Fic: Everything's Bigger In Texas (Jared/Misha, NC-17)
Fic: Everything's Bigger In Texas
Pairing: Jared/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~5,000
Summary: Dr Collins took a year's sabbatical to work without distractions. He didn't count on his grad-student gardener being quite so diverting.
Notes: Written for jaredmisha's Mishaleckipalooza (:D) for moonlettuce's prompt: Misha likes the size difference between them. You can't give me a list of prompts with that one in it and expect me not to leap on it. You just can't.
Jared's done wonders for the sunflowers. Misha shouldn't be surprised, really, given the strength of the application he hired him on, all full-colour photographs of flowerbeds in bloom and a glowing reference from Saunders, Jared's engineering professor at UT, whose garden had benefited greatly from his clever fingers. So far, so promising. Jared was an impoverished grad student in need of work and Misha had a garden that looked, at that time, like something out of Resident Evil, so it seemed only logical to make the hire and both come out of it happy.
The problem is that Saunders neglected to include any pictures of Jared in his reference, and Misha hadn't expected to be quite so distracted by the thought of just how clever those fingers might be. The whole point of taking his year's sabbatical had been to avoid distraction while he collated his research into a book; he'd thought it might be nice to have some flowers to look at from his study window while he worked. Now that there are flowers in the borders and climbing up the walls on lattices, Misha finds he has trouble paying them any attention at all.
God, Jared is hot. The weather's hot, everything's hot; there's sweat crawling under the collar of Misha's shirt, sticking his glasses to his nose, and the window opens only onto dead air. It's Jared, though, crouched in a flowerbed with both hands in the dirt, that's making Misha feel like his skin's about to scorch right off his body. The small of Jared's back is glistening with sweat where his shirt's ridden up, sun flashing in the dip of his spine. The muscles in his shoulders bunch and pull under the fabric as he works; the muscles in his arms stand out under sun-bronzed skin and dirt. Fuck, Jared. Misha's all dry-mouthed and damp-palmed just looking at him, and Milton's Lucifer isn't remotely compelling when that boy is right there, broad shoulders and narrow hips, the personification of sin. He's not exactly conducive to an academic mindset.
Misha writes longhand usually, types it up after, an idiosyncrasy he's clung to in spite of widespread mockery from his colleagues. As a general rule, it works for him. Now, though, his notepad is little but a series of blotchy scribbles, the lower part smeared under the heel of his hand. He's always written in fountain pen, knows better than to lean on the paper like this, but it's hard to remember these things when he'd rather be palming Jared's hipbones, lapping at the salt sweat at the base of his back. He stumbles on, scratching out a few words between stares, but the kid's a compelling sight out there in the sun, hair and skin shining in the strong afternoon light.
When he shifts and stands up, unfolding, it's worse. Watching Jared get to his feet is like watching a telescope lengthen impossibly, there's so damned much of him. Misha's not a small man, but Jared must be six-four, six-five, and when he pulls up his arms over his head into a stretch, that's something like eight feet of him from fingertips to toes. Misha's blood pulses hotly in his groin just at the thought, God. He's big, too, shoulders strong and built, tapering down to the tiny nip of his waist, and Misha wants to map the difference with his hands; wants to tip his whole head back just to look Jared in the eye. It's a sickness, he knows, because Jared's all easygoing smiles, wouldn't hurt a fly, but still, all that strength could crush him if Jared chose, and it's the potential there that's exciting.
Sometimes, Misha thinks Jared must know he watches him. There have been one too many long catches of eyes, too many times when Misha wasn't able to glance away quickly enough, when Jared grinned back at him and pushed his hair back from his face in a long, casual stroke. He must know. But then there are days like this, when Jared's hard at work and oblivious to everything but the needs of the herbaceous border. He's turned away from the window, hasn't glanced at Misha once in an hour, and still he's all clean hard lines under dirt, wifebeater clinging to every curve of his musculature, muddy handprints on the backside of his jeans where he rubbed them off absent-mindedly. He's gorgeous, sturdy and solid, sharp-nosed profile occasionally showing when he turns his head, but he seems utterly unconscious of it. At times like this, Misha doubts himself. Maybe he is just a deluded perv who wastes his afternoons daydreaming about swallowing grad students' cocks instead of working. Some professor.
He should look away. Get up, even; go get a refill of soda, splash some cold water on his face and come back ready to do some goddamn work. He tells himself these things very sternly, but Jared's popping his back, now, big hands clasped behind himself, muscles straining, and apparently Misha's brain is flat-out unwilling to co-operate. Jared leans forward a little, bending from the waist, and Misha's tongue moves reflexively, pressing up behind his teeth. The nape of Jared's neck looks hot and damp where the soft ends of his hair are sticking to it, and Misha wants so badly to suck on the fine skin there, the knob of Jared's spine, that the thought sets saliva pooling wet under his tongue. God.
He might be able to jerk himself away, eventually, if Jared would just hunker down again, go back to his gardening. He's managed it before, after much effort and self-flagellation. But when Jared turns around, catches his eyes and throws him a grin, all hope is lost. Misha's done.
"Dr Collins!" His voice carries clear through the open window, no resistance offered by the still, brackish air. He lifts one hand in greeting, long fingers extended, and Misha fights a wave of embarrassment-induced paralysis at being caught like this, looking. Jared's grinning broadly, after all, and there's no guile in it. Clearly all Misha has to do is act casual.
Because that's so fucking easy, obviously.
He clears his throat and lifts his own hand a little, performs a sloppy half-salute in the air. "Misha, please," he says. He's told Jared this fifty times if he's told him once, but the boy is Texas to the bone, all sir and ma'am and a drawl in his voice that Misha wants to rub himself all over like a cat, frenetic. "Hey, Jared. Doing okay?"
Jared laughs a little, rolls his shoulders. "Hot as hell today," he says.
Yes you are, Misha thinks, pit of his stomach flipping traitorously. He bites his lip on the thought and says, "Well, you can stop, you know. I'm not a slave-driver."
