Fic: What Will We Become
Title: What Will We Become
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Matt/Becker
Rating: R
Word Count: 1665
Spoilers: Season 4
Warnings: Consensual violence
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "I don't pretend to understand the time travelling stuff. I just shoot at the monsters."
AN: Written for kink bingo for the 'slapping/smacking' square.
It's hard to talk about, and even harder to describe, to someone who's never been there. It's a long road, after all, from here to there. For all that this - now - is where it starts. Some things you had to see before you could believe in. Matt had always assumed Becker would be the hardest to convince. He's always felt like a 'believe whatever's in front of you,' kind of man.
But it turns out, he's more flexible than Matt gave him credit for.
"It sounds like a fucking awful place," Becker says. There's a tightness to his expression that suggests maybe he's imagining it just fine. Matt's become far too fond of the honesty in his voice. His willingness to accept, adapt, survive. It's familiar in a way that makes him feel a little less like an interloper, or an observer. Becker is the sort of man who'd survive in the future. Whether he wanted to or not. Though you wouldn't immediately think it. The way he's sprawled in Matt's bed, on too many pillows, kit tossed on the floor with a carelessness born of impatience and arousal. He makes nudity look effortless, shoulder braced against the back of the bed, legs crossed at the ankles. There's good muscle under his skin, body holding its scars without shame. He's beautiful too. But Matt thinks it's a century or so too early to say that out loud.
"It was - is." Matt's on his side at the end of the bed, the distance he's left between them is unnecessary, but he's still not quite used to there being an after. Becker has already explored every scar he owns, with fingers and teeth. It seems Matt won, in some strange way, judging by Becker's soft noise of surrender, or sympathy.
"And you're hoping to erase it from existence?" Becker sounds honestly curious this time, and perhaps a little impressed. Becker has a very narrow range where being impressed is concerned. Matt will tease him for it later.
"I'm hoping to do exactly that."
Becker nods, like he approves of the plan. "And what happens to you?"
Matt shrugs. "Maybe I'll be someone else, maybe I won't exist at all."
Becker doesn't look surprised. He's been around long enough to realise that fucking with the timeline has consequences.
"And that doesn't bother you?"
Matt feels the edge of his mouth go up, but he knows it's not a smile. "Oh, believe me, I'd fight tooth and nail if I thought it was the only thing I had. If there was nothing else."
Becker straightens, pulls a knee up, and then looks at Matt over it. He's frowning in a way that Matt thinks he's become good at deciphering. It's the look people wear when they think they've worked you out. When they think they know who you are - and suddenly you're a mystery again.
"But you're banking on changing the timeline?"
Matt shakes his head. "Making a correction, to stop something that never should have happened. I can't believe we were supposed to - to end up where we do."
"I don't pretend to understand the time travelling stuff. I just shoot at the monsters," Becker admits
"You're very good at it," Matt says with a nod.
"I know." Becker smiles properly this time. It's a quiet sort of competence, confidence, rather than arrogance. Though Matt thinks he's earned a little arrogance, if he's honest. Arrogance suits him.
"There was nothing you liked there?" Becker asks quietly. It may be the first personal question he's ever asked. "Someone to fight, or fuck?"
Matt shrugs again. "It was pretty much the same, given what was going on. Sometimes it was one, sometimes the other, sometimes a little of both." He tips his head to the side, an admission. "Usually a little of both."
Becker frowns, Matt thinks the bland honesty has thrown him a little. Or maybe it's the suggestion.
"You like a little of both?" Definitely the suggestion.
"Where I come from surviving is an adventure all on its own. It's not surprising that all that adrenaline makes everything a little aggressive."
Becker's eyes narrow, just a little. "How aggressive?" He makes it sound like quiet curiousity, nothing more. But Matt's been interrogated before. By people who managed to look much less interested in the answers.
"Enough to sting," he says simply, and he ignores the way the words make his mouth go dry.
"Fond memories?" Another subtle press for information, or acknowledgement of his reaction to it.
"Yes."
Becker just looks at him, weighing the tension. Matt doesn't say anything, doesn't try and explain what he's admitted. The differences between the places they come from, the men that they are. Every period has its boxes, let Becker try and fit him into one that he understands if that's what he wants.
"Would you like me to?" The question's quiet, on anyone else it would sound uncertain. But with Becker there's just a low, vibrating edge, the tension before an order is given, or not. Apparently Becker's more adaptable than he gave him credit for.
