fredbassett | Fic Just Call Me George, Becker/Ryan, 18

Title : Just Call Me George
Authors : lukadreaming and fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Becker/Ryan, the Becker Family
Disclaimer : Not ours (except the OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Written for

bigtitch for the

primeval_denial Secret Santa, for this pairing and a variety of the prompts, including cooking (unfortunately not of the vegetarian variety), snuggling, snogging and naughty boys.

Ryan didn't do Christmas. Where possible, he worked over the festive period, even if it was only turning up at the base to bang a few heads together when the youngsters got tanked up and over-exuberant. If that was a no-go, he often went hiking in the Brecon Beacons, well away from all the commercialised shit. No one bothered to invite him over for the day any more, as he'd rebuffed so many invites over the years. He now just nodded when Ditzy told him what a miserable fucker he was. At least it meant they were in agreement on something relating to the so-called season of goodwill.

So against a backdrop of his well-known Scrooge-like tendencies, Ryan wasn't expecting such an over-reaction from Becker when he told him that no, he wouldn't be accompanying him to his parents' place for Christmas.

His lover folded his arms over his chest and treated Ryan to the sort of look that was normally reserved for people who barged in front of him in a supermarket queue.

“You are not staying here by yourself and that’s final. We talked about this months ago and you said you’d come with me. I’m holding you to that.”

Ryan glared back. To be quite precise, Becker had talked about it and Ryan had grunted in a non-committal way that had clearly been mistaken for agreement. At the time, Ryan hadn’t actually had any expectation that they’d still be seeing each other by Christmas, so forward planning – something his lover was disconcertingly fond of – hadn’t seemed like that much of a big deal back in September. But now Becker had him wriggling like a worm on a hook and he clearly wasn’t going to let Ryan off easily.

“Your family want to see you, not me.” He was scraping the barrel for an excuse and he knew it but Ryan had never been one to give in to superior force even when it was staring at him out of a disconcertingly direct pair of hazel eyes. “I’ll just be in the way.”

“Nice try, dice, sunshine. I was talking to Beverley on the phone last night. He says mother has got a room ready for us already and I’m not ringing her up and telling her that my boyfriend’s a miserable fucker who’s doing his best to provoke me into an argument so he can get out of coming home with me.”

"What's with the girls' names? You're not going to produce three sisters called Vincent, Reginald and Roderick, are you?"

Becker rolled his eyes. "I have one sister, her name's Roberta, and she'd hand you your balls on a plate, just for the fun of it."

"Do you call her Bob?"

Becker looked genuinely puzzled. "What on earth would we do that?”

“Haven’t you ever seen Blackadder?”

“Stop changing the bloody subject.” Becker’s eyes narrowed. “Tom, this matters to me. I told you at the beginning that if all you wanted was a quick shag then you’d picked the wrong guy.”

There was a long silence and then Becker turned away, but not before Ryan had caught a look of genuine hurt in his lover’s eyes. Ryan was in the wrong, and he knew it. And Becker’s use of his first name had brought home to him that he was skating on dangerously thin ice. They’d been together four months now. Practically a lifetime when set against the length of Ryan’s previous relationships.

Ryan stared uncomfortably at Becker’s rigid back. He knew it was up to him to offer an olive branch but he was now well out of his comfort zone. “Is it really that important?” he said eventually.

“Yes. If you must know, I spoke to my mother last week and told them we’d both be with them on Christmas Eve and I really don’t relish the grilling I’d get from her if I turn up by myself. She could give the Spanish Inquisition some tips. Christmas is one of the few times I get to see my family. Even dad makes a point of taking time off from the farm then.”

"I thought your old man was ex-army?"

Becker shook his head. "Everyone assumes that. Nope, gentleman farmer who owns half of Hampshire."

"You have warned them about us?"

"Of course. Like I said, they’re expecting us and they know we’re not just good friends. Anyway, Pater's only interested in your acreage and Mater's probably already trying to trace your pedigree back to the Norman Conquest."

