If You Were There, You’d Know
Ξ August 25th, 2007 | → | ∇ fanfic, nc17, slash |
Title: If You Were There (You’d Know)
Author: Astrothsknot
Fandom: Primeval
Rating: NC17, slash
Pairing: Cutter/Captain Ryan
Disclaimer: Not mine, Adrian Hodges and Tim Haines.
A/N I started watching and within ten minutes I had 2 slash pairings. Spoilers for ep 1
Nick Cutter sits in his flat, nursing his fifth whisky. He’s broke out the Glengoyne, the good stuff. He figures he deserves it.
He plays the five pictures of Helen over and over on the TV, constant loop. She’s smiling in the pictures, can’t believe she’s there.
He knows that feeling.
The doorbell goes. Cutter leans back in his chair, ignoring it.
Whoever’s on the other side of the door isn’t for giving up. “Fuck off!” Cutter yells, aware that he’s slurring slightly. Are they leaning on that bell or what?
“Cutter! It’s Ryan.”
The Scot can hear the-silver-spoon-up-his-arse diction and just now he wants nothing more than to punch the twat in the jaw.
“Let me in! I’m not leaving here, so let me in.”
Cutter might get the first hit, but there’s no way he’d get the second. Or the third. Then again the bastard owes him. “Awright! A’m comin’!” His accent always comes out when he’s drunk or tired. What do celebs in The Priory call it? Tired and emotional.
Course he’s fucking tired and emotional. He’s just found out what happened to his wife.
He opens the door and Ryan’s there. It takes him a moment to recognise the SAS man. “You’re in civvies,” Cutter slurs.
“You’re drunk,” Ryan says, just a statement as he pushes past Cutter. He looks around the flat, sees the photos of Helen Cutter on the TV. “I still can’t believe we were there.”
“I need tae for the pain. My head’s killin’ me.” Cutter takes a gulp of his whisky. “I can’t believe I let you talk me out of looking for her.”
“Sorry about that, but needs must. And I didn’t stop you. I just refused to leave you. Don’t put this on me.” Ryan looks pointedly at the bottle. “You’re a very bad host.”
Cutter gestures in the direction of the bottle. “Help yersel.”
Ryan does, pouring himself a generous measure in a mug. He takes a sip before saying, “At least you know what happened to her. You can get some -”
“Closure?” Sneers Cutter, likes it’s a dirty word. “No, I just get more questions. You bask in the wonder of 200 fucking million years ago. My Helen is still missing.”
“How long has Helen been gone?” Ryan leans back in his seat.
“8 years. You know, it never stops hurting, but it comes and it goes. Sometimes it goes enough for me to fuck someone else, I mean 8 years and she wouldnae have wanted me to waste my life pining for her, but….fuck…” Cutter’s voice trails off and he throws back the rest of his whisky. He pushes his glass over to Ryan.
Ryan looks at him for a moment, then pours. “What number’s that?”
Cutter shrugs. “Fucked if I know. You know wit makes it worse?”
“No.”
“I was there, where Helen stood and all I could think about was ‘Holy shit! I’m in the Jurassic era!’ Ma Helen was there and aw I can think aboot is fucking dinosaurs and Darwin.” The grief and agony are plain on his face.
“You didn’t know she’d been there at that point.”
“Fuck off. This -” Cutter gestures to the TV. “It’s ripped everything open. Like she just went yesterday. You married?”
Ryan’s taken aback by the sudden change in the conversation. “Not anymore. She didn’t like being an Army wife, so she found herself a nice, boring civil servant.”
“Bad luck.” Cutter sounds genuinely sorry. He rubs absently at the back of his head.
“It’s a few years ago. I’m over it now.” Ryan has got through his whisky surprisingly fast. He pours himself some more.
“Why are you here?” Asks Cutter.
“You were there. I was there. The bloody Jurassic Era, Cutter. Dinosaurs! I can’t get my head around it -”
“And you think I can? Maybe if you hadn’t clocked me with a handgun!” Cutter jabs his glass in Ryan’s direction for emphasis.
Ryan chucks back the rest of the whisky, stands up. “Fine! I hit you, what? Three times? I’ll give you three free shots and we’ll call it even.”
Cutter stands up, weaving slightly. Ryan squares his shoulders.
And that’s when Cutter sees the freaked look at the back of Ryan’s eyes. This guy’s been in Kuwait, Afghanistan, Basra, seen Christ knows what and yet, this? He can’t deal with.
Cutter pulls back his arm and throws the punch. He feels it connect with Ryan’s cheek as he follows the punch, he’s way too drunk and stumbles into the soldier.
