search for dry pants, stares at Jensen with an intensity that makes him want to squirm. “Why did you come?”
Well, fuck. If he’s going to start asking hard questions...
“No idea,” he answers, flustered and feeling like he’s been backed into a corner. He wishes he had a beer in his hand. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“And now?” Misha is still staring at him, piercingly intense.
“And now, it’s raining,” Jensen snaps, because really, he still doesn’t have any better answer. He knows he’s being childish, but that’s just where he is right now.
Annoyance flashes lightening fast across Misha’s features, and Jensen has at least an ounce of self-preservation and shame left to think shit, before Misha lunges forward, his palms hitting Jensen’s chest hard and shoving him down onto his sleeping bag.
Misha throws his leg over Jensen’s hips before he can even blink, pins him to the ground. Briefly, Jensen wonders if he’s gonna try to beat the shit out of him. He then decides he doesn’t really care.
“So. What.” Misha grits out.
Fine, if Misha wants to test him, he’s happy to rise to the occasion like a whore at a truck stop.
“Are we going to build a fuckin’ ark? There’s nothing to do out here!”
“Is that so,” Misha growls out and grinds his pelvis down into Jensen’s, hard and grating and really fucking deliberately.
Jensen imagines his eyes must blow obscenely wide, cartoon wide, because what the fuck, man? He did not see that coming.
“Um, what the...Misha?”
Jensen hears the stutter in his voice, but considering his co-worker, a guy he doesn’t really even know all that well, has just rubbed against him like a long-tail cat in heat, he figures he can probably be forgiven the non-manly tremble and pitch that threads into his vocal chords.
“You want something to do?” Misha’s eyes flash with glittered irritation, “I’m giving you something to do.”
Jensen doesn’t even have a moment to reply, to say something, anything, because Misha is holding his shoulders against the ground with surprising strength. He pitches forward and his teeth latch onto Jensen’s neck, biting down hard into tendon and skin in rebuke.
Jensen bucks up against Misha at the unexpected sharpness, it isn’t that hard, but it shocks the hell out of him.
“That’s right, cowboy,” Misha leans back and leers at him, sarcasm dripping off him like the rain from his hair onto Jensen’s chest.
“Jesus,” Jensen shudders through his teeth as all the blood in his body rushes to his groin.
“Mhmm,” Misha murmurs with a satisfied nod, annoyance bleeding out into amused lust.
Misha leans down again, his hands sliding off Jensen’s shoulders to lay flat on the ground either side of Jensen’s head. He presses his lips softly to Jensen’s, and Jensen finds himself unable to stop his mouth from opening to him. The kiss is soft and smoulders in a slow burn, shivers sliding down Jensen’s spine as Misha’s tongue slips into this mouth and tangles languidly.
He finds Misha’s hips, clings and urges and it’s all it takes for Misha to start rocking, slow and certain, pelvis canted down and the hard heat of their arousal pressing through cotton and denim.
Misha sucks at Jensen’s bottom lip, nips lightly and then pulls back enough to focus on Jensen’s face.
“Okay?” Misha asks, surprisingly tender considering the force with which he initiated the current situation.
“Yes,” Jensen answers without thinking, pauses as his brain catches up, “I mean if you’re sure…” he trails off.
Misha just smirks and rolls his eyes, levers himself back against Jensen’s mouth and steps the kiss up a notch, turning it just a little bit filthy with a curl of his tongue. Jensen groans into it, fingers clutching tighter around Misha’s hipbones.
And then Misha is gone, leaving a cold vacuum in his wake as he slithers down Jensen’s body.
Cold fingers slide under the waist of his jeans, undoing the button and sliding down the zip. Misha places his mouth against the taut material of his briefs, huffs hot moist breath against the hardness underneath it. Jensen’s breath hitches in his throat, slides into a soft moan as Misha mouths at the length of his cock.
Jensen can do little more than lay back and stare at the army green canvas above him in the descending gloom. He curls his fingers into the sleeping bag on either side of him, knuckles of one hand brushing the side of the tent and coming away wet and cold. Misha levers his briefs over his cock, the cold air hitting sensitive skin and forcing a hiss of surprise through Jensen’s lips.
But the cold goes away as quickly as it came as Misha’s mouth closes hot and moist over him. Jensen’s fingers clutch the sleeping bag tighter. His hips strain to push up into the delicious heat of Misha’s mouth, but Misha finds his hips and presses him to the ground, drags one hand back to slide and scratch in the hair at the base of him.
When Misha curls the same hand around him, sucks harder and tighter, Jensen loses what grip on reality he had left and just lets himself fall into the glorious build of tension that tightens in his belly.
The cold from the ground seeps up through the sleeping bag and into his back, but he doesn’t give a damn, sighs and stutters as Misha works at him in slick slides and curled teases.
There’s a slide of teeth and the hand tightens around him with a flick of a wrist and Jensen lets himself be pulled into oblivion, spilling into Misha’s mouth, eyes closed tight and chest heaving in an effort to suck air into his lungs.
Misha laps at him with soft swipes of his tongue, gently sucking as Jensen twitches under his ministrations.
It’s all Jensen can do to lay there and let his pulse slow to a race.
Misha crawls back up his body, gazes down at Jensen with an openly fond expression and dips to kiss him softly. Jensen can taste himself on Misha’s tongue.
Misha pulls back and grins widely down at him, “Feeling better?”
“Fuck, yeah,” Jensen concedes, slides his hands up and down Misha’s cold arms where they prop him upright.
“Good. So if you’ve finished with your fucking moping can we try and have some fun this weekend?”
Jensen arches an eyebrow, the guy is one cocky sonofabitch, he’ll give him that.
“It’s still raining,” he points out, smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Misha looks up at the sky, though considering they’re inside it’s clearly all show, before finding Jensen’s gaze again, serenely.
“So it is.”
“I guess you’ll just have to find me something else to do,” Jensen feels the grin splitting his face. It feels good.
Misha nods sagely, “I can think of a few things.” And he’s shucking himself out of his boxers and lying next to Jensen, hard and leaking against his stomach.
Maybe camping in Canada isn’t so bad after all, Jensen thinks, as he slides over and slithers down Misha’s torso.
It’s not Texas, but it’s not bad.
Even if it’s fucking raining.