Fic: Out of Hand
Title: Out of Hand
Fandom: The History Boys (movie)
Pairing: Dakin/Irwin
Wordcount: ~300 words
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is definitely getting out of hand. For rilla_, who requested anything to do with Dakin and Irwin.
It's the morning that Dakin finds Irwin's shirt neatly hung up in his wardobe that he realises it's got out of hand. That this thing between them, that was supposed to be about nostalgic, casual, though admittedly very good sex, has suddenly turned into the sort of thing in which Irwin leaves a spare shirt at Dakin's, because he expects now to spend the night when they meet. Spending the fucking night! As if it was - as if they were -
He takes the shirt out of the wardrobe, holds it up. A nondescript sort of shirt, plain white. Maybe it isn't Irwin's shirt at all, maybe it's one of Dakin's. The shoulders are too narrow to be meant for Dakin, though, and they remind him of his mouth on the lean lines of Irwin's shoulderblades, where freckles dust the pale, secret skin. It smells like the washing powder Irwin uses, and also faintly - somehow - of Dakin's aftershave. Christ, are they starting to smell alike?
Dakin thinks about leaving the shirt out on the bed, laid out neatly like a civilised rebuke, or crumpled in a ball as a more direct statement. But in the end he puts it back in the wardrobe, mostly because he decides that it's a conversation he can fucking not be arsed to have. Irwin comes out of the shower, pale skin flushed pink and naked but for Dakin's towel slung low around his narrow hips - so skinny still, it's ridiculous - and when Dakin leans in to bite the smooth bare shoulder (because Dakin has never been one for resisting temptation whenever and however it presents itself), the skin smells of Dakin's shower gel.
This is definitely getting out of hand.
Fandom: The History Boys (movie)
Pairing: Dakin/Irwin
Wordcount: ~300 words
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This is definitely getting out of hand. For rilla_, who requested anything to do with Dakin and Irwin.
It's the morning that Dakin finds Irwin's shirt neatly hung up in his wardobe that he realises it's got out of hand. That this thing between them, that was supposed to be about nostalgic, casual, though admittedly very good sex, has suddenly turned into the sort of thing in which Irwin leaves a spare shirt at Dakin's, because he expects now to spend the night when they meet. Spending the fucking night! As if it was - as if they were -
He takes the shirt out of the wardrobe, holds it up. A nondescript sort of shirt, plain white. Maybe it isn't Irwin's shirt at all, maybe it's one of Dakin's. The shoulders are too narrow to be meant for Dakin, though, and they remind him of his mouth on the lean lines of Irwin's shoulderblades, where freckles dust the pale, secret skin. It smells like the washing powder Irwin uses, and also faintly - somehow - of Dakin's aftershave. Christ, are they starting to smell alike?
Dakin thinks about leaving the shirt out on the bed, laid out neatly like a civilised rebuke, or crumpled in a ball as a more direct statement. But in the end he puts it back in the wardrobe, mostly because he decides that it's a conversation he can fucking not be arsed to have. Irwin comes out of the shower, pale skin flushed pink and naked but for Dakin's towel slung low around his narrow hips - so skinny still, it's ridiculous - and when Dakin leans in to bite the smooth bare shoulder (because Dakin has never been one for resisting temptation whenever and however it presents itself), the skin smells of Dakin's shower gel.
This is definitely getting out of hand.