Only if you want to, Matt thinks.
But it doesn't come out. He's had more questions, and requests, and restraint, than he can bear lately.
"Please," he says. Because he would, very much.
Becker looks surprised, prepared to ask, but maybe not prepared for an answer. Taking things back isn't in his nature though.
"One side or both?" he asks.
"Whichever you like." Matt's not going to push, he won't demand anything. But by the look of it, he won't have to.
Becker gets his knees under him, and Matt stretches upright, feels the rush of cool air across his skin, a second before Becker's hands steady his waist, then fall away. Matt shuts his eyes, and there's a long, quiet stretch of nothing and then -
Becker has strong hands, the numb shock of impact spreads out and burns, before the wave of bright pain washes it away. It's sharp and familiar, and Matt breathes through it.
He can't read anything in the darkness of Becker's eyes. But when Matt tugs him forward and kisses him, he grinds his erection against the soft side of Matt's hip, hisses out a curse, half-accusing.
"Do you want to do it again?" Matt asks quietly. He already knows the answer.
Becker grunts, it's soft, and it wants to be a yes. But there's a frown, a resistance that's instinctive. Matt thinks Becker doesn't want to be the sort of man who wants it. To be the sort of man who enjoys it. Matt would have words for that, reassurances, another time, another place. When he can breathe, when the blood isn't so close to the surface that it feels like it's pouring out. Matt lays his hands on the warmth of Becker's waist, digs his fingers in. The curve of Becker's ear is warm against his mouth when he leans in.
"Backhand me," Matt says quietly.
Becker inhales, head tipping to the side, towards the rush of his breath. But Matt's already leaning back, easy, relaxed. Because sometimes you need the reminders that you're alive. That when you're desperate enough, the people who care about you will give you anything you need to feel it.
This one hurts, it's a flash of shock and heat and for a second he's in the darkness, pressed into the wall, the smell of smoke and melting plastic everywhere. He's breathing adrenaline and desperation and jittery anger - and then Becker's kissing him, palm moving on the cheek he'd just smacked, a steady throb of heat, where it's over-sensitive under the pressure.
Matt fists a hand in his hair and kisses him until his mouth aches. Until they have to separate to breathe, Becker hisses his name, like he's reprimanding him for something, and Matt can't remember the last time he felt this dizzy. There's a thumb, moving on the heat of his face,
"I abhor violence, of course," Becker says quietly, and it's an apology, of sorts. He tugs Matt's mouth open, finds the sharp edge of his teeth. Matt bites down, hard enough to get a hiss, and the drag of a wet thumb down his chin.
"Of course," Matt says, because there's nothing to forgive.
Becker is heavy, but it's a comforting sort of weight. Matt doesn't object when he pushes him back into the pillows, mouth smooth and warm and aggressive. It's easy to twist, roll Becker underneath him. Matt fists a hand in his hair, shuts his eyes. Becker smells just a little bit too clean to remind him of home, but everything else - everything else is the same. He doesn't know whether that makes it alright or not.
Matt presses down into him, kisses him again, and the right side of his face is still hot, over-sensitive under Becker's stubble.
He smiles into the roughness. "Can I call you Hilary?"
There's a twist of mouth, amusement, and affront. "No, you may not."
Matt can't help but laugh. He smothers it in the smooth skin of Becker's throat, which stretches into the perfect angle to bite down on. Becker makes a low noise under the press of teeth.
"But you may fuck me, until I can't walk straight," he growls.
Matt swears into his skin, hands pulling on Becker's waist, until he has him exactly where he needs him. More than happy with that idea.
"And if I should slip halfway through?" he whispers.
Becker's fingernails dig into his back. "I might overlook it, depending on your performance."
It's easy, much easier than it should be, to push Becker's thighs apart with his knees, weight settled over him in a way that leaves them pressed together hard enough that rocking against his erection is instinctive, helpless.
"Is the military always so performance-focused?" Matt is tempted to tut disappointment.
"I like to think so." Becker's hand is already digging under the pillows for lube.
"Then I shall try not to be a disappointment."
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Matt/Becker
Rating: R
Word Count: 1665
Spoilers: Season 4
Warnings: Consensual violence
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "I don't pretend to understand the time travelling stuff. I just shoot at the monsters."
