Well, I'm just gonna go crazy on my own site, posting stuff since I'm so techo-compromised.  Here's the first History Boys fic.

Title:  “Swotting”
Author:  kdbarbaro
Rating:  Somewhere in the neighborhood of R?  Let me know if it seems more on the side of NC17. 
Pairing:  Dakin/Irwin
Summary:  “Dakin studies for the big exam.”  The great thing about fiction is that you can rewrite history.  So, Hector doesn’t die (I turn off the DVD at the point where he and Irwin ride away).  And this is written because I just don’t want to believe Dakin’s as big of a narcissistic arsehole as he seems to be.  This is my first go at writing fanfic.  It’s not polished, but I just wanted to lose my virginity and get it over with as soon as possible;-)  My personal goal is to get better as a writer, to write characters convincingly, and to wallow in the hotness of the Boys.  Comments are welcomed.
Disclaimer:  Don’t own any of them, for profit or otherwise.  I just play with them and I promise to put them back when I’m done.


You always need an angle.

It feels like preparing for the exam.  It does.  And wishing he had the questions ahead of time.  The similarities are inescapable.  How to play this properly.  How to position himself.  If he knew ahead of time how Irwin might respond to him, well then, he’d know the angle, wouldn’t he.  Of the range of Irwins possible, which Irwin is going to show up?  It’s like the multiple-choice test, isn’t it.  A and C, D only, or no fucking clue.  Just close your eyes and point.  But that would be Rudge, wouldn’t it.  And he’s not Rudge.  Because *he* studies.  He prepares.  So which is the right answer here, which one is he going to deal with; the “reckless, impulsive, immoral” Irwin, or the “careful” one? 

And which Dakin does Irwin expect.  Or want.  And should Dakin take the opposing side, simply to thwart the expectations?  Would Irwin even notice the parallel between his own urgent exhortations in class, to do the unexpected, or would he not.  If he doesn’t, then all that thinking ahead of time will be wasted energy, won’t it.  Like swotting for hours at something that won’t even appear on the exam.  Like they tried to tell Hector.  Like French.

The unexpected, Dakin supposes, would be if he were between Irwin’s knees himself, and not the other way round.  That would throw him off for sure.  That’s a bit of a laugh, yeah.  Dakin can picture himself wearing that same frightened, frozen smile that Irwin had worn.  In his classroom.  On that day.  Can’t have that, can we.  Okay, yeah, he’d have to be careful about those facial expressions.  But if it was him, him pulling down that zip, well what then?  He’d be expected to know what to do with it, wouldn’t he? 

He closes his eyes, crosses his ankles on his bed.  If he just thinks about what he likes, well Irwin would be sure to like that, wouldn’t he.  But is it different, what a bloke does to another bloke than what a girl does to you?  A mouth is a mouth in the dark, isn’t it.  There’s some relief that laps through him imagining, feeling, Fiona’s mouth on him.  She really is so fucking pretty.  And self-possessed.  That was a part of it.  Her self-possession; that they were two of a kind that way.  But with her it really is self-possession.  Whereas with Dakin, it’s a put on self-absorption. 

Well, why mess with the formula, eh.  It’s worked so far.  Although being an object of ungratified longing for Pos might not be seen as success.  What he’s had with Fiona, yes.  Pos, well.  No.  But Irwin . . . Irwin hadn’t seemed terribly impressed by him the way everyone else is.  Was.  Although it’s difficult to know.  What happened on that last day anyway, the historical turning point as it were, that turned that neutral stance, or non-approval or whatever it was, into something else?  Maybe it was simply desperation, yeah.  That someone, some one of them, made a serious play for him.  Or simply Dakin’s aggressive confidence leaning hard on Irwin’s defenses.  Maybe it was Dakin making sure to get close enough for Irwin to smell him.  Maybe it was just the right time, the right push, and the right pheromones.

And why does Dakin want it to be his mind that Irwin lusts after anyway?  But it is, in a way, what he wants.  Everyone else goes over like ninepins, because of his looks.  Well, not his looks, in point of fact.  Scripps is handsomer than he is, has been since they were five.  James as well.  Dakin once got a bit hard just looking at that thick tousled hair and Lockwood’s red trainers.  He’d explained that one away as the result of simply being attracted to something different in an otherwise bland and overly familiar landscape.  Not quite so sure of that now.  Thank God it no longer matters.  Different unis.  He won’t be faced with Jimmy’s trainers on a daily basis.  Or how very tall he seems to have gotten.

