fredbassett | Fic, Keeping Pets, Stephen/Ryan, Slash, 18

Title : Keeping Pets
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Stephen/Ryan
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue. No critters harmed in the making of this fic.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Written in response to requests for handcuff!porn (and contains a teeny, weeny bit of relationship plot).
Tags : Fic, Slash, Stephen, Ryan.

“If you don’t let me deal with them now, you’ll be sorry,” said Ryan, lounging on the bed and swigging beer from a can, an amused look on his face.

“I can get them off myself!” protested Stephen, chucking his rucksack into the corner of the cheap B & B room that was all the Home Office budget would stretch to on this particular jaunt.

“Bollocks.”

“Yeah, there are probably some there as well, but I’d still rather do it myself.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Ryan lifted his eyebrows archly and grinned at his lover.

“No, I bloody well don’t. You’ll tickle.”

Ryan sighed. “Hart, I will not deliberately tickle you. Promise.”

Stephen snorted. “The operative word in that sentence, Ryan, was deliberately. But it won’t stop you doing it accidentally. And then I’ll wriggle, and then the bloody heads’ll come off, and I’ll end up having to get Ditzy to cut ‘em out, like last time. And I’ll be left with lumps.”

“You’re coming dangerously close to sounding petulant, darling,” commented the Special Forces captain, grinning even more broadly. “Now take your clothes off and get on the sodding bed or I’ll be forced to get rough with you.”

At any other time, Stephen Hart would have risen to the occasion, both literally and metaphorically, but at the moment, after the day he’d had, he just wanted to get this over with so he could relax in the shower. Ryan was right, and they both knew it, but he really did hate being tickled. And his lover could be an untrustworthy bastard at times.

With a heavy sigh, Stephen started to strip.

Ryan watched, enjoying the way Hart pulled the shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it, mussing up his black hair in a way that made the soldier want to run his fingers through it and nuzzle him behind the ears. The T-shirt followed, sending the hair even further into disarray, and exposing a smoothly muscled chest with taught nipples that Ryan only had to see to want to lick and kiss. And occasionally bite.

Boots were kicked into a corner. Socks followed. Hart never did manage to strip tidily. Jeans came next, shoved unceremoniously down lean hips and over strong thighs. Ryan shifted slightly on the bed. For once, the guy was wearing pants underneath. Makes a change. They were dumped on top of the rest of the clothes and Hart stood there looking vaguely uncomfortable.

Ryan did his best to pretend he was taking the problem seriously. “There are rather a lot of them,” he acknowledged. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait for Ditzy to get back?”

“No, he tickles worse than you do. And he’s got cold hands.”

The soldier slid off the bed and went to grab another beer from his pack. “So lie down and stop whining.”

“How about you stop drinking until afterwards? I don’t want your hands shaking. Some of these buggers are pretty small. It’ll tickle worse if your hands shake.”

“Hart, stop stalling, shut the fuck up and lie down. Two beers will not make my hands shake. I’m a highly trained professional, remember?” With a can in one hand and a small piece of curved green plastic in the other, Ryan came back over to the bed and eyed up his lover’s body from head to toe, wondering how the hell he was going to keep him still long enough to do what was needed.

The first target was an obvious one. About the size of his little fingernail, halfway up his Hart’s thigh. Black and fat. Ryan settled himself on the bed and started stalking his prey.

Stephen yelped and wriggled and only a large hand clamping down on his hip prevented him shooting off the bed.

“I hadn’t even touched you!”

“It tickled!”

“I hadn’t touched you!” Ryan repeated, torn between amusement and exasperation.

“I’ve changed my mind, I want to keep them.”

“You’re too irresponsible for pets.”

“I am not irresponsible!”

“You have an irregular lifestyle, that’s just as bad. Anyway, there are too many of them. They’ve got to go.”

“I’m fond of them. I’ll feed them and take them for walks. They won’t be any trouble.”