Jared laughs hard at that; tips his head so the sun glints on his back teeth, tongue caught between his incisors when he grins after. He sets his hands on his hips, right where Misha'd put his own if he had his way, and says, "Nah, I hate leaving a job half-done. I'd kill for some water, though?"
This last tilts up at the end, half-apologetic, and Misha could kick himself for not thinking of something so obvious earlier. Of course, on a day like this, Misha should have been providing water since Jared arrived. But then, he'd been trying not to get distracted.
"Christ," he mutters through his teeth, getting to his feet, "I'm sorry, Jared. Of course you can have some water, no murder required. Hang on a second and I'll bring it to you."
He keeps his Evians in the refrigerator, a whole shelf of them in soldierly rows. Misha isn't generally guilty of refrigerating the outdoors, as his mother puts it, but today he stands for a minute before the wide-open door, letting the cold chill his skin before grabbing three bottles and turning towards the back door. It doesn't quell his erection entirely, but the pause and the deep, cold breaths serve to calm it a little, which is about the best Misha can hope for right now.
The grass is still mildly damp from the sprinkler and it feels good under his bare feet as he makes his way up onto the lawn, the water bottles sweating cold in the crook of his arm. For a brief, insane second, he wonders why he doesn't come out here more often, maybe try to work out in the open. And then Jared swims into view again, sweat shining on his clavicles and cheeks dimpled by that smile, and Misha remembers.
"Hey," he says, a little weakly. "I didn't know how many you wanted, so - " He holds out his armful and tries to locate somewhere, anywhere safe to look. There's a strip of tan skin showing where Jared's shirt has ridden up over one hipbone, which is doing awful things to Misha's pulse, but he can't help think that an inch either up or down could only make matters worse. Besides, the damp sheen over the sharp spur of bone is too compelling to abandon.
"Three's good," Jared shoots back, still smiling. Misha doesn't look up, but he can hear that he is. "Two to drink, and one for cool-down." He laughs. "I'd use the hose, but - "
"Yeah," Misha says, "Rationing." Which is close enough to a coherent commentary on the current state of drought and the hosepipe restrictions, Misha thinks, given that his throat has just closed up at the image of Jared in that shirt, in sprinkler-spray. Jesus Christ, it's like he's doing it on purpose.
"Too much goddamn summer," Jared says, lazy and southern over the day-um. Misha can't resist a laugh of his own at that, a little tease.
"Your Texas is showing, boy," he points out, grinning up at Jared.
It's a joke, is all - Jared's been trying to hammer out his accent for years, and it shows, but there are times when his slips are more like swan-dives, and Misha likes to point it out. Hell, Jared expects it. But there's something in the way Jared's face changes that isn't what Misha expected, not quite. It's not offence, but something dark flashing in his smirk, something knowing in the way he says, "Oh, yeah?"
Misha takes a half-step back. He doesn't mean to, exactly, but it's like Jared's just gotten even bigger, somehow, like the extent of his loom over Misha has just clicked into full focus, and Misha...Misha likes that maybe too much. "God day-um," he says, in demonstration, after a second, because apparently he can't leave it alone.
Jared laughs, same wide-mouthed, boyish laugh Misha's seen so often, but there's something subtly different in it the way there was in his smirk, something less than innocent, and when Jared echoes, "God day-um, huh?" Misha's sure. Jared knows. Oh God, oh God, Jared knows, and the cliff edge rises up in Misha's stomach like nausea, sudden and screaming and fateful.
And then comes the click. Just that, the sound of the safety-seal snapping on the first of the Evians as Jared opens it, and Misha breathes again. His heart is pounding in his throat, his skin suddenly sticky all over, cold sweat, but Jared's grinning at him, still, lifting the opened bottle over his head, and shit.
Misha makes some kind of sound, he's sure, breath gut-punched out of him as the first drops of water hit Jared's face, but it's like the world's gone still and soundless, empty but for this fucking ridiculous, narcissistic, ludicrous gesture that's somehow hot as the flaming centre of the sun. There's a tiny part of Misha that's outraged at being played so easily like this, but it's drowned out by the rest of him staring rapt at the spectacle of Jared's long throat with water coursing down it, his closed eyes and open mouth and the way the rivulets snake down over his chest and shoulders, soaking the fabric transparent. There's no question, now, as to what this is; no question when Jared shakes himself like a dog, all cunning disappearing from his face when he grins casually at Misha through wet bangs.
"Let me guess," Misha says, in a strained voice he barely recognises as his own. "You saw that in a porno once? Because I definitely did."
Jared has the grace to look mildly abashed for all of a second before he asks, innocently, "Did I do it better?"
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, Misha's hard now, irrevocably, but so's Jared, thick line of his dick pushing out the seam of his jeans and Misha takes a breath, rasping for oxygen in the hot afternoon. "So long as you don't ask me if I want to see your Texas," he says, tightly, "we're good."
"I'd need a hat for that one," Jared says. He's outright blushing now, blood licking pink along his cheekbones, but it suits him, and his hands are on his belt, restless. "Dr Collins - Misha, I - "
With a sudden clarity, Misha realises that this was the limit of the plan. This was planned, evidently, this - whatever it is - but Jared's just a kid from the sticks, despite the size of him, and he's faltering, now. In his head, Misha supposes, it was probably all blurry after the water-show. Probably, that was when Misha, in Jared's mind, went down on his knees in the grass; pulled Jared out of his jeans and went obligingly to town. Jesus. Jared smells so good, grass and sweat and the warm boy-musk of him and Misha wants to taste him so bad it hurts. A hand on his shoulder, and he'd be on the floor by now, but Jared, clearly, is utterly unaware of this fact. Goddamn amateur.
"Stuck, are you?" Misha says, low. Jared blinks, and Misha smiles a little, something twisting pleasedly in his chest as the balance of power re-establishes itself, some of the advantage swinging back into his corner. "What comes next?"
"Misha," Jared says. He half-raises his hands, uncertain, and he's breathing tight and quick, turned-on and young and so evidently on the verge of apologising and crying off, which - no. Misha takes a step forward, and another. Jared doesn't move, although his eyes widen, and so Misha takes another; sets his hands on Jared's waist and looks up at him. He can feel Jared's heart pounding, from this distance; can feel the thrum of his pulse under the fine skin at his hips.
