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fredbassettTitle : Filthier Than A Very Filthy Thing
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Lester/Lyle
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Lyle), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary :
A/N : Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
primeval_denial Challenges Month, for the past Challenge Filth and offered for Filthy Friday as well. I took the prompt rather literally!
“Bloody hell, Jon, were you a warthog in a former life?” Lester stared in disbelief at the thick, reddish-brown mud caking his lover from head to foot. “I thought you said the dig was a bit muddy? If that’s a bit muddy, I’d hate to see your idea of a lot muddy.”
Lyle grinned. Or at least that’s what Lester thought the slight cracking in the mud around Lyle’s mouth signified, but it was hard to tell, as even his teeth appeared to be coated in mud. Lyle clearly came to the same conclusion, as he turned his head and spat inelegantly into the flower bed by the side of the path.
“Had to lick the compass to read it,” Lyle said.
“I thought you were using a DistoX?” Lester said, referring to the laser surveying devices that most of the cavers were now using.
Lyle dumped his filthy tackle back down in front of the garage and tried to stand on the back of one of his wellies to get it off his foot. “No chance. Bloody thing took one look at the place and promptly gave up the ghost. We had to run a tape out to get the centre line.”
“So how far have you got?”
“Two hundred metres.”
“Worth seeing?”
“Christ, no, it’s a scrot-hole even by Mendip standards. It makes Welsh’s Green look clean and makes the squeeze in Pierre’s Pot look roomy.” Lyle gave up trying to toe his boots off and stared down at his wellies as though hoping they’d just do the decent thing and remove themselves from his feet under their own steam.
“You’re not selling it…”
“Even I’m not fucking daft enough to try to get you down there, cherub. Even your intellectually challenged brother will think twice about this one.”
Lester pulled his phone out of his pocket, took a photo and promptly texted it to Ralph, who – as far as he knew – was looking into the prospects of a new silver mine in Bolivia. The sight of Lyle coated from head to foot in mud would no doubt cause some amusement.
Lyle gave up on his boots and wrestled instead with the karabiner holding the length of rope he used for a belt. That proved marginally more tractable.
“You’re going to need to get those boots off.”
“Really? I thought I might try keeping them on for bed… Be an angel and help me off with the sodding things.”
“Not going to happen,” Lester said, reaching for the hose. “Not until you’re a bit cleaner…”
“Have a heart, sweetie-poo!”
“Most certainly not.” Lester turned on the tap and pointed the nozzle on the hose at his lover and pulled the trigger to activate the pressure washer. Water shot out and started to blast the mud off Lyle’s wellies. In a couple of minutes, Lyle was able to struggle out of his boots, kicking them off to join the growing pile of kit he’d dumped. “Cover your face,” Lester instructed, before directing the stream of water at Lyle’s oversuit, dislodging the mud and chasing it in a brown river across the concrete hardstanding outside the garage.
After five minutes of playing the stream of water up and down Lyle’s body, the red of his oversuit finally started to emerge from the mud coating. When he eventually released his drip on the trigger, Lyle no longer looked quite so much like a Michelin man dipped in chocolate. His face and hair were still caked in mud, but that could be dealt with by more conventional means.
“Stand still!” Lester ordered, approaching his dishevelled lover cautiously gripping the collar of the oversuit from behind to help ease it down over Lyle’s arms, allowing him to wriggle out of the wet, cloying mess.
The mud had found its way underneath the outer covering and had soaked into Lyle’s fleece undersuit. That very quickly followed the oversuit onto the concrete, leaving Lyle standing there in muddy boxer shorts and a pair of neoprene bootees. The fleece suit had done little to prevent the mud streaking Lyle’s well-muscled body. Grinning, Lester reached for the hose again.
“No, you bloody well don’t!” Lyle moved with preternatural speed and plucked the nozzle out of Lester’s hands.
Lester jumped back and grabbed a broom, using it to fend Lyle off. “We installed a wet room in the garage for a very good reason, my little mudskipper!”
“Are you going to join me?”
“No.”
With a long-suffering look, Lyle bent down and quickly hauled off his wetsocks, balancing first on one foot then the other with enviable ease. His boxers were next to go, leaving him naked apart from the mud encrusting his face and hair.
“Not a good look, darling.”
“Bollocks. People pay good money for mud facials. We could probably make a fortune selling the stuff.”
“Yes, darling. Shower, now!”
Lyle flipped him the finger and sauntered into the garage, heading for the newly-finished shower, intended to prevent them from trailing mud throughout the cottage on exactly this sort of occasion.
Despite the unappetising streaks of mud everywhere, Lyle still had a bloody fine arse.