“You’re feeding the bloody things already. I swear that little bugger on your thigh is getting bigger by the second. And there really is one on your balls, you do know that don’t you?”

Stephen yelped again and scooted up against the pillows looking distinctly unhappy.

Why, oh why, did this always have to happen to him? His grandma used to claim it was a sign of sweet blood. And he swore he was getting more susceptible to the damn things every year. He hadn’t been this bad even in South America.

“You’re not going to stay still, are you?”

Stephen looked shifty, but didn’t deny it. Ryan’s grin deepened and he started rooting around in the pockets of his tac vest. With a look of triumph, he brandished a handful of long plastic ties at his lover and went in search of the socks that Stephen had discarded. Ignoring the increasingly vociferous complaints, he twisted one sock around each wrist and secured them in place with a cable grip.

He then located a pair of his own spare socks and did the same with Hart’s ankles. And two minutes later, after a brief but conclusive display of superior strength and inescapable technique, his lover was secured, spread-eagled on the bed, glaring up at him out of midnight blue eyes. Cable ties were always useful, Ryan reflected.

“I want a safe word!”

“Why, you never bloody use them?” Ryan had learnt that the hard way.

“That was sex. This is different!”

“OK. Try saying stop. But only if it really hurts, which it won’t. Now shut the fuck up or we’ll be at this all night.”

With an intent look on his face that he normally reserved for slightly larger quarry, Ryan clamped a hand on Stephen’s thigh and went back to the pursuit of small game.

After five minutes, he’d carried out a search and capture mission on fifteen putative pets.

How the hell one man could manage to attract so many sheep-ticks was beyond Ryan, but Hart managed it every time. After his first few disastrous, and noisy, rescue missions, Ryan had acquired a tick-removal device from a vet friend and now wielded it to good effect. The amazing thing was that the small, forked head on the little piece of curved green plastic actually removed the bloody things with awe inspiring ease, whole and alive, with no pulling at all.

Apparently, ticks always screw their jaws into their victim clock-wise, so all that’s needed to remove them is to position the small forked head around the offending creature, then twist carefully anti-clockwise, and out they come, legs wriggling but alive. Who said he always opted for the Final Solution when dealing with critters? It was a lie. Cutter’d be proud of him, he reflected.

He was even dropping them all into a wriggling heap in the bottom of a plastic glass he’d found in the bathroom, prior to releasing them back into the wild. Actually, that was a lie, he was really intending to flush them down the loo.

Stephen led on the bed, muscles tense, nerves quivering. Oh God, why did this always happen to him whenever they went onto farmland? He was going to end up with bloody Lyme Disease, he knew it. When Ryan started stalking the tick that had attached itself to his left testicle, he very nearly lost it and yelled stop, but instead, he impressed himself by taking a deep breath and letting his lover get on with it.

But he did demand to be told he was a brave boy.

Ryan sighed and obliged. Anything to shut the bugger up and get this over with.

After ten minutes, he clipped off the cable-grips which secured the padded wrist restrains to the bedposts and flipped Hart over to his stomach and quickly re-secured him the other way up. There was no way he was trusting him to lie still while he checked his back. No way.

Eleven ticks later, he announced the end of the mission and sat back to admire his handiwork.

26. A record score. Another primate grooming session successfully completed. How the hell chimps found this relaxing, he’d never know. But then they didn’t have a whinging Stephen Hart to put up with.

And he had Hart still secured to the bed, looked flushed and very, very inviting. Which was a distinct bonus.

Ryan set the plastic container down and started to run his fingers down the other man’s back, hands hard and heavy, nails dragging, rough and compelling, as anything lighter would only earn vociferous accusations of tickling.

Stephen shifted position, rubbing his hips against the bedspread.