"She'll have a job. And you don't really call them…? Bastard!" Becker's bone-dry humour took some getting used to and Ryan still fell into nearly every trap that got laid for him.

"And we're getting the honeymoon suite."

"What?" Ryan's head was starting to ache.

Becker beamed smugly, clearly scenting victory. "Wait and see!"

*~*~*~

Ryan's previous acquaintance with Hampshire had been confined to rugby matches at the United Services ground in Portsmouth, followed by drunken nights out in the dives of Pompey – of which there were many. So he hadn't seen the rural side of the county before. And judging by Becker's running commentary as they drove down narrow lanes rimed with frost, Becker senior did indeed seem to own most of it.

"So does he actually get his hands dirty, or has he got minions to do that for him?"

"A lot of the land's rented out to tenant farmers, but Pater's in control of the mothership…"

"You sound like Geek Boy."

Becker flipped him the finger, somehow still controlling the car as it bounced down an even narrower lane, sending water splashing up from the puddles. Even without their leaves, the trees seemed to form a tunnel overhead.

"Bloody hell, is this a mystery tour?"

"Nearly there."

And suddenly the trees thinned out and Ryan swore under his breath at the sight of the most chocolate box-perfect thatched and half-timbered building he'd ever seen.

"Looks pretty but it's a bugger to heat and costs a king's ransom to insure with all the sodding thatch and timbers," said Becker, pulling the car in alongside an ancient battered Land Rover. "You'll be immensely grateful that we've got the honeymoon suite. It might be cold in there but trust me, the rest of the house is worse.”

Ryan got out of the car, stretching the kinks from his back and shoulders. As he did so, the front door to the house opened and three large dogs came streaking across the gravel to welcome them.

Becker was laughing and making a fuss of the animals – Ryan, who'd never owned a pet in his life, had no idea what sort they were, apart from being bouncy and hairy.

"Hello, Hils. Good journey?"

"Hello, Pa. Fine, thanks. This is Tom. Tom, this is my father."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Ryan, confused for a moment by Becker calling him by his first name.

"And you, Captain. Come along in. Your mother's just brewing some tea. I'd better get on – Bev and I need to move the ewes from the bottom field before the bad weather sets in."

"Need a hand?"

"No thanks. Young Hawkins and his cousin are helping out at the moment. I'll see you lads later." With a brief nod, Mr Becker strode off, the dogs trotting in his wake.

Ryan felt slightly shell-shocked. He could see that Mr Becker was old-school formal from the top of his immaculately-cut greying hair to his expensive, authentically muddy wellies. And he could also see just what Becker would look like when he was in his 50s. Fortunately it wasn’t a bad look.

"Can’t your dad leave that sort of thing to the hired help?' asked Ryan, hauling their rucksacks out of the back of the car.

Becker looked shocked. "Good God, no! He and Bev have got a couple of local guys who help out, but the two of them pretty much run the show. My mother's the estate manager and deals with the tenant farmers."

Mrs Becker – call me George – was as much of a surprise as her husband and not just because of her name. She was a small woman, coming barely up to her son’s shoulder, dressed in a Fair Isle sweater at least three sizes two large for her and a pair of faded jeans tucked into sheepskin boots. Brown hair lightly flecked with grey was held back in a loose and untidy ponytail. She looked far too ethereal to be a farmer’s wife, but according to Becker, she was quite capable of hefting a recalcitrant ram twice her body weight into the sheep dip.

Ryan mentally cursed Becker for leaving him alone with his mother while he took their rucksacks up to what had been dubbed the honeymoon suite, but all Mrs Becker did was wave her hand at one of the mismatched chairs set around a massive oak table and ask, “Tea and scones?”

“Lovely, thanks. We skipped breakfast so we could get a head start before the traffic built up on the roads.”