He takes off his glasses, carefully; folds them and tucks them into the front pocket of his shirt. "Jared," he repeats, deliberate and low. "What comes next?"
Jared kisses him. It's not so much a kiss, really, as a pounce, some hitched little sound breaking out of Jared's throat as he crushes his mouth down on Misha's, grips his shoulders to hold him up. Misha felt it coming, coaxed it, even, but the lurch in his stomach still surprises him at the contact, the way the coiled-up tension punches out as a tight whimper of his own. Jared kisses hard, firm press of lips giving way to tongue, opening Misha's mouth just enough that Jared can teethe along the curve of his lower lip. The want in it is palpable, close to aggression, and Misha needs more of it; tilts his head back and presses up against Jared and lets his jaw go slack, slides his tongue along Jared's teeth.
Misha's hands move almost subconsciously up Jared's sides, slipping under the wifebeater to find skin. Jared's hot, blood-warm and damp and it's only sensible for Misha to peel up the shirt as he maps his muscles, the flat of his stomach and the rise of his pectorals. When Misha's palms skate over his nipples, Jared lifts his arms immediately, breath hitching as he bites on Misha's tongue. Misha sucks for a long, hot moment, fucks his own tongue deep into Jared's mouth and then breaks away; tugs the shirt up over Jared's head and flings it aside and then -
"God, Jared, what are you? Terminator? Or statuary?"
He's perfect, is what he is, flushed and panting and biting his lip as he grins down at Misha, eyes warm and hair damp and tousled in his face. He shakes his head, more as if expressing disbelief at the entire situation than anything, and then he says, "I just - "
It's enough. Misha feels as if he's waited so long, by this point, that a glance would have been enough; a half-smile or a shrug or just the shove of Jared's cock against the seam of his pants. He's on his knees in a half-second, pressing his face to the hot swell in Jared's jeans even as he fumbles with belt-buckles and buttons and zips. Above him, Jared's gasping, shocked, but one big hand is palming the back of Misha's head and Misha isn't going to stop because neither of them wants him to. Misha is going to take out Jared's cock and Misha is going to suck it, because Jared isn't his grad student, after all, and he no longer sees any reason not to.
There's nothing for Jared to lean against, but Misha feels the muscles in the long thighs pull when he smooths his palms up them, and he reckons Jared can handle it. He's so hard by now that the zipper of his jeans barely needs any aid from Misha before it's splitting apart under the pressure of his cock, so Misha thinks, on balance, that he's pretty unlikely to complain. The sound Jared makes, tight in his throat, when Misha leans in to nose at the bulge only confirms this supposition.
God, but there's a lot of him. Intellectually, Misha'd known there would be, but having it right here, the thick scent of Jared's cock in his nostrils and the gleaming head of it shoving up out of the waistband of his shorts - Misha has to close his eyes to breathe. "Shit, Jared," he says, half-reverently, as he shoves the underwear down out of the way, snaps it under the fat weight of Jared's balls. Jared's tense, shivering with anticipation, and the taut skin leaps under Misha's tongue when he licks over a hipbone, trails a wet line down the cut of Jared's pelvis. Misha's mouth is watering, fucking embarrassing, but God, it's not real how much he wants all that cock in his throat; how badly he wants to be stuffed full with it everywhere. Jesus fucking Christ.
They both moan when Misha closes his lips around the head, the raw, earthy taste of Jared's precome rubbing slickly over his tongue. Jared's breathing raggedly, fingers shifting in Misha's hair, and Misha's half-dizzy with sensation, his mouth forced wide and aching with the need to go wider. He slips down a couple of inches, and then another, making wordless sounds around the push of Jared's dick. The head bumps the back of his throat far too soon, and Misha breathes in through his nose, makes himself relax, because the idea of stopping can't be contemplated and there are still inches of cock left to go.
When Jared slides in, hips hitching; sheathes himself in the clench of Misha's throat, it's - fuck. Misha's sweating with it, his own cock near-painful where it's caught in his pants, and Jared's making sounds like prayer above him, oh - oh - oh - . Misha feels the muscles flutter in his throat, involuntary, and the sounds ratchet up, Jared's fingers tightening. It's pathetic, after all these years, that deep-throating should still rank high among Misha's proudest achievements, but in moments like this he can't think beyond the pulse of pride in his stomach, the exhilaration as he pulls off slickly, alllll the way off. It's sloppy, precome and spit drooling from the corners of his mouth, but Jared's all-out moaning as Misha tongues his way up to the head and that, to Misha's mind, makes everything worth it; makes the smoker's rasp worth two days' teasing afterwards. Fuck.
Jared's careful, for all his noise (and Misha somehow knew he'd be noisy), holding himself still with a monumental effort, and Misha hooks his hands tight around Jared's hipbones, thumbs rubbing smooth over the outer ridges. He sucks, hard, just under the head; pushes his tongue into the slit and then bobs down with his lips tight, corkscrews back up again; suck, repeat, and sure, it's simple, formulaic, but fuck does it have the desired effect. Jared's moaning within seconds, shifting his hips involuntarily shortly after that, and by the time Misha's gotten into the rhythm of the thing he can feel Jared fattening impossibly in his mouth, precome smearing slick against the insides of his cheeks as Jared fucks his mouth despite himself. He's close, straining, and it's sexy as hell, raw and close in a way that makes Misha ache for the full-on taste of him, the heat of Jared's come in his mouth. He wants it - but the pull in the pit of his stomach wants more; can't let this be everything, in case it's the only time.
When he pulls off, he's panting, breath so laboured it's almost a succession of whimpers, but Jared makes like he's dying, groan of frustration guttural and desperate in his throat.
"Misha," he gets out, pawing at Misha's face, slipping fingers into his mouth, "Misha, please, Misha," and Misha feels himself pulsing out precome in reaction, but fuck. No. Fuck.