It’s not his fist that connects with Ryan’s face next. It’s his mouth, in an ugly, heated tangle of lips and tongues and he gets a guilty pang as he realises that Ryan’s returning the kiss.
Arms and hands don’t know where to rest, sliding and scrabbling along backs and arms and it strikes Cutter that Ryan’s deltoids fit right under his palms. The soldier had carried him over his shoulders and that just goes right to Cutter’s dick. He can feel Ryan’s cock straining against his trousers, rubbing against his. Someone groans and Cutter isn’t quite sure who.
Ryan breaks off the kiss, licking and mouthing his way across harsh stubble as he moves over Cutter’s neck, drops his hand to their dicks. He rubs his own, making sure his knuckles catch the Scotsmans’.
Cutter can feel fire racing out from his cock, out over his skin, connecting up with Ryan’s and tongue and Oh, Jesus, his teeth. The soldier’s started to bite him and he half hopes there’s marks in the morning.
Cutter pushes at Ryan’s jacket, just as Ryan goes for Cutter’s belt and they struggle with the garments, haste and booze killing their co-ordination. It takes several minutes, but eventually they get each other naked. Hands and mouths sear along the skin as it’s revealed, hard, marking it. Neither cares, just as long as they can feel and there’s more skin than hands and mouths can reach as they rush to fill the void left by passing touch.
They’ll be bruised and sore in the morning.
Cutter bites Ryan’s nipple, hands digging into his arse and his thighs, pressing painfully into the muscles. Ryan’s fingers are buried in the other man’s hair and he’s hissing with the pleasure. Fuck…yeah…there.
Cutter brings one of his hands round to Ryan’s dick, begins to run a firm hand up and around it. The soldier growls and hauls him up, kissing him hard and rough, teeth hitting off each other, he’s trying so much to get right down inside him.
Cutter pumps and twists his hand steadily as Ryan flexes his hips into the other man’s hand. He feels drunk and high and he can’t believe he’s doing this. Cutter breaks off the kiss, meets Ryan’s eyes for a moment. He figures that dark and deadly look must have been the one that enemy soldiers took to their graves.
It should scare him. But right now, with his hand fisted around Ryan’s cock, it doesn’t. It just makes something in his lower back begin to coil.
Forehead to forehead, drop their eyes to look as Ryan’s dick thickens and his balls tighten. A few more pulls and he comes over Cutter’s hand, his stomach. Cutter milks him through it, until Ryan pulls his head up and kisses him, deep and wet.
“You’re still hard,” he murmurs. “Let me…”
“I want tae fuck ye,” Cutter slurs, voice heavy with lust and whisky. “A want tae bend you er that chair and shag the arse off ye.”
Ryan swallows, nods. They kiss some more as they back up to the settee, Ryan turning round as his arse hits the top. He bends over, realising that the pictures of Helen are still playing on the TV. Ryan shuts his eyes.
Cutter drops to his knees, parts the cheeks of other man’s arse and starts swirling his tongue around the puckered flesh. He works his tongue in and around, leaving the skin glistening with saliva and the man under him squirming and pushing back against him. It takes him several minutes to get to where he’s satisfied, before he stands up and pushes into Ryan roughly.
Cutter slides all the way in. Saliva’s not that good a lube and he knows that Ryan’s going to be feeling it, feel his dick dragging on the flesh. Ryan’s arse is pulsing, trying to expel the intruder. His dick is catching on the moist walls inside Ryan, kissing one side and then another. There’s more freedom in an arse than a fanny, notes Cutter absently. It’s not unpleasant, just different.
He begins to thrust hard now, he’s desperate to come and he can feel it tight in his lower back and in his balls. Cutter’s watching the TV, with the same five pictures of Helen, playing over and over. He knows that Ryan’s seeing the same thing and wonders if he thinks he’s fantasizing that Ryan’s arse is Helen’s cunt, that the sharp hips he’s clutching are the same as Helen’s soft curves.
He might be watching his wife, but it’s Ryan he’s fucking. His hips piston harder and faster, forcing his way into Ryan, deeper and deeper, until he can’t take it any more. His dick spasms and he collapses down over Ryan’s back, gasping like he’s ran a marathon.
“I need a drink,” he whispers. Ryan just about nods, reaching over to grab the bottle. They sink down the back of the settee, sharing the bottle between them.
Ryan starts laughing.
“What?” Asks Cutter. “What’s funny?”
“We had our very own Walking with Dinosaurs going on. Fucking dinosaurs, with big, pointy teeth!” Ryan splutters on his whisky.
Cutter takes the bottle from him, swigs. “I guess you had to be there.”
But he’s grinning.