A plateful of large, brown scones was promptly deposited in front of him along with damson jam and clotted cream both in squat earthenware pots. All were obviously homemade. Ryan knew he was going to need some serious exercise to work this lot off, but hopefully their accommodation would live up to its name. He very much doubted his lover would agree to any other sort of exercise while they were here. Becker was a lazy bastard when he was off duty.

Life in the Becker household appeared to revolve around the kitchen. An enormous Aga dominated one wall and as far as he could tell, George – and what was it with this family and their first names? – was preparing enough food to satisfy an entire regiment. Wielding a knife that looked sharp enough to meet even Blade’s exacting requirements she proceeded to expertly bone a huge turkey, followed in quick succession by a large chicken, a goose and a duck. Then, to Ryan’s utter amazement, each bird was deftly inserted inside the next one up in size.

In response to Ryan’s wide-eyed expression, Becker commented, “Mother’s Christmas special.”

It looked like something that wouldn’t have been out of place at a Roman banquet and in spite of the three scones he’d just scoffed, Ryan’s mouth was already watering at the prospect.

An hour later – after Ryan had been the victim of the sort of grilling that he’d previously only been subjected to after a SERE exercise – Becker’s father and his brother clattered into the kitchen, pausing only to leave their boots in the small back porch and hang up their jackets.

Beverley Becker was the spitting image of his younger brother only with slightly longer hair. He treated Ryan to an appraising glance and a bone-crushing handshake. After that, conversation largely revolved around sheep, something Ryan knew bugger all about, but at least it meant he could slide gratefully out of the limelight.

His lover stood up. “Come on, let’s unpack before Bev gets a chance to treat you to the pedigree of the entire herd.”

Bev flipped him the finger, a gesture that clearly ran in the family, and grinned at Ryan. “Ask him nicely and he’ll show you his favourite shotgun.”

“So this is where his love affair with guns started, is it?”

“Yep. That’s why he ended up in the army. He got thrown out of Sunday School, so the Church wasn’t an option.”

“He isn’t religious, dear,” Mrs Becker commented, knife in hand, casting around the kitchen in search of something else to disembowel.

“That didn’t stand in the vicar’s way,” her husband said. “Have you told him about the carol service tonight, Hils?”

Becker sighed. “I was drawing a discreet veil over that until he’s had time to settle in. Tom doesn’t do religion.”

“Shouldn’t let that get in the way of a good sing-song. Your mother has made half a hundredweight of mince pies for afterwards, plus several gallons of mulled wine.”

Ryan laughed and surprised himself by sliding an arm around Becker’s waist and giving him a light hug. “I used to go to the carol service with my gran. I don’t mind, honestly.”

Becker’s eyebrows met his hairline at speed but there was no mistaking his relief. Ryan followed him up a set of dark oak stairs at the back of the cottage and onto a wide landing with a sloping roof. A door at one end led into a surprising spacious room nestled under the thatch. An enormous bed covered with a bright patchwork quilt dominated the room, flanked by two low bedside tables set with small table lamps that cast a warm honey glow. A large carved bedding chest and an equally dark, ornate chest of drawers and a wardrobe that looked bigger than some of the army quarters Ryan had suffered in his time completed the furniture. Becker had already put their clothes away so there was little else to do other than pull his lover close for a kiss and a cuddle. For someone who spent a lot of his time looking like he had a stick up his arse, Becker was actually a closet cuddler.

They fell backwards onto the bed, hands roaming amidst laughter and kisses. Becker tasted of damson jam, hardly surprising after the number of scones he’d gorged. Ryan delved deeply into his lover’s mouth while he pulled Becker’s shirt out of his jeans and ran his hands over the lean hard body that he never tired of exploring.

“How soundproof are the floors?” he asked, making short work of Becker’s belt and the fastening on his jeans.

“Enough. And the way my family talk the chances of them hearing anything less than a clog-dancing elephant are remote.”