Dakin tries to make this academic, like it’s one more subject.  Giving a blowjob.  It’s funny, really.  Hearing in his head, Irwin’s voice admonishing, “Distance yourself!”  And Dakin, half hard already after thirty seconds, laughs, thinking, “I am trying, sir!”  Concentrate.  Yeah, okay then.  If Fiona were actually here, Dakin could stop her and say, “Right.  And what’re you doing there?  Because that bit, that’s nice, that is.”  Stupid really, because the power of speech seems to diminish with the increase in blood flow to one’s southern region.  Nonverbals in command.  Although he’s managed never to whimper with Fiona.  He’s complimentary, yeah.  But no whimpering.

His head sinks into the pillow, eyes shut tight, lips parted.  Letting himself breathe.  Breathe in what he remembers of Irwin’s scent.  He’d gotten close enough himself one or two, or three times.  Close enough to be affected by it.  Like on the staircase at school.  Like walking through the ruins of Fountains Abbey.  Like the shed he’d backed Irwin into, hiding from Felix.  Although then, Irwin’s scent had been mixed with his own, and of that illicit smoke.

Could the smell of him do it to him, really?  Yeah, it could, if the current state of Dakin’s dick is any true indication.  Could be only the result of having thought of Fiona a few minutes ago.  He’d been so deliberately blasé when Scripps had asked the one time if he’d do it with Irwin.  Aware that Posner was playing audience as well.  Dakin hadn’t missed a beat then, because he was expected not to.  He was expected to be that alluring twist of smooth and reckless.  And he was.  And hadn’t really looked any closer than that.  It was automatic.

This appears to be automatic in a different way.  Dakin thinks about experimenting here, deliberately picturing Lockwood, but decides against it.  He’s a bit overwhelmed as it is, going against everyone’s expectations of him, including his own.  He’s expected to say these provocative things.  But not act on them.  And he’s about to.

Why isn’t there a handbook somewhere labeled ‘Irwin’ that he could check out of the library?  Of course he’s left school now, but don’t they allow alums such privileges?  Especially those headed for Oxford?  Dakin smirks at the thought, feeling a bit drunk.  But he isn’t drunk.

He’d made such a deal of the euphemism thing.  He hopes Irwin didn’t take that part at face value, because Dakin’s going to seriously need a bit of Dutch courage.  He exhales, drops his hand to run lightly over his jeans, uncrosses his ankles.  Pulls the zip down, first imagining it’s Irwin’s hand, his own zip.  Then switching off and imagining it’s his hand on Irwin’s zip.  And swallows hard, realizing that he’d rather it be him on Irwin.

Oh for the love of Christ.  He knows how to get blowjobs and how to be gracious about the getting.  He does not know how to go about giving them.  And will he get marks for it?  Again he hears Irwin’s voice, “I didn’t say that it was wrong.  I said it was dull.”  Oh fuck.

What on earth is wrong with him?  He started this but now there are likely to be - standards.  There’re bound to be.  Although there’s an exit, if he really wants one.  Irwin would never think him a coward if Dakin didn’t pursue this to its conclusion, he’d simply think it was Dakin being himself, uncomplicated.  On to something else.  Or is that a euphemism for superficial?  Is that what Irwin really thinks of Dakin?  That he’s a self absorbed, superficial pretty boy?  The sudden depression Dakin feels staggers him.  Why does this even matter?

His hand is down the front of his jeans in another second, stroking himself almost angrily.  His underpants annoy the fuck out of him by their mere presence at this point and he yanks them down mid thigh.  Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.  His mind coaches from the sidelines.  Or tries to anyway.  Ah, so it’s a minute and a half of pleasure as a not terribly efficient effort of distracting himself from that last thought.  About what Irwin thinks.  Thinks about him.  Fuck!  Can he not even wank in peace anymore without it becoming some analytical crap?  Without it having to be attached to all sorts of meanings and implications.  Apparently not.

It takes literally another twenty seconds, after this internal tirade, takes simply picturing the concentrated gaze in Irwin’s blue eyes before Dakin’s made a slimy mess all over the taut abdomen he kept hoping Irwin would notice when he went for a run with Scripps.  After the third time of that, Don had said, “Are you not cold?”  You wouldn’t believe how hot, he’d wanted to say.  But being provocative has its limits, even for Dakin.

Usually he falls asleep directly he’s come, unless he has four more hours of studying ahead of him.  None of that now.  But no sleep either.  It’s become ridiculous, hasn’t it.  Or has he?  Become ridiculous.  If he has a wank before seeing Irwin, he’d be calmer, wouldn’t he.  A wank and a Guinness.  One of each.  That’s a good idea.  Because he’ll still be able to get it up, no worries there, mate.  But it’ll take the edge off.  He tests it now, feeling more confident.  And his stomach does a flip the second he pictures Irwin again.  And not even Irwin’s body, which he’s never actually seen.  Shit.  He’s just lost a half stone of bodily fluids, at least it feels like that, and he’s a nervous schoolboy again.

