the theories of beautiful young men

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by templemarker

Notes: Dakin/his hand, Dakin/Irwin, for Darwin in Yuletide 2006. Read it there. Thanks to emelerin and minim_calibre for cheerleading, poking, talking, listening, and generally being awesome. This is based on the movie, though really, canon isn’t so different from the play and the film.


Dakin’s hand sneaks below his waist. He has a little room all to his own, though he isn’t in it often. It’s useful enough when he has to do something like read, which he makes a point of doing only as often as is strictly necessary. Most of the time, he leaves the room unoccupied, prefering to warm the beds of most of the available co-eds and a good portion of the unavailable ones in the overly large campus that is the town of Oxford.

Still, it comes in handy sometimes, when he just gets in the mood to be alone. In every sense of the word.

Things are going pretty well for him overall. He still sees Scripps all the time, and everyone likes him here. He’s charmed his lecturers and their teaching assistants, and the work’s interesting enough.

But sometimes, he remembers that frenzied last semester before university with something as close to regret as he can get. He and his buddies, the pearls of their school, talking and joking and learning, their teachers trying to cram every last bit of knowledge into their brains.

Hector. They all still miss Hector.

But Dakin has his own little regrets, ones he doesn’t think about often but missed all the same.

He lies down on his bed, closes his eyes, and thinks of Irwin.

Honestly (and he won’t admit this to anyone, let alone himself), he thinks about Irwin quite a lot of the time when it’s his own hand on his dick in his room at the end of the hall, where the sounds of the bronchial radiator drown out any noises that might escape.

It was a damn shame that Irwin never recalled Dakin’s approach towards him that last day; despite the fact that Dakin had almost, almost a dozen times over, gone up to Irwin to say, “perhaps you’d fancy?” he had never actually done it, which was for the best.

And really, Dakin is fine with the outcome of it all.

But still, he thinks about how it might have been. Sometimes.


Dakin throws Irwin a cocky smile. “Never thought you’d be much for the behind-the-garden-shed. You seemed a bit more…refined that that.”

Irwin returns his grin. “Sometimes, it’s a good idea to give into temptation.”

“And what book did you get that out of?” Dakin says, leaning in to swipe a kiss at Irwin’s lips.

“One I suspect you’ve read,” Irwin laughs breathlessly, his hand snaking around Dakin’s waist to pull him close.

(In his fantasy, Dakin uses his newly-acquired knowledge of the workings between two men, because it is always better that way, to imagine them sure and confident instead of a little terrified and frustrated.)

Dakin’s hand slips down to the front of Irwin’s trousers and grasps the hard length of him, liking the soft rush of breath he hears in response. “Like that, do you?” he says, mouth curving into a pleased smile.

“You know I do,” Irwin says softly (and it is that, that imagine of Irwin whispering, that always makes Dakin come without fail).


“Dakin.” His name is said carefully, like it holds weight, and when he turns, he sees Irwin, looking wary but with eyes alight at the same time.

“Irwin,” he says, smiling, because he would definitely smile in some form or another if he saw Irwin again, he knows it. “What are you doing here?”

“I, er, came to see about a book,” Irwin says, but Dakin knows it for a lie as soon as it passes his lips. “Would you care for a coffee?”

“Yeah, that’d be alright,” Dakin says with ease, and they go.

Over coffee they talk about Sheffield and the other fellows and Hector and Totty, but Dakin knows that all of that is just lead-up to the real reason Irwin is here (because he remembers, Dakin thinks fervently, hand rubbing the length of himself, because he remembers and he wants me).

He puts on his most charming expression and lets his foot rest carefully against Irwin’s own. “Irwin,” he says, catching Irwin’s gaze and watching the way his tongue swipes across his lips nervously, “where are you staying?”

“I have a room,” Irwin starts, and then trails off as if he doesn’t know what to say.

“Would you care to show it to me?” Dakin asks, and it’s a question that doesn’t need an answer. They’re walking, silently and together towards Irwin’s rented room, and they keep stealing touches and brushing against each other.

“It’s much easier now that you’re no longer my pupil,” Irwin says as he licks and bites at Dakin’s chest when they’re sorted in Irwin’s bed.

“I wasn’t your pupil before when I asked you for this,” Dakin says, stretching out so Irwin has more of his skin to touch, and Irwin looks pale and glowing in the half-light from the loo.

“Yes, you were,” Irwin insists.

“But it wouldn’t have stopped you,” Dakin says, his hand stealing down the skin of Irwin’s back.

Irwin looks at him (and Dakin’s hand speeds up, because this is his favorite part, what the whole thing is working towards) and says, “No, it wouldn’t have,” and Dakin smiles like it’s his own victory.


(Dakin’s favorite, the one he comes back to every time, is completely devoid of anything resembling reality. But that’s why its his favorite.)

They’re in a room. It’s got a lot of windows, probably in London or something, and all the furniture is white. It’s definitely the apartment Dakin is going to own one day.

Irwin has his shirt off, and he’s standing against the window like he was the last time they spoke, just the two of them. He has a smattering of freckles across his shoulders and chest, and Dakin thinks about licking them to see what they taste like.

Dakin walks over, and without preamble, kisses him, and Irwin responds by threading a hand through Dakin’s hair to keep him close.

When they pull apart, breathing heavily, Irwin smiles at him and says, “Let’s have some fun.”

(He never bothers thinking about how they get from there to the bed, because when he’s thinking about this, it all tends to go rather fast and he knows the parts he likes best anyway.)

Dakin is lying back on the bed, white sheets crumpling to the floor, and Irwin has his mouth on Dakin’s cock. The thing he’s doing with his tongue makes Dakin form fists against the pillow, toes curling with the wet, hot pressure of it all.

Just before he is about to come, Irwin pulls off and crawls up Dakin’s body to kiss him again, and Dakin moans at the taste of himself in Irwin’s mouth.

“I thought about this when I wasn’t supposed to,” Irwin mumbles into Dakin’s ear, and Dakin bucks up, his cock brushing against Irwin’s in the process. “You thought I forgot, but I never did. The way you walked up to me, the way you told me what you wanted.”

Irwin’s hand strays to Dakin’s cock and starts to fist him, first slowly and then growing faster.

“Now you’ve got it,” Irwin says against Dakin’s mouth, “now it’s yours.”

(The last time Dakin thought of this, he came so hard he striped his own chest, and could only lie on his bed, panting and staring at the ceiling, until his girlfriend knocked loudly at the door and he was startled out of his thoughts. He tries not to think of this one often. It’s better if its only sometimes.)


This time, Dakin comes quickly, the sound of Irwin’s voice still hot in his ear, and as he comes down, still holding his cock and jacking it a little, he thinks he probably should be thinking about something else.

Someone else.

But he’s always done what he wanted, no matter what anyone else thought.

Maybe it’s time he rang home, to see what’s going on back in Sheffield. See if there’s any news he might want to know about.

See if there’s any news he might want to know about.


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