Memories of recent complaints from landladies fresh in his mind, Ryan reached over and grabbed Hart’s T shirt from the rumpled pile of clothes and shoved it under the other man’s hips, ignoring protests that the garment was relatively clean. In his view, the term relatively was a very loose one in this context. It actually stank of sweat and grass, from an afternoon chasing ludicrously large herbivores around the fields. But there were times when Hart’s definition of clean coincided suspiciously closely with Connor’s.

“You’d better pick a new safe word,” announced Ryan, rummaging in another pocket of his tac vest in search of the ever-present gun oil.

“Why?”

“Because you’re tied to the bed and I’m going to fuck you. Reason enough?”

Stephen rubbed his rapidly growing erection against the T shirt and grinned. He didn’t know why Ryan bothered. The soldier knew perfectly well he wouldn’t use whatever word he picked. He never did. But it still didn’t stop Ryan insisting, so to humour him, he said, “Tick,” and then went back to squirming prettily, hoping that the Special Forces leader would keep his combat gear on.

Ryan stuck the tip of his finger against the top of the plastic bottle, covering it with just enough oil to make things easy, and then slowly, and with great concentration, he started to finger-fuck the other man,. Hart tensed and strained against the restraints, trying to push backwards, to impale himself more deeply on the probing finger.

“No, don’t you bloody well dare,” warned Ryan. “No moving, or I stop. And no begging, either. Got that?”

Stephen whimpered, but tried to relax, to lie there and take it, without demanding more. Ryan grinned and probed more deeply, watching the muscles bunch up in the other man’s arms as he channelled his efforts into trying rub himself against the bed.

A second finger joined the first and Ryan kept up a slow, deep stroking, knowing exactly what angle to choose to start those small whimpers that Hart employed to such good effect. He checked his watch. Five minutes of this was normally enough to turn the whimpers into full-throated moans, but secured like this, he’d give Hart no more than two minutes before he was begging for more.

He took one more gulp of warm beer and then used his other hand to press down hard on the small of Hart’s back, pushing his hips into the bed and stopping his frantic attempts to rub his cock against the material of the T shirt. “You can try and move now,” he said, helpfully.

“Bastard,” muttered Stephen, knowing his chances of successful movement ranked pretty damn low at the moment, but that didn’t stop him trying.

The sock-padding stopped the plastic ties cutting into his wrists and ankles, but even so, he knew he was likely to end up with friction burns, but it’d be worth it. He’d tightened every muscle in his body and he still couldn’t manage to shift his hips. Christ, Ryan was strong. And oh dear God did he know exactly where to finger him for maximum effect. His breath was coming in sharp pants now and he knew that sweat had started to spring up on his body. And all he could feel was the slow, delicious shift of Ryan’s fingers inside him, slick and hard.

“I thought I said you could try and move, Hart?” remarked Ryan, adding a third finger, without bothering to add more oil. “Don’t you want to play any more?”

The whimpering was starting to sound suspiciously like a dog wheedling for a treat. He could feel Stephen’s attempts at movement, but it wasn’t difficult to prevent them. All he had to do was lean a bit more weight down onto his left hand and that was that. One immobilized lover.

To be precise: one immobilized lover, slick with sweat, tied to the bed, trying to squirm in a way that could only be described as wholly pornographic.

“If you can keep totally quiet for a whole minute, I’ll stay fully dressed when I fuck you ………and I’ll keep my tac-vest on……….Your time starts ………..now …………”

Oh Christ, that really wasn’t playing fair! thought Stephen, barely managing to suppress his moans. Ryan knew bloody well he couldn’t keep quiet while he was being fucked. And like this? He didn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance.

A minute. It’s only sixty seconds. Count them. One, two, ….... .oh shit ……… not there ……… not like that ……… you bastard ………no, don’t start licking my neck ……... ten, eleven, ………….what comes after eleven? No teeth, please, no teeth!