Did he feel this nervous when he was actually in Irwin’s presence?  No, he did not.  Really wanting Irwin to like him, craving his attention, his approbation.  But not nervous.  Cocky, more like.  Right.  So, a wank, three Guinness and he should ring Irwin directly he’s downed the lot.  There’s a plan.

But, he thinks, he wasn’t nervous because he wasn’t considering giving anyone a blowjob.  And now he is.  Sitting up, he pulls up his jeans and leans his head into his hands.  Wadded up tissues litter the bed.  How difficult can it be?  His jaw’s bigger than Fiona’s and he knows that’ll help.  There was that girl over Christmas whose mouth was so small she absolutely refused to do him more than two minutes at a time.  Said it made her jaw ache.  He strokes his hand over his own jaw.  Okay, so he’s that advantage, at least.  And it’s ingrained in every man to the point of being an evolutionary primal fear – watch the teeth.  Right.  No problem, really. 

He wonders if Timms has any pot.  Stupid question, really.  Timms always has pot.  He wouldn’t even have to give any reason for wanting it.  Getting high would suffice.  No need to say he wants to get high because he’s going to suck off their teacher, former teacher, ex teacher and is going a bit mental.  It would help loosen him up, fill in the deficit left by consuming only three Guinness.  But pot leads to dry mouth; maybe not such a good thing when one is attempting to accommodate the male appendage in one’s mouth for extended periods of time.  Surely Irwin would think about his comfort?  His sore knees, his aching jaw, his dry mouth?  Can I take a break, sir?  Bloody hell.

He shows up early and stands across the street.  Then paces the street, slowly, counting each step as if the math of it matters intensely.  Hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.  Feeling pretty ready.  He’s studied hard, reviewed his notes.  He’s taken all precautions – an extra Guinness – because the fourth bottle seemed so lonely undrunk next to the other empties.  Undrunk.  Compound adjective.  Unkissed.  Unfucked.  See, Hector, you sad bastard, I do remember some of that shite.  Not a total waste, was it.

Some very excellent pot.  Oh yes.  Timms is such a good, good friend.  And a long, leisurely wank in the bath, delightfully high.  Tried listening to that classical shit that Irwin had suggested to Posner.  Then realized that Irwin probably never listened to it himself.  He wasn’t sitting an exam, was he.  So, on went New Order.  His own skin felt amazing to him.  He was entranced by how black his hair looked in the mirror.  I am a shallow fuck.  But I’m going to be a superlative cocksucker.

Irwin is late in answering the buzzer and that buzz of anxiety attempts to break through the safe pot induced fog in Dakin’s head.  Wrong date?  Wrong day?  Wrong time?

“Thought you’d changed your mind,” he says smoothly when Irwin pulls the door open.  There’s a narrowing of those blue eyes, and an expression Dakin can’t quite make sense of, what with the glare off his glasses.  He allows his eyes to flick over Irwin’s slender frame as he follows in from the hallway.  Relieved by how in control he feels.  Expansive, wonderful; up for it in oh so many ways.

“I’d love a drink, euphemisms aside,” he says with utter ease once Irwin shows him the living room.  He glances at the couch, measuring the height from the floor to the cushioned seat, before dropping down onto it as if he owns the place.  The floor’s uncarpeted, he notices.  Yes, well, a change of venue may have to be in order.

He’s glad he’s remembered that thing about facial expressions and schooled his into that charming, insouciant grin.  So easy.  He wishes he could use the intent, predatory glance he’d used to such success in Irwin’s classroom, but he can’t locate it in this moment.

Irwin hands him the beer; their knuckles brush.  And Dakin feels fire in his groin.

“How do you do that?” he thinks.

“Do what?” Irwin asks, looking curiously at him.  And Dakin blushes in a prizewinning way.  Forget about a second, he’s just gotten a first for that one.  What a twat.  He’d said it aloud.  Fucking pot.

“Nothing.  I –“ There’s just no way to save that one.  He tries for mysterious but thinks it rather falls flat.  Leaning forward to put the glass on the tabletop, he misjudges and spills some beer over his aforementioned knuckles.  And the table.  Fucking, fucking pot.

“Are you alright?  Dakin?” Oh and that’s all he needs is Irwin being concerned about him.  Forget about being one down, Dakin’s about to fall off the stairs entirely.  Stares paralyzed at Irwin, unable to think of a blessed thing to say, just like the time Felix walked in on him in Hector’s class, in his shirt tails and underpants.  And that was the first time he’d laid eyes on Irwin as well.