"No," he says; sits down on his heels. "No, Jared, no - I want - "
Jared's on him before he's formulated any kind of sentence, legs effectively buckling so he winds up with his knees either side of Misha's, cock jutting angry and unsatisfied out of the wide-spread vee of his jeans. Misha isn't sure whether or not Jared's understood him, but he's crawling forward, pushing Misha down into the grass by the shoulders, and that - that'll do. That was pretty much the plan.
The kiss is all teeth and desperation when Jared pulls up level, one hand wrenching open Misha's pants while he licks the taste of himself off Misha's tongue. Misha can feel the wet head of him smearing against his stomach where his shirt's ridden up, and it's all he can do not to buck up into it; to hold himself off and kiss back and push up into Jared's fingers when they find him, tight hot tunnel slicked with Misha's precome. There's a lot of it, always, and that's good, that's really fucking useful, because Misha is not about to go back into the house in the middle of this, and he really fucking wants it; wants to be split open on Jared's cock, cradled and mahandled and thundered on into. Probably, walking will be an issue for days, but every instinct in Misha's body says this burn will be justified, too. He lifts his hips, spreading his thighs wide around Jared's, and Jared, thank God, gets the basic gist; tugs Misha's jeans down over his backside and thighs until Misha can kick them away. And then he's there, shit, spreading Misha's thighs with broad palms that are no longer gentle, ducking his head to nose at Misha's balls with something close to a growl.
"Jared," Misha wrenches out, fingers carding into Jared's hair, "Shit, I want - "
"I know," Jared says, all wrecked and weak; sticks two fingers in his mouth and spits in the space between them. "I know, Misha, I got you - promise - "
It's obvious from the first slick circling touch of his fingers that Jared's done this before, the glide of fingertips around Misha's rim too clever to be guesswork. He doesn't press inside, exactly; just tugs and strokes and coaxes until Misha's squirming, shivering and tense and desperate, and then, just when Misha's pretty sure he just needs to get fucked already before he actually implodes, Jared's ducking his head again, curling his tongue around his two circling fingers.
"Fuck!" Misha yells out, and goddamn the neighbours to hell, because Jared is good at this, little jabbing pushes of his tongue followed by wet, lapping circles until the thrusts breach Misha entirely. Jared half-laughs against him, licks again, and then he's fucking kissing him there, wet and slow and working his fingers into it so he can spit inside, get Misha all good and slick, ready for his cock. Jesus Christ, so much for homegrown, Mama's favourite Texas boys. Jared is filthy, and Misha couldn't be more fucking grateful.
By the time he finally pulls away, Misha's babbled himself half-insane, gripping at Jared's hair and his broad, smooth shoulders and the taut muscle in his back, rocking his hips up against Jared's face. Jared rises back up like a god from some half-dreamed sea, his eyes dark green and his cock shining slickly with precome and spit. Not enough, but Misha's too close to care; reaches a long hand for Jared's hair and pulls.
"Now," he grits out, "Jared, please," and Jared, obliging as ever, shoves forward; finds him and plunges up and in.
It does hurt, a dull, pulsing pain as Jared fucks into him, but they're both of them worked-up and frantic and Misha's glad that Jared isn't careful; glad that his first thrust drives him deep enough to jar against Misha's prostate, sensation sparking up his spine. He cries out, half-startled by the rush of it, and Jared withdraws; pulls down on Misha's legs to keep him still while he drives in again and again, long, hard thrusts picking up pace. Fuck, it's rough, raw and deep and noisy, but that's how Misha wants it; wants the jackhammer snap of Jared's hips that pounds against the good spot over and over; wants the way the grass scrapes on his bared skin as Jared works, fucking hard enough that Misha's skittering backwards along the ground. Jared's so fucking big, above him and around him and inside him, and Misha's drunk on it, moaning and squeezing his thighs around Jared's body, dizzy with the sounds he makes.
"Shit," Jared's rasping out, swelling inside Misha and Misha realises then what's missing, what they've forgotten like idiots who want to fucking die of AIDS. Then Jared shifts his hips, pushes down on Misha's thighs and the next thrust wipes Misha's mind entirely, sets the pressure exploding white-hot from every pore of his body as Jared pulses inside him and, fuck, nothing could be better than this, that heat, Jared all wet and filling him up. He goes on fucking until they're both of them soft, and the sound of it is obscene, slick and sexy and human as Jared thrusts into his own spend. It's less appealing when Jared pulls out, for all of three seconds, but then Jared's shifting on arms that tremble; licking Misha again, cleaning him up, and Misha can't take it, too fucked out and dizzy to do more than claw at Jared's back and groan.
When Jared finally pulls himself up the length of Misha's body, collapsing unthinkingly against his side, he's wet-mouthed and smiling, flushed and debauched, and Misha doesn't doubt he looks just as obvious himself. He feels half-liquid, lax and useless, like he could just turn into water and let the ground soak him up instead, save on that rationed hose-water. Jared's panting against Misha's shoulder and Misha reaches over to smooth back his hair from his sweat-damp forehead, long, gentle strokes.
"So," Jared says, after five oddly companionable minutes of sated breathing, "I...you okay?"
Misha's laugh is startled out of him, sharp and warm. It's just such a Jared thing to say after half an hour's strenuous and manful fucking. Which Misha could really go for some more of in the not too distant future. "I'm great," he says, truthfully. "Not, you know, productive. Milton kind of suffers by comparison with you. But good."
Jared laughs back then, something like relief in it. "Hey, you never know. Maybe it'll be easier now. Maybe you were just sexually frustrated."
"Could be," Misha allows, voice low and lazy. It's nice, lying out here like this, this big loose-limbed boy tucked under his arm while the sky drifts above them, uncomplicated and blue. Contentedness makes him bold. "Maybe we'd better make sure I don't get frustrated again, huh?"
It's not like he's suggesting anything irrevocable, here. He's not proposing marriage. Hell, he's not even proposing they date. But he likes Jared, and Jared likes him, and if it's a choice between a long, frustrated summer of snatching glances of Jared from the study window, or a summer spent blissfully sore from sex with a man of possibly inadvisable size...well, Misha knows which he prefers.
Jared, from the way he grins sidelong at Misha, knows too. "Reckon I can probably see to that," he says, leaning over for a kiss.