Ryan grinned. He hauled Becker’s jeans and underwear down over his slim hips, took his half-hard cock in his mouth and started to suck. Becker groaned and bucked up into Ryan’s mouth. In a matter of moments Ryan could taste the salty tang of pre-come and he knew it wouldn’t be long before Becker shot his load. Ryan pulled back and rasped his tongue over Becker’s slit while stroking his sensitive balls. Becker gasped, stifling the noise with his fist, and came. Ryan swallowed every drop and then crawled up the bed to share Becker’s taste with him.

Two long-fingered hands went to work on Ryan’s clothing and then started to stroke his already hard cock. Ryan rolled onto his back, not wanting to leave stains on the immaculate quilt. Becker tugged him quickly to climax, then proceeded to lick the come off Ryan’s stomach and nuzzle at the trail of hair that led down to Ryan’s groin.

Ryan, always ticklish after an orgasm, pulled Becker up into his arms and claimed his lips again, tongues tangling lazily while the small after-shocks of climax ran through their bodies.

It looked the like honeymoon suite was definitely going to live up to its name.

*~*~*~

“Nice to see you, Hilary,” the young vicar said with a smile.

The man looked barely out of short trousers, no doubt a sign of Ryan’s own advancing age, but at least he hadn’t yet reached the stage of thinking that generals looked young.

Becker shook his outstretched hand. “Adam, this is my partner, Tom Ryan.”

The vicar’s smile broadened. “Nice to meet you, Tom.”

Ryan smiled and nodded, and they moved inside the church. Becker was right when he’d said that Ryan didn’t do religion, and neither did Becker for that matter. But despite that, Ryan couldn’t deny that the inside of the church looked great, decked out with holly, red berries shining in the candlelight, surrounded by copious quantities of ivy and other greenery. The entire place seemed to be wholly lit by candles, the stained glass of the windows glowing like brightly coloured jewels.

They’d walked to the church along a narrow pathway that skirted the edge of the Beckers’ land. A light covering of snow now dusted the ground and frosted the hedgerows. They’d carried torches, but the moon was nearly full and cast its pale light from a black velvet sky. They’d been joined for supper by Becker’s sister, Roberta, a lively 22-year-old who clearly adored both her elder brothers and seemed quite happy to welcome Ryan into the fold.

The church was packed and Ryan found himself crammed into a pew between Becker and Roberta. Becker’s father had been right when he’d intimated that religion would take second place to a damned good sing-song. The sermon was short and to the point, emphasising the importance of friendship and treating others the way you would want to be treated, sentiments that Ryan could easily get behind. The carols were all childhood favourites and Ryan sang along happily, the words to Once in Royal David’s City, I Saw Three Ships and The Holly and the Ivy coming easily to his lips. He thought about those days, nearly 30 years ago when he’d accompanied his gran to church on Christmas Eve and thought of the woman who’d brought him up after his parents had gone their separate ways, both making promises that were never kept.

Ryan blinked back tears at the memory, glad of the dim light. A hand slipped into his and gave a light squeeze. Ryan stroked the back of Becker’s hand with his thumb and enjoyed the warmth of his lover’s body pressed up against his.

After the service, the congregation moved over to the nearby village hall, also decked out to resemble a shrubbery. Mince pies and mulled wine were handed out and Ryan found himself on one side of the hall in conversation with a hearty woman who bred basset hounds. When Ryan admitted his ignorance on the subject of dog breeding and indeed all things canine, she made it her mission to enlighten him. Fortunately, Becker’s mother took pity of him and hauled him off for more introductions, sparing him from the remainder of a lesson on how to deal with anal gland problems in hounds.

“Sorry about that,” Becker’s mother muttered, sounding more amused than sorry. “Milly Frobisher is obsessed with her damn dogs. I’m sure she’s never happier than when she’s squeezing some poor creature’s bum. I thought I’d better get you away before she offered a demonstration.”