“Sorry . . . sorry,” he says, trying to mop up beer on Irwin’s scarred table with one soaked serviette.

“It’s all right.  It doesn’t matter.”  Irwin looks more than concerned now, he looks more on the alarmed side of things.  “I upended a full cup of coffee on it not two days ago.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Dakin says.  “I am all right.  I just . . . missed.  Although,” he hopes he won’t say it, but then he does.  “Lying’s good, yeah?  So, go right ahead.  Feel free.  Lie to me.”  And looks stunned.  What in fucking Christ has he just done?  He’s going to kill Timms.  He can’t tolerate the idea of being alone in the blame here. 

And then the expression on Irwin’s features alters.  He cocks his head, a bit, as if seeing Dakin for the first time.  Or seeing through Dakin for the first time.

“Okay.  What then . . .” Irwin begins, and his voice is soft, and so gentle Dakin feels it like a soreness inside of him.  “What do you want me to lie to you about?”  They look at each other for what feels to Dakin like an interminable amount of time.

“Me,” Dakin says, suddenly, his own voice practically gone.  “I want you to lie to me . . . about me.”  And Irwin gives him a half smile, a half shake of his head, and reaches out to stroke the back of his hand against Dakin’s flushed cheek.  His skin is so very cool and Dakin’s is so hot.

“Why?” Irwin asks softly, his thumb caressing Dakin’s lower lip.  “Why would you want that, when we’ve just begun to tell the truth?”

Title: “Corpus”
Author:  kdbarbaro
Pairing:  Dakin/Irwin
Rating:  R, most like
Summary:  That ‘drink’. Oh, and guilt
Disclaimer:  Don’t own any of them, for profit or otherwise.  I just play with them and I promise to put them back when I’m done.
Movieverse

I wanted to get this second piece up before the madness of Nanowrimo begins.  One of the reasons for posting it at all is to give a HUGE thank you to solvent90 who did the most amazing beta anyone could ever hope for (especially after she explained what a beta was;-)  I think that the fic is infinitely better because of her very close reading and astute insights.  Thank you!
If people do wander over here to read it, I have a Posner fic that might go up as well.
Thank you for your patience.  You may now return to your regularly scheduled programs.



Irwin’s flat is clean but rather disorganized, aesthetically and academically.  Stacks of books are on the kitchen table, precariously perched.  More stacks on the floor here in the living room.  As well as the usual, two deep on every shelf of the five bookcases.  Dakin’s never known anyone with so many books that were personal possessions.  Must be like living in a library, with kitchen privileges.

“You could just put this lot together, throw a cloth over the top and you’d have a nice extra table.” Dakin shakes his head, a bit amused, a bit patronizing.  Irwin’s smile says he’d expected something of the sort.

Somewhere in the background is Bach.  Dakin looks round until he locates the speakers, sitting atop two stacks of books at opposite ends of the room.

“Didn’t figure you for a Baroque lover,” Dakin says, just for something to say.  “Not really your era, I should think.” It’s unduly and unfairly narrowing of him.  He’s always been impressed by how wide reaching Irwin’s interests actually are.

“Perhaps not,” Irwin says, shrugging.  There’s a slight pause.  “It means ‘irregular pearl’.  Baroque.”

“Mmmm,” Dakin says.

“I suppose it’s that I don’t actually fancy having to listen to ‘Hitler Has Only Got One Ball,” Irwin says.  And blushes a bit.  Dakin grins.  On the chair lies an open copy of the book Irwin presumably was last reading.

“*On the Black Hill*,” Dakin reads.  “It’s a novel.  Thought you didn’t read novels.”

“He’s from Sheffield,” Irwin says, as if that explains it.

“Ah.  But the novel’s about Wales,” Dakin insists.

“Yes.  Yes, it is rather.”

“What else . . . “ Dakin lays the Chatwin back on the chair and takes it upon himself to give a superficial look over the other, most visible books.  He picks up another that has a marker halfway through.  “*The Gathering Storm*.  Churchill.  Volume one.  I’ll bet you’ve read all six, haven’t you.”

“Several times,” Irwin says, absent any bragging in the admission.  “They’re really quite magnificent.  I think you’d find them interesting.  You should . . .” He falters.

“I will, thanks.  You ever loan a book out?”

“I would to you, yes.  If you wanted it.”  Irwin blinks, looks away.  As if his discomfort has blossomed simply from the word “want”, in any conjugation.  A rather long silence ensues; Irwin puts his hands in his trouser pockets, an anchor for himself.