Maybe a shower wasn’t such a bad idea after all…
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Lester/Lyle
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Lyle), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary :
A/N : Written for the
primeval_denial Challenges Month, for the past Challenge Filth and offered for Filthy Friday as well. I took the prompt rather literally!“Bloody hell, Jon, were you a warthog in a former life?” Lester stared in disbelief at the thick, reddish-brown mud caking his lover from head to foot. “I thought you said the dig was a bit muddy? If that’s a bit muddy, I’d hate to see your idea of a lot muddy.”
Lyle grinned. Or at least that’s what Lester thought the slight cracking in the mud around Lyle’s mouth signified, but it was hard to tell, as even his teeth appeared to be coated in mud. Lyle clearly came to the same conclusion, as he turned his head and spat inelegantly into the flower bed by the side of the path.
“Had to lick the compass to read it,” Lyle said.
“I thought you were using a DistoX?” Lester said, referring to the laser surveying devices that most of the cavers were now using.
Lyle dumped his filthy tackle back down in front of the garage and tried to stand on the back of one of his wellies to get it off his foot. “No chance. Bloody thing took one look at the place and promptly gave up the ghost. We had to run a tape out to get the centre line.”
“So how far have you got?”
“Two hundred metres.”
“Worth seeing?”
“Christ, no, it’s a scrot-hole even by Mendip standards. It makes Welsh’s Green look clean and makes the squeeze in Pierre’s Pot look roomy.” Lyle gave up trying to toe his boots off and stared down at his wellies as though hoping they’d just do the decent thing and remove themselves from his feet under their own steam.
“You’re not selling it…”
“Even I’m not fucking daft enough to try to get you down there, cherub. Even your intellectually challenged brother will think twice about this one.”
Lester pulled his phone out of his pocket, took a photo and promptly texted it to Ralph, who – as far as he knew – was looking into the prospects of a new silver mine in Bolivia. The sight of Lyle coated from head to foot in mud would no doubt cause some amusement.
Lyle gave up on his boots and wrestled instead with the karabiner holding the length of rope he used for a belt. That proved marginally more tractable.
“You’re going to need to get those boots off.”
“Really? I thought I might try keeping them on for bed… Be an angel and help me off with the sodding things.”
“Not going to happen,” Lester said, reaching for the hose. “Not until you’re a bit cleaner…”
“Have a heart, sweetie-poo!”
“Most certainly not.” Lester turned on the tap and pointed the nozzle on the hose at his lover and pulled the trigger to activate the pressure washer. Water shot out and started to blast the mud off Lyle’s wellies. In a couple of minutes, Lyle was able to struggle out of his boots, kicking them off to join the growing pile of kit he’d dumped. “Cover your face,” Lester instructed, before directing the stream of water at Lyle’s oversuit, dislodging the mud and chasing it in a brown river across the concrete hardstanding outside the garage.
After five minutes of playing the stream of water up and down Lyle’s body, the red of his oversuit finally started to emerge from the mud coating. When he eventually released his drip on the trigger, Lyle no longer looked quite so much like a Michelin man dipped in chocolate. His face and hair were still caked in mud, but that could be dealt with by more conventional means.
“Stand still!” Lester ordered, approaching his dishevelled lover cautiously gripping the collar of the oversuit from behind to help ease it down over Lyle’s arms, allowing him to wriggle out of the wet, cloying mess.
The mud had found its way underneath the outer covering and had soaked into Lyle’s fleece undersuit. That very quickly followed the oversuit onto the concrete, leaving Lyle standing there in muddy boxer shorts and a pair of neoprene bootees. The fleece suit had done little to prevent the mud streaking Lyle’s well-muscled body. Grinning, Lester reached for the hose again.
“No, you bloody well don’t!” Lyle moved with preternatural speed and plucked the nozzle out of Lester’s hands.
Lester jumped back and grabbed a broom, using it to fend Lyle off. “We installed a wet room in the garage for a very good reason, my little mudskipper!”
“Are you going to join me?”
“No.”
With a long-suffering look, Lyle bent down and quickly hauled off his wetsocks, balancing first on one foot then the other with enviable ease. His boxers were next to go, leaving him naked apart from the mud encrusting his face and hair.
“Not a good look, darling.”
“Bollocks. People pay good money for mud facials. We could probably make a fortune selling the stuff.”
“Yes, darling. Shower, now!”
Lyle flipped him the finger and sauntered into the garage, heading for the newly-finished shower, intended to prevent them from trailing mud throughout the cottage on exactly this sort of occasion.
Despite the unappetising streaks of mud everywhere, Lyle still had a bloody fine arse.
Maybe a shower wasn’t such a bad idea after all…
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no subject
Date: 2018-05-25 07:42 pm (UTC)Bloody brilliant!
I could see the entire scene, remembering how muddy I got in PPH, and that wasn't even bad!
Absolutely fantastic take on the Filth challenges!
no subject
Date: 2018-05-25 07:52 pm (UTC)And PPH is not at all muddy, unless you go down the pitch to the lake. There are much worse places!
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Date: 2018-05-25 08:19 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2018-06-02 07:46 am (UTC)