(no subject)
Title: The exception to the rule
Pairing: Tom Irwin/Stuart Dakin
Rating: NC-17. Oh god. It’s just porn.
Summary: Somone badgered me to finally do that fic where Dakin comes from having his nipples touched. This happened. I’m so sorry.
Word count: 1200
Disclaimer: The History Boys belongs to its creators, and I am but a penniless student.
Dakin isn’t in the habit of doing this.
This being having an elicit fling with his former teacher during his reading week. In the middle of the day.
Most of the flings he has had since starting university happen drunkenly, at night, and certainly don’t involve him being pinned beneath someone decidedly male.
Well. Most of the time.
Irwin - or should it be Tom now? - still looks at him with an odd mix of wariness and determination, like now, when he’s trying to pin Stuart’s arms beneath his knees, and ordinarily he would put up resistance, but when being restrained so makes the fabric of Irw-Tom’s trousers drag deliciously against where he’s hard in his boxers, he can’t complain.
Normally he’d change that too - the fact he’s naked save for his pants and Tom hasn’t even taken off his glasses, but he finds he doesn’t mind - likes it, even - especially when Tom crowds his back against the sheets and kisses him deeply, nips at his mouth when he pulls back and watches as it reddens.
He tries to half-heartedly regain some control over the situation, pushes up on his elbows and goes to suck at the column of his former teacher’s throat, but Tom just pushes him back by the chin, groaning when Stuart sucks his thumb into his mouth.
“You’ll be the death of me.” He says, sighing, and Dakin instantly remembers the accident - thinks, I almost was- before deciding that no, such introspection has no right to encroach on what he hopes to be a rather satisfying afternoon fuck, so he sucks, tracing his tongue around the nail.
When he looks up through his lashes, Tom shivers, grinds his hips down again in rough, circular movements and yes, that’s more like it.
When he hears Irwin finally, fucking finally undo his trousers, he shudders with satisfaction, smugness only intensifying when Tom takes his hand from where it is trapped and presses it to the open fly his trousers.
But-
All of a sudden, the thumb in his mouth feels rather inadequate. He lets go of it and tries not to let how empty his mouth feels bother him, especially when he can feel how hard Irwin in through the thin cotton of his boxers. When he rubs his thumb upwards and brushes over the head of his cock, he can feel the moisture there.
Stuart smirks, pushes upwards and moans, unafraid of showing off.
He yanks his other hand free and sits further up sharply, nearly knocking Irwin off balance.
“Bloody hell!” he curses, trying to regain balance.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Stuart replies, knowing he’s pushing it, being self-assured and cocky, just to see if he can get a rise out of his lover.
It’s probably why Tom feels absolutely no guilt when he drags his still wet thumb downwards, across his chest, and circles it firmly around a nipple.
Stuart flinches back as though burnt, the hand that had found its way into Irwin’s boxers tightens on his cock reflexively.
The sound he just made was most definitely not a strangled moan.
Irwin looks at him like he’s won something, which isn’t right at all, so he redoubles his efforts, tightening his hand around Irwin’s cock again, twisting his wrist slightly at the head and, to his credit, he does lose a little focus, hand stilling, colour rising in his cheeks.
Stuart keeps eye contact, licks his lips and keeps going.
(Distantly, it occurs to him that their encounter will probably always be like this, a battle of some kind, if not of wit.)
The thought is promptly lost, though, when Irwin regains focus and wrenches his hand away and repeats the motion and -
Fucking hell.
The thrum of pleasure that washes over him is so intense it makes his toes curl a little, makes his hips push up against Irwin’s, seeking pressure.
He still has that fucking expression - the cat that got the sodding cream - and when he leans down and says could you get off on just that?, it only gets smugger.
‘Fuck off!’ Stuart replies, glares up mutinously, but it’s lost when Irwin rubs over the nub again - fuck, both this time, in rough circles at the same time he pushes his hips down.
Irwin bends down over him, still keeping up the movement of his hips - and bloody hell, his back arches at that trying to press impossibly closer, to just get more- and their lips are almost brushing now, millimetres apart.
“Come on. I know you can come like this.”
Something in his tone is nearly mocking, and for some reason that isn’t a bad thing.
“I haven’t even touched you properly.” He tuts, and chooses that exact moment to drag the edges of his nails against the reddened flesh between his fingertips, and Stuart can’t help the sound he makes then, heat curling at the base of his spine.
‘Fuck, fuck, sir.’ He says, completely unintentionally, but it makes Irwin grind down particularly viciously, makes him pinch abruptly at Stuart’s nipples again, and god, he really could come apart just like this. The feeling is so intense now that it’s almost painful; nerves skittering at every rub across his chest.
“Can I come? Please, please, sir, fuck-“ He can hear himself say, and it sounds foreign - he’s never begged to come in his lif- Oh, god-
‘Yes, come on, do it.’ Irwin pants, but he’s stilled and fucking hell, Stuart was so close, can feel his orgasm rippling under his skin and-
Irwin licks one of his thumbs, brings it back to his nipple, and swipes across just once, and that’s it, he isn’t so much tipped as thrown over the edge, out of it enough not to care that he’s whimpering against Irwin’s mouth, that he’s rubbing himself off and coming in his boxers just from having his nipples rubbed, that he’s -
God, fucking hell -
He can barely think, his breath coming unevenly as he comes down, whimpering at the friction against his spent cock when Irwin moves from astride him, pushes his hair back.
Stuart nerve endings still feel alight. He can feel how hard Tom still is beside him, but Jesus, he’s too dazed to even think, let alone help out just yet.
Tom kisses his forehead.
“You okay?”
Stuart can only nod, unable to find it in himself to care when Tom clings, arm slung over his sticky waist.