“So,” Dakin says, rather suddenly, taking command.  “How’d we go about this, eh?  Shall we . . . in here?  Or is . . . well there’s no place for me to sit in here, is there?”  He makes another show of looking at the books and papers strewn over everything.  Curious that there’d been no attempt to straighten the place up a bit.  Maybe Irwin never thought they’d actually get this far.   Geographically or relationally.

“I could stand, I suppose.” Dakin jams his own hands into his leather jacket and lifts his chin.  It makes him look a little thuggish.  “Which would be more comfortable for you?”  Irwin’s gone pale at his brashness, the sheer goal-directedness of it.

“Relax,” Dakin says, voice lowering. “I’m only taking the piss.  God, you’re a bit of a mess, aren’t you?”

“Yes.  Yes, I expect I am,” Irwin says.  “This isn’t a situation I’ve ever –“

“What? Never sucked off a bloke before?  Now, I’m not going to believe that one.”  Irwin looks close to fainting, poor bastard, so Dakin has to take charge of this part as well.  Goes up to him, right up close and slides his forefinger along the opening of Irwin’s shirt, then inside, resting it against the button.

“You always this nervous?”

“As I . . . as I said; it’s not a situation I’ve been in before.  With a student.”

“Not a student any longer,” Dakin corrects.  This doesn’t appear to make much of a helpful impact on Irwin.  In fact, he takes a step back, breaking the tenuous contact.

“You were.  That’s what I’ll always remember of all of that, quite clearly.  Wanting . . . “ Irwin takes a hard, resigned breath, as if unsure he should, even now, name it.  “Letting you on that last day . . . before you’d even left school.  *My* student.  When-“

“Have you met my friend, Scripps?” Dakin interrupts, with cheeky inquiry.  “You could go to confession together.  The pair of you.  You Catholic?”

“No, I-“

“C of E, then?”

“Dakin . . .”

“What?”  Irwin’s eyes seem pale behind the delicate rims, as if the glass has washed out all the colour.  Dakin sees he’s on the verge of committing to being miserable, and he can’t have that.

“Look.  I’m an Oxford student now, aren’t I.  Think of it that way.  You teach at Cutler’s.  I’m at Oxford.  I asked; you said yes, remember?”

“I remember,” Irwin says, mouth twisting into bitterness.  “Hector said . . .”

“What?  Hector said what?”

“He told me . . . he said,” and Irwin stops, right on the edge of it.  He bites his lip.  “He told me not to touch you.”  Dakin’s eyebrows lift, in surprise that such a conversation had ever taken place.  Irwin looks directly at him, pained.  “That . . . that you’d think me a fool.”

“You *are* joking,” Dakin says.  This is all too absurd.

“No.  No, I’m not.”

“How can that be, eh?  I’m here.  In your flat.  It’s not like a quick grope, is it?  At least, I don’t think it’s to be that.  And I don’t think you’re a fool, and I wouldn’t do.  It’s ridiculous for you to fixate on that.  That’s gone, we’re past that.  This is now.  Now.  And something is going to happen.  D’you understand?”  Irwin gives him a smile that isn’t actually one, and runs his hand through his hair.

“God, I wish this weren’t so awful for you,” Dakin says, and means it.  It’s hard watching Irwin do this, when for Dakin everything is so simple.  The upside of being uncomplicated, he supposes.

Irwin’s quiet then, nods near imperceptibly, and Dakin can actually feel the moment when he’s made his decision.  Like a bolt slid back, the door not yet opened.  But there’s something else that Dakin can sense, beyond the guilt of him being a student, former student.  Irwin appears to be steeling himself.

“What?  Just say it for Christ’s sake, whatever it is.”

“All right, then,” Irwin says, taking a deep breath.  “All right.  Could I - would it be okay if I . . . if I kissed you?  First, I mean.  I know that it isn’t . . . well, it isn’t what we’d talked about.”

“No.  We’d only talked about your sucking me off.”  He can see Irwin retreat, without having moved at all.  Impressive accomplishment.  He thinks about it, stares at Irwin’s mouth, feels rather than sees Irwin twitching away from him.

“All torn up about that too, are you?  You’re really something,” he says.  “Maybe you should think about becoming a Catholic.  You’ve apparently had loads of practice in the guilt arena.”  But he makes his smile gentle, smoothing out the edge.  “Okay, yeah.  You can kiss me.  I don’t mind.  But these go off first, yeah?  I don’t fancy getting injured in the course of this.  How would I explain it to people?”  Very carefully he removes Irwin’s glasses and sets them respectfully on top of the nearest stack of books.

“God,” he says suddenly, considering.  “You’re dead fit without your glasses, you know that?”  The nascent smile on Irwin erodes into something more self-conscious, something more twisted up in it.