It was all Ryan could do to keep from laughing at the look of fierce concentration on Hart’s face. He’d do anything for the promise of a fuck in full combat gear. A kink that Ryan was always happy to shamelessly exploit. Forty seconds. He was lasting out better than he normally did. Just to make life difficult, Ryan shoved his fingers in faster and deeper and started running his free hand lightly through Hart’s sweat-soaked hair for good measure.

On the count of fifty, he eased his zip down. It looked like Hart was going to make it after all.

Ryan’d had a lot of practice oiling up one handed and his breathing was starting to speed up now, even his own touch felt unusually intense, his hand drifting comfortably up and down his cock as he watched his lover trying to writhe and keep quiet at the same time. An interestingly combination.

Fifty-nine ………sixty. The phrase, coming, ready or not sprang inappropriately to mind as Ryan re-stoppered the plastic bottle and shoved it back in one of his ever-present pockets.

He shifted easily onto his elbows, pressing himself down hard onto Hart’s back, knowing the equipment vest was digging into him, uncomfortable and very, very welcome, but his lover clearly wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping track of time, as he was still biting back any noise, employing what could only be described as grim determination. Ryan wondered how long he’d get away with this phase of the game.

In one smooth controlled movement, he replaced fingers with his cock, and slid home hard and fast.

Stephen’s control broke at exactly that moment, making Ryan bloody glad they hadn’t opened the window. He just hoped the walls were thicker than they looked. Which was probably unlikely.

The tightening of what felt like every muscle in his lover’s body was almost enough to send Ryan straight over the edge.

Two strokes, three, almost there ……… dear God, this was so good it almost hurt …….Ryan was panting hard, his movements fast, urgent, almost desperate. How good could it get? Hart was making his kitten-noises now. That was always enough ……..

“Tick!”

The word broke into Ryan’s brain like a dose of iced water. What the fuck? He rolled off, moving with conditioned speed, grabbing for the small pliers he’d chucked on the bedside table, trying to work out what the hell had gone wrong, analysing his last movements. Not finding the answer. Was it cramp? Had the sodding tac vest been too painful against his lover’s naked back?

In a matter of seconds he’d cut the cable ties from ankles and wrists, grey eyes concerned and uncomprehending. What the hell had he done?

“Tick!”

“It’s OK ……… I’m off you, ……..it’s OK, Hart, what’s the matter, ……..what’ve I done?” His hands were gentle now, soothing, reassuring, as his lover pressed a naked, sweating back frantically against him, demanding comfort and safety. What the fuck had gone wrong with the game? This had never happened before. Normally it was Ryan who had to be the sensible one and call a halt before one of them really did get hurt. “It’s OK, I’ve got you ……….it’s OK.”

“It’s not fucking OK!” yelped Stephen in a voice loaded with outrage. “There’s a fucking tick on the pillow coming to get me! Do something, Ryan! Catch the fucking thing!”

Ryan’s shoulders shook with laughter as he resumed the mantle of protector and made a grab for the offending creature before it could cause even more mayhem, depositing it on top of the rest of its friends and relations. A quick glance in the plastic container told him that they might have had more than one make a break for freedom, but he didn’t think now was a good time to mention this.

“Chuck ‘em out of the window,” said Stephen, still cringing.

“I thought you wanted to keep them as pets?”

“Changed my mind!”

“Then I’ll flush ‘em down the loo.” Ryan slid off the bed and headed off in the direction of the bathroom.

“No! Let them go.”

“Why?”

Because they’ve just managed to prove something to me that deep down I never really believed. “Because Connor will laugh like a drain when he hears the story, and because I owe him one. Go on, chuck ‘em out of the window.”

Ryan grinned. “You’ll owe me a blow-job if I do. Knowing my luck, I’ll end up with the little buggers next, if let ‘em go.”

“I’ll do it if you keep your kit on.”

“Deal.”

“And put the thigh-holster back on.”

Ryan’s chuckle was all the answer Stephen needed.

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Fic, Keeping Pets, Stephen/Ryan, Slash, 18

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