Another round of introductions followed, including one to a man who appeared to have a ferret in each pocket of his Barbour jacket. No one Ryan met seemed remotely surprised that he was in a same-sex relationship with the son of one of the county’s biggest landowners. News appeared to travel fast and he soon came to realise that the village jungle-drums could no doubt be heard the length and breadth of Hampshire. The easy acceptance he was met with was also explained by the sight of the vicar sharing a very public kiss with a man only a couple of years younger than Ryan under the large sprig of mistletoe hung up in the middle of the hall.

The mulled wine appeared to be heavily laced with brandy and by the time they made their way back across the moonlit fields Ryan had to admit to being pleasantly tipsy as well as more than a little bemused by the sort of village eccentricities that Becker seemed to take wholly for granted.

More mulled wine and mince pies were eaten back at the farmhouse and it was well after midnight when Ryan and Becker finally made their way up to bed. The room was chilly but someone – presumably Becker’s mum – had put a couple of hot water bottles with stripy knitted covers in between the sheets. The cold was a good excuse for more snuggles, not that either of them needed much of an excuse.

Ryan rested his head on Becker’s shoulder and ran his fingers through the cloud of dark hair on Becker’s chest.

Becker kissed the top of his head. “So you survived Milly Frobisher?”

Ryan groaned at the memory. “Only bloody just. What the fuck is an anal gland anyway, and why does it need squeezing?”

Becker laughed. “Trust me, you don’t want to know. But from the way she was ogling your arse, it was pretty clear she would have quite happily got better acquainted with it.”

“I’ve got a nice arse. You’re said so often enough.”

“Smug git.”

Without warning, Becker flipped Ryan over onto his stomach and gave the arse in question a light swat. Ryan wriggled, rubbing a growing erection against the sheets. Becker’s hand slid over his flesh and dipped into his cleft, trailing a finger lightly over his hole. A finger pushed inside him and crooked to stroke over his prostate.

Ryan yelped quietly, stifling the noise in the pillow. He was sensitive there and Becker knew it, but that didn’t stop his lover pressing against the hard nub inside him and sending sparks flaring along Ryan’s cock.

Becker chuckled and withdrew his hand to reach for the tube of lubricant he’d left on the bedside table. “Count yourself lucky my name isn’t Millicent Daphne Frobisher.”

Two slick fingers wormed their way into Ryan’s body and proceeded to stretch him with the sort of single-minded efficiency that Becker brought to bear on most things, including making love.

Ryan pushed back, trying – and failing – to bite back a most unmanly whine of frustration when Becker withdrew his questing fingers.

“You’re an impatient little sod.”

“I didn’t rip your clothes off in the church and shag you over the back of a pew.”

“How very restrained of you. I imagine our esteemed vicar might have quite enjoyed the show. Pater might have warned me that he’s come out since I was last at home. I damn nearly spat mince pie over Roberta when I saw him snogging his boyfriend under the mistletoe.”

Becker’s fingers slipped inside his body again and went back to teasing his prostate. A third finger was added and then Becker brought his thumb into play and squeezed.

“Think yourself lucky you’re not a basset hound,” Becker commented, ignoring Ryan’s protest. “I was just demonstrating what it was like having your anal glands squeezed. You wanted to know.”

“No I bloody well didn’t,” Ryan grumbled. “Now stop being a prick-tease and fuck me.”

Becker tut-tutted but obligingly rolled on top of Ryan, nudging his knees apart. A moment later, Becker’s cock had taken the place of his fingers and was slowly opening him up. Pinned down by his lover’s weight, Ryan couldn’t do much more than lie there and let himself be thoroughly fucked. Becker took his time, pushing in to Ryan’s body with long, deep strokes, raking his prostate with every pass.

It felt bloody good, but the last thing Ryan wanted to do was leave stains on the crisp white sheets and if Becker carried on pounding his arse, that was going to be a very real possibility.

Clearly divining his thoughts, Becker pulled out and flipped Ryan over again, this time onto his back. With Ryan’s legs settled over his thighs, Becker thrust back in again with no further preliminaries, setting up a hard, fast rhythm. Ryan tried to drop one hand down to stroke his own cock, but Becker quickly pinned both his wrists to the bed.