“You don’t think so, do you,” Dakin says, not quite believing it could be true.  Never having had any difficult believing in his own attractiveness, this surprises him.  Because Irwin is strikingly handsome without his glasses.  It’s as if this secret had been kept from him all term.  He doesn’t know of what importance it would have had, earlier, but he’d have wanted to know.  And now he knows something none of the rest of them do.

“Well, never mind.  But you should work on that.  So, do you want to kiss me here?  Or have you got a bedroom?  You do have one of those, don’t you?  We could go in there.  Unless you’re one of those people who falls asleep upright in a chair with a two stone book on your lap.  Mr. Churchill’s Volume Three cutting off the circulation, eh?”

“Fuck off,” Irwin says, his smile shy.  “I have a bedroom, like everyone else.”

“Let’s see it then.”  It’s a mess as well, the bed unmade, clothes thrown over a chair.

“Didn’t expect to be entertaining in here, did you?” Dakin asks, having walked right in.  Irwin haunts the doorway.

“Not . . . no, I didn’t.  I thought . . . well, never mind.”

“Right, never mind,” Dakin says, echoing.  “Come in here, then.”  Irwin comes towards him with slow, near reluctant steps.

“Can you see without your glasses?”

“Well enough,” Irwin says, softly, and Dakin feels a thrill of something up his spine.  Something other than the thrill of being more confident than Irwin.

 If he waits for Irwin to make the first move, they’ll be here watching the sun go down and come up again, so Dakin carefully takes Irwin’s head in his hands and kisses him.  They’re of a height, although Dakin’s an inch the taller from self-confidence alone.  Even though he’d never kissed a bloke before and had never considered he would, he finds it’s nice.  More than nice, actually.  Irwin moves into the kiss as if Dakin’s a bottle of rare Bordeaux, but he’s only to be allowed a taste of it.  And that’s nice as well.  Feeling that want.  Tentatively, Irwin’s hands come up, rest at Dakin’s waist, move slowly over his shirt, up his back.

“Is this all right?” he says.  He touches Dakin as if he’s trespassing.  There’s no answer, Dakin’s mouth brushing along Irwin’s shoulder.

“Do you . . . mind this?” Irwin says, pulling back.

“Do you always ask permission this many times?  Shall I sign something?”  Dakin moves back into the kiss, still surprised he’s liking it as much as he does.  It isn’t as if he doesn’t understand Irwin’s extreme hesitation; clearly he’d expected Dakin to walk in his front door and unzip by the hanging coats and mufflers, kicking the overshoes aside.  

The expression in Irwin’s very blue eyes and about his mouth ranges from guilt, to a flickering sort of pain, to puzzlement, to a very faint show of pleasure.  But he won’t let himself show more.  If he feels it, he’s looking away when he does.

“It’s all right, you know.  Here,” Dakin says, pulling out his shirttails.  “I’ll just help this along a bit, shall I?”  Reclaiming Irwin’s hands once more, he settles them underneath his loosened shirt.  The fingers that smooth over his bare skin are surprisingly warm and there’s that little thrill of something again.  Leaning in a bit, he kisses Irwin more deeply, encouraging, moving his fingers through the fine, blond hair.  Those hands move upwards, stroke over the muscles of his back.  At his shoulder through his shirt, Dakin can feel Irwin’s warm breath.

“Do you . . . do you like that?” Irwin says, filled with hesitant, hopeful desire.  “My touching you.”  Dakin makes some sort of noise of assent, mouth now preoccupied at Irwin’s throat.

“Is it exciting to you . . . at all?” The hopefulness sounds almost dashed in his voice, closer to sad really.  And Dakin pulls back to look him in the eye.

“Can you not tell that?  Really?” he says.  It’s unbelievable, given the way he’s just been kissing Irwin.  Who again goes a bit pale.  That smile self-deprecating.  Still judging himself for his own wants.  Ashamed of it.

“Well, the answer’s yes, then,” Dakin says.  “Maybe I didn’t expect it to be, but then I didn’t expect we’d be doing this.  And neither did you.  Different rules now, yeah?”  Irwin appears to expect there to be something else, some qualifier.  When it doesn’t come, that look of puzzlement crosses his features again.

It’s a bit like driving blind, for both of them.  For himself, he has no idea, really, where he’s going.  Has decided he doesn’t so much care.  It was to be just a wank, then just a blowjob, now there’s kissing and all.  Who knows what else?  But Irwin apparently, doesn’t believe they’ll get wherever this is going without a smash up.  All Dakin wants to think of is this moment, that he likes the taste and the feel of Irwin’s tongue, his mouth and his hands.  And that the impact of all of this is slowly wending its way through his body.  Disappointingly, Irwin backs off him again.