And he does. God dayum.
Pairing: Jared/Misha
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~5,000
Summary: Dr Collins took a year's sabbatical to work without distractions. He didn't count on his grad-student gardener being quite so diverting.
Notes: Written for jaredmisha's Mishaleckipalooza (:D) for moonlettuce's prompt: Misha likes the size difference between them. You can't give me a list of prompts with that one in it and expect me not to leap on it. You just can't.
Jared's done wonders for the sunflowers. Misha shouldn't be surprised, really, given the strength of the application he hired him on, all full-colour photographs of flowerbeds in bloom and a glowing reference from Saunders, Jared's engineering professor at UT, whose garden had benefited greatly from his clever fingers. So far, so promising. Jared was an impoverished grad student in need of work and Misha had a garden that looked, at that time, like something out of Resident Evil, so it seemed only logical to make the hire and both come out of it happy.
The problem is that Saunders neglected to include any pictures of Jared in his reference, and Misha hadn't expected to be quite so distracted by the thought of just how clever those fingers might be. The whole point of taking his year's sabbatical had been to avoid distraction while he collated his research into a book; he'd thought it might be nice to have some flowers to look at from his study window while he worked. Now that there are flowers in the borders and climbing up the walls on lattices, Misha finds he has trouble paying them any attention at all.
God, Jared is hot. The weather's hot, everything's hot; there's sweat crawling under the collar of Misha's shirt, sticking his glasses to his nose, and the window opens only onto dead air. It's Jared, though, crouched in a flowerbed with both hands in the dirt, that's making Misha feel like his skin's about to scorch right off his body. The small of Jared's back is glistening with sweat where his shirt's ridden up, sun flashing in the dip of his spine. The muscles in his shoulders bunch and pull under the fabric as he works; the muscles in his arms stand out under sun-bronzed skin and dirt. Fuck, Jared. Misha's all dry-mouthed and damp-palmed just looking at him, and Milton's Lucifer isn't remotely compelling when that boy is right there, broad shoulders and narrow hips, the personification of sin. He's not exactly conducive to an academic mindset.
Misha writes longhand usually, types it up after, an idiosyncrasy he's clung to in spite of widespread mockery from his colleagues. As a general rule, it works for him. Now, though, his notepad is little but a series of blotchy scribbles, the lower part smeared under the heel of his hand. He's always written in fountain pen, knows better than to lean on the paper like this, but it's hard to remember these things when he'd rather be palming Jared's hipbones, lapping at the salt sweat at the base of his back. He stumbles on, scratching out a few words between stares, but the kid's a compelling sight out there in the sun, hair and skin shining in the strong afternoon light.
When he shifts and stands up, unfolding, it's worse. Watching Jared get to his feet is like watching a telescope lengthen impossibly, there's so damned much of him. Misha's not a small man, but Jared must be six-four, six-five, and when he pulls up his arms over his head into a stretch, that's something like eight feet of him from fingertips to toes. Misha's blood pulses hotly in his groin just at the thought, God. He's big, too, shoulders strong and built, tapering down to the tiny nip of his waist, and Misha wants to map the difference with his hands; wants to tip his whole head back just to look Jared in the eye. It's a sickness, he knows, because Jared's all easygoing smiles, wouldn't hurt a fly, but still, all that strength could crush him if Jared chose, and it's the potential there that's exciting.
Sometimes, Misha thinks Jared must know he watches him. There have been one too many long catches of eyes, too many times when Misha wasn't able to glance away quickly enough, when Jared grinned back at him and pushed his hair back from his face in a long, casual stroke. He must know. But then there are days like this, when Jared's hard at work and oblivious to everything but the needs of the herbaceous border. He's turned away from the window, hasn't glanced at Misha once in an hour, and still he's all clean hard lines under dirt, wifebeater clinging to every curve of his musculature, muddy handprints on the backside of his jeans where he rubbed them off absent-mindedly. He's gorgeous, sturdy and solid, sharp-nosed profile occasionally showing when he turns his head, but he seems utterly unconscious of it. At times like this, Misha doubts himself. Maybe he is just a deluded perv who wastes his afternoons daydreaming about swallowing grad students' cocks instead of working. Some professor.
He should look away. Get up, even; go get a refill of soda, splash some cold water on his face and come back ready to do some goddamn work. He tells himself these things very sternly, but Jared's popping his back, now, big hands clasped behind himself, muscles straining, and apparently Misha's brain is flat-out unwilling to co-operate. Jared leans forward a little, bending from the waist, and Misha's tongue moves reflexively, pressing up behind his teeth. The nape of Jared's neck looks hot and damp where the soft ends of his hair are sticking to it, and Misha wants so badly to suck on the fine skin there, the knob of Jared's spine, that the thought sets saliva pooling wet under his tongue. God.
He might be able to jerk himself away, eventually, if Jared would just hunker down again, go back to his gardening. He's managed it before, after much effort and self-flagellation. But when Jared turns around, catches his eyes and throws him a grin, all hope is lost. Misha's done.
"Dr Collins!" His voice carries clear through the open window, no resistance offered by the still, brackish air. He lifts one hand in greeting, long fingers extended, and Misha fights a wave of embarrassment-induced paralysis at being caught like this, looking. Jared's grinning broadly, after all, and there's no guile in it. Clearly all Misha has to do is act casual.
Because that's so fucking easy, obviously.
He clears his throat and lifts his own hand a little, performs a sloppy half-salute in the air. "Misha, please," he says. He's told Jared this fifty times if he's told him once, but the boy is Texas to the bone, all sir and ma'am and a drawl in his voice that Misha wants to rub himself all over like a cat, frenetic. "Hey, Jared. Doing okay?"
Jared laughs a little, rolls his shoulders. "Hot as hell today," he says.
Yes you are, Misha thinks, pit of his stomach flipping traitorously. He bites his lip on the thought and says, "Well, you can stop, you know. I'm not a slave-driver."
Jared laughs hard at that; tips his head so the sun glints on his back teeth, tongue caught between his incisors when he grins after. He sets his hands on his hips, right where Misha'd put his own if he had his way, and says, "Nah, I hate leaving a job half-done. I'd kill for some water, though?"
