InsaneJournal

The Only Education Worth Having (Harry/Dakin, R)
Title: The Only Education Worth Having
Pairing: Harry/Dakin (HP/History Boys crossover)
Rating: R
Word Count: 587
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.
Summary: Harry's never asked why, when they're fucking, sometimes, Stuart calls him sir.
Notes: Originally written as a teenyfic gift for slasheuse from floweringjudas with the prompt Teachers. Originally posted on LJ on 6/24/07.




Harry's never asked why, when they're fucking, sometimes, Stuart calls him sir (oh yes sir, please sir, sir don't stop, I'm coming sir). He dismisses it as submissive fantasy (for as loud and as brash and as dominant as Stuart is in the rest of his life, he's decidedly uncertain, submissive, in bed, letting Harry take control, hold him down, fuck his frustrations out on him).

And Harry still chalks it up to pure fantasy when Stuart asks him to part his hair on the side and put on his old round glasses while they fuck, to don his school tie, silk that brushes against the mass of dark hair on Stuart's chest as he writhes beneath Harry, his expression contorting from wicked grin to purest pleasure.

Stuart can't get enough when they do it like this. Tell me you like me, please, say it, sir, and his eyes are screwed shut the whole time.

Eventually Harry decides he's not entirely certain he likes this. It's more than inexplicable fantasy—it has to be, from how particular Stuart is about the details, from how he can't get off anymore without Harry telling him he's doing a good job of it. It's arrested fucking development is what it is, and Harry's got to know why.

And so they argue. And it escalates. And Stuart tries to play it cool at first, and it's the side of him that Harry hates the most, and Harry mocks him before he can stop himself—oh sir, oh sir—and Stuart could kill him with those eyes if Stuart was a wizard. But wandless magic aside the look's damned powerful and Harry stumbles in his mockery.

Two days later Stuart explains about his lost chance and though he's still trying to be cool about it Harry knows it meant more to him than he'll ever let on. Knows it from the truncated sentences, the self-deprecating laughter.

Knows it because sir slips out at orgasm that night, filters down from Stuart's subconscious to Harry's ears and Harry isn't even certain Stuart knows he's said it.

It takes a month for Stuart to reciprocate the question. Harry hasn't as many issues in bed as Stuart has, but it's been a month out of twelve that it's been all about Stuart, which is usual, and Harry could have told him innumerable times, but he hasn't, and he doesn't know why. It's easy to say—you're not the only one with issues, you know—but Harry lets it go. Waits. He's all right.

And he doesn't know why he waits, why he's all right, except that he feels a strange inexplicable solace in temporarily plugging the hole in Stuart's heart that he'll never admit is there.

But they're both drunk and they're both randy, and Stuart's palming Harry's prick through his jeans and slopping his whisky on the sofa, and he asks with that patent wicked grin if Harry ever had a sir of his own.

Harry never expected reciprocation and he hasn't though of it for so long, but memory floods back—light brown hair greying at the temples, patched robes and a gentle voice, hurried glances and stolen touches too soon taken away, never brought to fruition—and he's helpless.

And they don't even make it to the bedroom, for Harry's too busy biting his lip and fucking Stuart's hand and crying out—oh god Professor—