“I want . . . that is, I’d like,” Irwin says.

“I’m listening,” Dakin says.  He’s still finding this amusing.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know how you’d feel about it.”

“Ask then.  I can only say no.  Surely you’d survive that.”  Irwin’s glance is that blinking hopeful look, without an actual shred of hope in it.

“Would you let me see you . . . undressed?” Irwin says, his voice faint.  “Before, I mean.”

“Got brave, have you?” Dakin says.  And immediately begins to strip off his clothes.  He doesn’t mind if Irwin sees him naked, far from it.  There have always been these moments in the boys’ changing room where Dakin’s affirmed over and again, his comfort with his own nudity, his own body, his own attractiveness.  But there was never anyone to actually look, or feel comfortable looking – except Posner, and however accepted that longing was, it didn’t do to encourage it.  

Dakin had considered only that he’d feel gratified.  Nothing else.  Thought he’d get hard, not through actual attraction to Irwin, only through experiencing Irwin’s attraction to him.  One way.  Not this, particularly.  He doesn’t really know what ‘this’ is yet.  But he’s glad he scoffed at getting Irwin a subscription to The Spectator instead.

He lies on the bed; half smile, half hard, watching while Irwin guiltily drinks him in.

“Are you not going to get your kit off as well?” Dakin asks, idly.  Because it’s gone from just wanting Irwin’s mouth on him – and no need to remove any clothes for that – to wanting to see him as well.  All of him.

“What for?” Irwin says, retreating.  “That wasn’t . . . it isn’t about me.  This isn’t.”

“Isn’t it?”  Dakin stretches deliberately on the bed like a cat, watching Irwin in his neat scholar’s trousers, his vulnerable bare throat visible at the top of his opened shirt.

“Of course not.  That wasn’t part of it; your . . . your request.  Offer, I mean.”  Dakin laughs.

“Can’t decide, can you?  If I offered you something, or if I requested it.  Scripps called me a ‘complacent fuck’ once.  Am I, d’you think”  He can see Irwin react to the knowledge that Scripps is aware of this.  Them.

 “I suppose that depends on the definition of the word,” Irwin says slowly, choosing to ignore the mention of Scripps.

“How d’you mean?”

“What Scripps called you.  There are two definitions, you know.”  It’s fairly clear Dakin didn’t know.  “Complacent can mean ‘eager to please’.”  Dakin smiles at him from the bed.

“Or what?”

“Or self satisfied.  Smug.”  They stare at each other; Irwin holding on longer than Dakin would’ve thought he’d be able to do.

“So which are you now?” Irwin says.  “Smug?  Or eager to please?”  Dakin eyes him thoughtfully.  Something else has entered into Irwin’s tone that wasn’t there before.  But not unfamiliar to him.  There’s a hint of what he recalls from the classroom.  A hint of that challenge.

“Maybe English is your thing.  Not History at all.  So.  You pick.  Which do you think he meant?”  Scripps was right about one thing, Dakin is a flirt.

“I suppose . . . well, I suppose we’ll see.  From here on in.”

He likes the dare in Irwin’s words.  And it’s terribly gratifying that this whole exchange has taken place with him lying naked on Irwin’s very rumpled bed.  Odd how it makes him feel more in control of this.  And being objectified does have its merits. Just to underscore this, he takes his hard prick in hand and strokes slowly, and watches Irwin, near frozen, the challenging stance melting a bit.

“I suppose we will,” Dakin answers, almost carelessly.  “I think you should come here and find out.”  Irwin doesn’t move.  “Listen.  Rules’ve changed, yeah?  Would you like a codicil added to the originally negotiated terms?”  Irwin says nothing.  “It isn’t what you agreed on, but then, it isn’t what *I* thought I wanted either.  It’s different.  And it’s all right, really it is.”  Maybe he does want to please, after all.  There’s a very long moment in which he feels Irwin struggling with himself, clearly wanting, even now afraid of making a move.  Mired.  Dakin gives him a slow smile.

 “C’mon, Poland,” he says softly.  “You knew something was up.”  Irwin startles, stares at Dakin, then shows that half rueful, half shy smile.  And begins to unbutton the rest of his shirt.

It’s rather a shock, Irwin naked; Dakin’s never been this close to another naked man in his life.  And certainly not pressed up against one who’s showing all sorts of obvious signs of wanting him.  Irwin’s long, and lean, and underfed looking.  Fragile almost.  Dakin flashes on Fiona’s round strong looking and very female body.  Which he’d never seen the whole of.   Another jolt to realize that Irwin’s now seen more of him, and desperately wanted to, than Fiona has.  The difference between several months of dating, and a handful of days of seduction.  Although to be honest, his seduction of Irwin started fairly early on, even if he hadn’t realized what it was, at the time.