This last tilts up at the end, half-apologetic, and Misha could kick himself for not thinking of something so obvious earlier. Of course, on a day like this, Misha should have been providing water since Jared arrived. But then, he'd been trying not to get distracted.
"Christ," he mutters through his teeth, getting to his feet, "I'm sorry, Jared. Of course you can have some water, no murder required. Hang on a second and I'll bring it to you."
He keeps his Evians in the refrigerator, a whole shelf of them in soldierly rows. Misha isn't generally guilty of refrigerating the outdoors, as his mother puts it, but today he stands for a minute before the wide-open door, letting the cold chill his skin before grabbing three bottles and turning towards the back door. It doesn't quell his erection entirely, but the pause and the deep, cold breaths serve to calm it a little, which is about the best Misha can hope for right now.
The grass is still mildly damp from the sprinkler and it feels good under his bare feet as he makes his way up onto the lawn, the water bottles sweating cold in the crook of his arm. For a brief, insane second, he wonders why he doesn't come out here more often, maybe try to work out in the open. And then Jared swims into view again, sweat shining on his clavicles and cheeks dimpled by that smile, and Misha remembers.
"Hey," he says, a little weakly. "I didn't know how many you wanted, so - " He holds out his armful and tries to locate somewhere, anywhere safe to look. There's a strip of tan skin showing where Jared's shirt has ridden up over one hipbone, which is doing awful things to Misha's pulse, but he can't help think that an inch either up or down could only make matters worse. Besides, the damp sheen over the sharp spur of bone is too compelling to abandon.
"Three's good," Jared shoots back, still smiling. Misha doesn't look up, but he can hear that he is. "Two to drink, and one for cool-down." He laughs. "I'd use the hose, but - "
"Yeah," Misha says, "Rationing." Which is close enough to a coherent commentary on the current state of drought and the hosepipe restrictions, Misha thinks, given that his throat has just closed up at the image of Jared in that shirt, in sprinkler-spray. Jesus Christ, it's like he's doing it on purpose.
"Too much goddamn summer," Jared says, lazy and southern over the day-um. Misha can't resist a laugh of his own at that, a little tease.
"Your Texas is showing, boy," he points out, grinning up at Jared.
It's a joke, is all - Jared's been trying to hammer out his accent for years, and it shows, but there are times when his slips are more like swan-dives, and Misha likes to point it out. Hell, Jared expects it. But there's something in the way Jared's face changes that isn't what Misha expected, not quite. It's not offence, but something dark flashing in his smirk, something knowing in the way he says, "Oh, yeah?"
Misha takes a half-step back. He doesn't mean to, exactly, but it's like Jared's just gotten even bigger, somehow, like the extent of his loom over Misha has just clicked into full focus, and Misha...Misha likes that maybe too much. "God day-um," he says, in demonstration, after a second, because apparently he can't leave it alone.
Jared laughs, same wide-mouthed, boyish laugh Misha's seen so often, but there's something subtly different in it the way there was in his smirk, something less than innocent, and when Jared echoes, "God day-um, huh?" Misha's sure. Jared knows. Oh God, oh God, Jared knows, and the cliff edge rises up in Misha's stomach like nausea, sudden and screaming and fateful.
And then comes the click. Just that, the sound of the safety-seal snapping on the first of the Evians as Jared opens it, and Misha breathes again. His heart is pounding in his throat, his skin suddenly sticky all over, cold sweat, but Jared's grinning at him, still, lifting the opened bottle over his head, and shit.
Misha makes some kind of sound, he's sure, breath gut-punched out of him as the first drops of water hit Jared's face, but it's like the world's gone still and soundless, empty but for this fucking ridiculous, narcissistic, ludicrous gesture that's somehow hot as the flaming centre of the sun. There's a tiny part of Misha that's outraged at being played so easily like this, but it's drowned out by the rest of him staring rapt at the spectacle of Jared's long throat with water coursing down it, his closed eyes and open mouth and the way the rivulets snake down over his chest and shoulders, soaking the fabric transparent. There's no question, now, as to what this is; no question when Jared shakes himself like a dog, all cunning disappearing from his face when he grins casually at Misha through wet bangs.
"Let me guess," Misha says, in a strained voice he barely recognises as his own. "You saw that in a porno once? Because I definitely did."
Jared has the grace to look mildly abashed for all of a second before he asks, innocently, "Did I do it better?"
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, Misha's hard now, irrevocably, but so's Jared, thick line of his dick pushing out the seam of his jeans and Misha takes a breath, rasping for oxygen in the hot afternoon. "So long as you don't ask me if I want to see your Texas," he says, tightly, "we're good."
"I'd need a hat for that one," Jared says. He's outright blushing now, blood licking pink along his cheekbones, but it suits him, and his hands are on his belt, restless. "Dr Collins - Misha, I - "
With a sudden clarity, Misha realises that this was the limit of the plan. This was planned, evidently, this - whatever it is - but Jared's just a kid from the sticks, despite the size of him, and he's faltering, now. In his head, Misha supposes, it was probably all blurry after the water-show. Probably, that was when Misha, in Jared's mind, went down on his knees in the grass; pulled Jared out of his jeans and went obligingly to town. Jesus. Jared smells so good, grass and sweat and the warm boy-musk of him and Misha wants to taste him so bad it hurts. A hand on his shoulder, and he'd be on the floor by now, but Jared, clearly, is utterly unaware of this fact. Goddamn amateur.
"Stuck, are you?" Misha says, low. Jared blinks, and Misha smiles a little, something twisting pleasedly in his chest as the balance of power re-establishes itself, some of the advantage swinging back into his corner. "What comes next?"
"Misha," Jared says. He half-raises his hands, uncertain, and he's breathing tight and quick, turned-on and young and so evidently on the verge of apologising and crying off, which - no. Misha takes a step forward, and another. Jared doesn't move, although his eyes widen, and so Misha takes another; sets his hands on Jared's waist and looks up at him. He can feel Jared's heart pounding, from this distance; can feel the thrum of his pulse under the fine skin at his hips.