“No way, sunshine, I want to watch you come just from being fucked.”

“Bastard.”

Becker smirked at him and shifted position slightly so that he could nail Ryan’s prostate with every thrust. Ryan bit his lower lip to stop himself crying out. Becker might be right about the soundproof properties of the wooden floor, but Ryan would have to face the family at breakfast, and he didn’t particularly want them to know that he’d spent the night being fucked hard by their darling son.

“They’ll guess, you know,” Becker said, his voice laden with amusement.

Ryan groaned. “Yeah, maybe, but I’d still prefer to make a mess on my stomach rather than your mother’s sheets.”

Becker laughed and went back to slamming into him, his balls slapping against Ryan’s arse. “I’ll make sure I stick the sheets in the wash myself before we leave if that’ll assuage your delicate sensibilities.”

Ryan stared up at his lover in amazement. “You’re the only man I know who can use words like assuage in the middle of a shag. It’s just not natural.”

“Comes of being the product of a minor public school and Sandhurst. I even did Latin for A level.”

“Only so you could read Julius Caesar in the original,” Ryan said, being well acquainted with Becker’s obsession with military history.

“I got an A+ for that exam.”

Becker was perfectly capable of carrying on a rational conversation while shagging Ryan silly, but at that point in the proceedings, with his cock hard and leaking and Becker hammering his prostate, Ryan was very rapidly losing the plot. He needed to come and he needed to come now.

In response to another whine from him, Becker leaned down and captured Ryan’s mouth in a messy, uncoordinated kiss, swallowing his complaints and doing his best – as far as Ryan could tell – to get very closely acquainted with his tonsils. Ryan kissed him back, lifting his hips as much as he could to push back against Becker’s thrusts, desperately chasing his own release.

A soft chuckle told him that Becker had finally taken pity on him, and a moment later the pounding increased. Ryan would feel this the next day, sat around the dinner table, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was Becker’s cock splitting him open and the fact that he was now within a hair’s breadth of coming just from being fucked.

Becker pulled out, effortlessly holding his weight on both arms as he waited for Ryan’s hole to close before ramming himself back inside in one smooth movement. A sunburst exploded in Ryan’s guts, spreading warmth through his groin as his cock pulsed come in thick ropes across his stomach. His arse clenched tight around Becker’s dick, enough to drag him over the edge as well and together they rode out the tremors of orgasm, arms around each other, cuddling like a couple of teenagers on a first date.

Becker cleaned up the mess on Ryan’s stomach by the simple expedient of scooping the come up with his fingers and then licking them clean.

“Last mouthful,” Becker said, offering his fingers to Ryan to suck. “Don’t say I never share.”

Ryan rolled his eyes but obliged.

Afterwards, they lay together in the enormous bed, the quilt drawn up against the cold, content just to hold each other and snuggle.

Eventually, Ryan got around to voicing the question that had been on his mind for most of the time since they’d arrived.

“Becker, what’s your dad’s first name?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was Fred?”

“Not coming from someone whose mother is called George, no, I wouldn’t”

A sleepy chuckle greeted his words. “Her full name is Georgina, you idiot. And pa’s name is Lindsey. All the names have been in the family for generations. You grow up tough in the Becker family.”

“Shall I just call you Sue?”

“Not if you value your bollocks, matey. Good night, Tom. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, and thanks for putting up with me being a prat.”

Somewhat to his own surprise, Ryan found that he was very much looking forward to the rest of his stay with the Becker family. His lover was right, it was a happy Christmas. And he might even text Ditzy the following day to tell him that.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

freddiejoey.livejournal.com

You had me at hello.....

"Do you call her Bob?"

Becker looked genuinely puzzled. "What on earth would we do that?”

“Haven’t you ever seen Blackadder?” - That is truly one of my favourite jokes of all time - and one of my favourite Blackadder episodes.

Wonderful fic!

From:

Fic Just Call Me George, Becker/Ryan, 18

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