He’s got Irwin underneath him in a half second, where both of them apparently want him to be.  Dakin’s never been one to shy away from a challenge, and since Irwin’s done nothing but shy away, except in brief moments, it’s his race to lose.  

Even though it’s become more than allowing Irwin to service him, Dakin does indeed let him suck him off.  Stretched out on the bed, eyes closed, it crosses his mind that Irwin excels at more than getting them into Oxbridge.  But he stops it long before he’s close to coming, and the confusion is back in Irwin’s eyes.  He seems not to adapt very easily.  Quite unlike the classroom where he was quick on his feet, quicker than them, always.

“Lay back,” Dakin whispers and then settles his hips in such a way that Irwin has to part his long legs to accommodate him.  Then he gives that cheeky grin and raised eyebrow.  Slides his hand over Irwin’s hip and under his knee, pressuring until Irwin gives in, both legs loosely enclosing Dakin’s body in their grasp.

“Do you want that?” Dakin says. “For me to fuck you.” And feels such a responsive shudder it would be difficult for Irwin to say no and get away with it.  He leans in and kisses Irwin, deeply.  “Tell me what you want,” he whispers.  “I’m being complacent now, that first definition.”

“Wouldn’t it . . . I mean, would it . . . Doesn’t it disgust you?” Irwin asks faintly, his skin once again that shamed white colour.

“Christ.  Your syntax really leaves something to be desired,” Dakin says, with a grin.  “Wouldn’t it?  Would it?  Doesn’t it? You should decide whether you’re asking about the presence of, or the absence of, the disgust in question.  It’s rather confusing, as it is.”  

In his arms, Dakin can feel Irwin’s heart slamming in his chest.  He wishes Irwin trusted him a bit more.  But then he can’t let go of the need to spar with him either.  However much he denied it to Irwin, there’s no escaping that he does rather like the idea of himself as mastering the master.  

“Anyway,” he says, “how’d you know I haven’t done it with a girl?”

“It’s not the same . . . it’s--“ Dakin raises his eyebrows.  “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Dakin says with a manic grin.  Although it’s a lie.  He’s never fucked a girl in this way, but he doesn’t think it would happen here either, if he lets the word ‘virgin’ occur to Irwin.  Just one more thing for him to feel guilty about.

“But you’re still a teacher, aren’t you,” Dakin whispers.  “So, you have to show me exactly how you want it.”  He desires this, desires Irwin, with the same kind of intensity with which he wanted Oxford.  Irwin had been out of reach and now he’s not and Dakin doesn’t stop himself from imagining there could be a next step he’d be interested in taking.  

He hadn’t ceased wanting Oxford when he knew he had it.  It’s a distinct possibility he won’t cease wanting Irwin either, after having him.  At first he’d admired Irwin, wanted his approval more than he’d wanted it from anyone.  The discovery of Irwin’s caution and his insecurity could’ve put him off, but it doesn’t.  The contradiction of it only entices him further into the field.

It fascinates him now, the moment when he judges that Irwin’s become entirely defenseless.  The moment when he’s entirely engulfed, overrun by superior forces.  One could say.

“Ah, Poland,” Dakin finds himself repeating, irresistibly.  The analogy too good to relinquish, just yet.  His tone is aroused and teasing.  Perhaps before, he would’ve said the illicit thrill of it would be about fucking a man, or maybe fucking his former teacher.  Before, it might have been about winning only; winning a scholarship to Oxford, winning a blowjob from Irwin.  He didn’t expect to really want this, like this.  But now, fucking this clever, uncertain, scared and provocative man who’s becoming undone by what Dakin’s doing to him, well, it’s fucking amazing.  

Irwin still shakes underneath him, arms holding Dakin tight, as if it’ll be for the very last time.
“Jesus,” he says, softly.  Dakin rears up a bit, enough to meet his eye, his grin bright.
“Corpus,” he whispers, before leaning down into another kiss.

I've had this lj for quite a while now and never posted anything to it.  Why, you may ask?  Or rather, why I may ask - since I'm the only one who can see this post.  It's because I'm an effing technophobe and I have ADD to boot.  This means that when faced with instructions on how to do something technological, I can neither concentrate long enough to read the full instructions, nor understand what it is that I have read.  So, this is rather an experiment, a pushing of boundaries, of going where kd has never gone before.  Let's hope I don't crash and burn.  If an lj entry crashes and burns, but no one can read it, did it really happen?  You'll never know.

kd