He takes off his glasses, carefully; folds them and tucks them into the front pocket of his shirt. "Jared," he repeats, deliberate and low. "What comes next?"
Jared kisses him. It's not so much a kiss, really, as a pounce, some hitched little sound breaking out of Jared's throat as he crushes his mouth down on Misha's, grips his shoulders to hold him up. Misha felt it coming, coaxed it, even, but the lurch in his stomach still surprises him at the contact, the way the coiled-up tension punches out as a tight whimper of his own. Jared kisses hard, firm press of lips giving way to tongue, opening Misha's mouth just enough that Jared can teethe along the curve of his lower lip. The want in it is palpable, close to aggression, and Misha needs more of it; tilts his head back and presses up against Jared and lets his jaw go slack, slides his tongue along Jared's teeth.
Misha's hands move almost subconsciously up Jared's sides, slipping under the wifebeater to find skin. Jared's hot, blood-warm and damp and it's only sensible for Misha to peel up the shirt as he maps his muscles, the flat of his stomach and the rise of his pectorals. When Misha's palms skate over his nipples, Jared lifts his arms immediately, breath hitching as he bites on Misha's tongue. Misha sucks for a long, hot moment, fucks his own tongue deep into Jared's mouth and then breaks away; tugs the shirt up over Jared's head and flings it aside and then -
"God, Jared, what are you? Terminator? Or statuary?"
He's perfect, is what he is, flushed and panting and biting his lip as he grins down at Misha, eyes warm and hair damp and tousled in his face. He shakes his head, more as if expressing disbelief at the entire situation than anything, and then he says, "I just - "
It's enough. Misha feels as if he's waited so long, by this point, that a glance would have been enough; a half-smile or a shrug or just the shove of Jared's cock against the seam of his pants. He's on his knees in a half-second, pressing his face to the hot swell in Jared's jeans even as he fumbles with belt-buckles and buttons and zips. Above him, Jared's gasping, shocked, but one big hand is palming the back of Misha's head and Misha isn't going to stop because neither of them wants him to. Misha is going to take out Jared's cock and Misha is going to suck it, because Jared isn't his grad student, after all, and he no longer sees any reason not to.
There's nothing for Jared to lean against, but Misha feels the muscles in the long thighs pull when he smooths his palms up them, and he reckons Jared can handle it. He's so hard by now that the zipper of his jeans barely needs any aid from Misha before it's splitting apart under the pressure of his cock, so Misha thinks, on balance, that he's pretty unlikely to complain. The sound Jared makes, tight in his throat, when Misha leans in to nose at the bulge only confirms this supposition.
God, but there's a lot of him. Intellectually, Misha'd known there would be, but having it right here, the thick scent of Jared's cock in his nostrils and the gleaming head of it shoving up out of the waistband of his shorts - Misha has to close his eyes to breathe. "Shit, Jared," he says, half-reverently, as he shoves the underwear down out of the way, snaps it under the fat weight of Jared's balls. Jared's tense, shivering with anticipation, and the taut skin leaps under Misha's tongue when he licks over a hipbone, trails a wet line down the cut of Jared's pelvis. Misha's mouth is watering, fucking embarrassing, but God, it's not real how much he wants all that cock in his throat; how badly he wants to be stuffed full with it everywhere. Jesus fucking Christ.
They both moan when Misha closes his lips around the head, the raw, earthy taste of Jared's precome rubbing slickly over his tongue. Jared's breathing raggedly, fingers shifting in Misha's hair, and Misha's half-dizzy with sensation, his mouth forced wide and aching with the need to go wider. He slips down a couple of inches, and then another, making wordless sounds around the push of Jared's dick. The head bumps the back of his throat far too soon, and Misha breathes in through his nose, makes himself relax, because the idea of stopping can't be contemplated and there are still inches of cock left to go.
When Jared slides in, hips hitching; sheathes himself in the clench of Misha's throat, it's - fuck. Misha's sweating with it, his own cock near-painful where it's caught in his pants, and Jared's making sounds like prayer above him, oh - oh - oh - . Misha feels the muscles flutter in his throat, involuntary, and the sounds ratchet up, Jared's fingers tightening. It's pathetic, after all these years, that deep-throating should still rank high among Misha's proudest achievements, but in moments like this he can't think beyond the pulse of pride in his stomach, the exhilaration as he pulls off slickly, alllll the way off. It's sloppy, precome and spit drooling from the corners of his mouth, but Jared's all-out moaning as Misha tongues his way up to the head and that, to Misha's mind, makes everything worth it; makes the smoker's rasp worth two days' teasing afterwards. Fuck.
Jared's careful, for all his noise (and Misha somehow knew he'd be noisy), holding himself still with a monumental effort, and Misha hooks his hands tight around Jared's hipbones, thumbs rubbing smooth over the outer ridges. He sucks, hard, just under the head; pushes his tongue into the slit and then bobs down with his lips tight, corkscrews back up again; suck, repeat, and sure, it's simple, formulaic, but fuck does it have the desired effect. Jared's moaning within seconds, shifting his hips involuntarily shortly after that, and by the time Misha's gotten into the rhythm of the thing he can feel Jared fattening impossibly in his mouth, precome smearing slick against the insides of his cheeks as Jared fucks his mouth despite himself. He's close, straining, and it's sexy as hell, raw and close in a way that makes Misha ache for the full-on taste of him, the heat of Jared's come in his mouth. He wants it - but the pull in the pit of his stomach wants more; can't let this be everything, in case it's the only time.
When he pulls off, he's panting, breath so laboured it's almost a succession of whimpers, but Jared makes like he's dying, groan of frustration guttural and desperate in his throat.
"Misha," he gets out, pawing at Misha's face, slipping fingers into his mouth, "Misha, please, Misha," and Misha feels himself pulsing out precome in reaction, but fuck. No. Fuck.
"No," he says; sits down on his heels. "No, Jared, no - I want - "
Jared's on him before he's formulated any kind of sentence, legs effectively buckling so he winds up with his knees either side of Misha's, cock jutting angry and unsatisfied out of the wide-spread vee of his jeans. Misha isn't sure whether or not Jared's understood him, but he's crawling forward, pushing Misha down into the grass by the shoulders, and that - that'll do. That was pretty much the plan.
The kiss is all teeth and desperation when Jared pulls up level, one hand wrenching open Misha's pants while he licks the taste of himself off Misha's tongue. Misha can feel the wet head of him smearing against his stomach where his shirt's ridden up, and it's all he can do not to buck up into it; to hold himself off and kiss back and push up into Jared's fingers when they find him, tight hot tunnel slicked with Misha's precome. There's a lot of it, always, and that's good, that's really fucking useful, because Misha is not about to go back into the house in the middle of this, and he really fucking wants it; wants to be split open on Jared's cock, cradled and mahandled and thundered on into. Probably, walking will be an issue for days, but every instinct in Misha's body says this burn will be justified, too. He lifts his hips, spreading his thighs wide around Jared's, and Jared, thank God, gets the basic gist; tugs Misha's jeans down over his backside and thighs until Misha can kick them away. And then he's there, shit, spreading Misha's thighs with broad palms that are no longer gentle, ducking his head to nose at Misha's balls with something close to a growl.
"Jared," Misha wrenches out, fingers carding into Jared's hair, "Shit, I want - "
"I know," Jared says, all wrecked and weak; sticks two fingers in his mouth and spits in the space between them. "I know, Misha, I got you - promise - "
It's obvious from the first slick circling touch of his fingers that Jared's done this before, the glide of fingertips around Misha's rim too clever to be guesswork. He doesn't press inside, exactly; just tugs and strokes and coaxes until Misha's squirming, shivering and tense and desperate, and then, just when Misha's pretty sure he just needs to get fucked already before he actually implodes, Jared's ducking his head again, curling his tongue around his two circling fingers.
"Fuck!" Misha yells out, and goddamn the neighbours to hell, because Jared is good at this, little jabbing pushes of his tongue followed by wet, lapping circles until the thrusts breach Misha entirely. Jared half-laughs against him, licks again, and then he's fucking kissing him there, wet and slow and working his fingers into it so he can spit inside, get Misha all good and slick, ready for his cock. Jesus Christ, so much for homegrown, Mama's favourite Texas boys. Jared is filthy, and Misha couldn't be more fucking grateful.
By the time he finally pulls away, Misha's babbled himself half-insane, gripping at Jared's hair and his broad, smooth shoulders and the taut muscle in his back, rocking his hips up against Jared's face. Jared rises back up like a god from some half-dreamed sea, his eyes dark green and his cock shining slickly with precome and spit. Not enough, but Misha's too close to care; reaches a long hand for Jared's hair and pulls.
"Now," he grits out, "Jared, please," and Jared, obliging as ever, shoves forward; finds him and plunges up and in.
It does hurt, a dull, pulsing pain as Jared fucks into him, but they're both of them worked-up and frantic and Misha's glad that Jared isn't careful; glad that his first thrust drives him deep enough to jar against Misha's prostate, sensation sparking up his spine. He cries out, half-startled by the rush of it, and Jared withdraws; pulls down on Misha's legs to keep him still while he drives in again and again, long, hard thrusts picking up pace. Fuck, it's rough, raw and deep and noisy, but that's how Misha wants it; wants the jackhammer snap of Jared's hips that pounds against the good spot over and over; wants the way the grass scrapes on his bared skin as Jared works, fucking hard enough that Misha's skittering backwards along the ground. Jared's so fucking big, above him and around him and inside him, and Misha's drunk on it, moaning and squeezing his thighs around Jared's body, dizzy with the sounds he makes.
"Shit," Jared's rasping out, swelling inside Misha and Misha realises then what's missing, what they've forgotten like idiots who want to fucking die of AIDS. Then Jared shifts his hips, pushes down on Misha's thighs and the next thrust wipes Misha's mind entirely, sets the pressure exploding white-hot from every pore of his body as Jared pulses inside him and, fuck, nothing could be better than this, that heat, Jared all wet and filling him up. He goes on fucking until they're both of them soft, and the sound of it is obscene, slick and sexy and human as Jared thrusts into his own spend. It's less appealing when Jared pulls out, for all of three seconds, but then Jared's shifting on arms that tremble; licking Misha again, cleaning him up, and Misha can't take it, too fucked out and dizzy to do more than claw at Jared's back and groan.
When Jared finally pulls himself up the length of Misha's body, collapsing unthinkingly against his side, he's wet-mouthed and smiling, flushed and debauched, and Misha doesn't doubt he looks just as obvious himself. He feels half-liquid, lax and useless, like he could just turn into water and let the ground soak him up instead, save on that rationed hose-water. Jared's panting against Misha's shoulder and Misha reaches over to smooth back his hair from his sweat-damp forehead, long, gentle strokes.
"So," Jared says, after five oddly companionable minutes of sated breathing, "I...you okay?"
Misha's laugh is startled out of him, sharp and warm. It's just such a Jared thing to say after half an hour's strenuous and manful fucking. Which Misha could really go for some more of in the not too distant future. "I'm great," he says, truthfully. "Not, you know, productive. Milton kind of suffers by comparison with you. But good."
Jared laughs back then, something like relief in it. "Hey, you never know. Maybe it'll be easier now. Maybe you were just sexually frustrated."
"Could be," Misha allows, voice low and lazy. It's nice, lying out here like this, this big loose-limbed boy tucked under his arm while the sky drifts above them, uncomplicated and blue. Contentedness makes him bold. "Maybe we'd better make sure I don't get frustrated again, huh?"
It's not like he's suggesting anything irrevocable, here. He's not proposing marriage. Hell, he's not even proposing they date. But he likes Jared, and Jared likes him, and if it's a choice between a long, frustrated summer of snatching glances of Jared from the study window, or a summer spent blissfully sore from sex with a man of possibly inadvisable size...well, Misha knows which he prefers.
Jared, from the way he grins sidelong at Misha, knows too. "Reckon I can probably see to that," he says, leaning over for a kiss.
And he does. God dayum.