AN: Written for kink bingo for the 'slapping/smacking' square.
It's hard to talk about, and even harder to describe, to someone who's never been there. It's a long road, after all, from here to there. For all that this - now - is where it starts. Some things you had to see before you could believe in. Matt had always assumed Becker would be the hardest to convince. He's always felt like a 'believe whatever's in front of you,' kind of man.
But it turns out, he's more flexible than Matt gave him credit for.
"It sounds like a fucking awful place," Becker says. There's a tightness to his expression that suggests maybe he's imagining it just fine. Matt's become far too fond of the honesty in his voice. His willingness to accept, adapt, survive. It's familiar in a way that makes him feel a little less like an interloper, or an observer. Becker is the sort of man who'd survive in the future. Whether he wanted to or not. Though you wouldn't immediately think it. The way he's sprawled in Matt's bed, on too many pillows, kit tossed on the floor with a carelessness born of impatience and arousal. He makes nudity look effortless, shoulder braced against the back of the bed, legs crossed at the ankles. There's good muscle under his skin, body holding its scars without shame. He's beautiful too. But Matt thinks it's a century or so too early to say that out loud.
"It was - is." Matt's on his side at the end of the bed, the distance he's left between them is unnecessary, but he's still not quite used to there being an after. Becker has already explored every scar he owns, with fingers and teeth. It seems Matt won, in some strange way, judging by Becker's soft noise of surrender, or sympathy.
"And you're hoping to erase it from existence?" Becker sounds honestly curious this time, and perhaps a little impressed. Becker has a very narrow range where being impressed is concerned. Matt will tease him for it later.
"I'm hoping to do exactly that."
Becker nods, like he approves of the plan. "And what happens to you?"
Matt shrugs. "Maybe I'll be someone else, maybe I won't exist at all."
Becker doesn't look surprised. He's been around long enough to realise that fucking with the timeline has consequences.
"And that doesn't bother you?"
Matt feels the edge of his mouth go up, but he knows it's not a smile. "Oh, believe me, I'd fight tooth and nail if I thought it was the only thing I had. If there was nothing else."
Becker straightens, pulls a knee up, and then looks at Matt over it. He's frowning in a way that Matt thinks he's become good at deciphering. It's the look people wear when they think they've worked you out. When they think they know who you are - and suddenly you're a mystery again.
"But you're banking on changing the timeline?"
Matt shakes his head. "Making a correction, to stop something that never should have happened. I can't believe we were supposed to - to end up where we do."
"I don't pretend to understand the time travelling stuff. I just shoot at the monsters," Becker admits
"You're very good at it," Matt says with a nod.
"I know." Becker smiles properly this time. It's a quiet sort of competence, confidence, rather than arrogance. Though Matt thinks he's earned a little arrogance, if he's honest. Arrogance suits him.
"There was nothing you liked there?" Becker asks quietly. It may be the first personal question he's ever asked. "Someone to fight, or fuck?"
Matt shrugs again. "It was pretty much the same, given what was going on. Sometimes it was one, sometimes the other, sometimes a little of both." He tips his head to the side, an admission. "Usually a little of both."
Becker frowns, Matt thinks the bland honesty has thrown him a little. Or maybe it's the suggestion.
"You like a little of both?" Definitely the suggestion.
"Where I come from surviving is an adventure all on its own. It's not surprising that all that adrenaline makes everything a little aggressive."
Becker's eyes narrow, just a little. "How aggressive?" He makes it sound like quiet curiousity, nothing more. But Matt's been interrogated before. By people who managed to look much less interested in the answers.
"Enough to sting," he says simply, and he ignores the way the words make his mouth go dry.
"Fond memories?" Another subtle press for information, or acknowledgement of his reaction to it.
"Yes."
Becker just looks at him, weighing the tension. Matt doesn't say anything, doesn't try and explain what he's admitted. The differences between the places they come from, the men that they are. Every period has its boxes, let Becker try and fit him into one that he understands if that's what he wants.
"Would you like me to?" The question's quiet, on anyone else it would sound uncertain. But with Becker there's just a low, vibrating edge, the tension before an order is given, or not. Apparently Becker's more adaptable than he gave him credit for.
Only if you want to, Matt thinks.
But it doesn't come out. He's had more questions, and requests, and restraint, than he can bear lately.
"Please," he says. Because he would, very much.
Becker looks surprised, prepared to ask, but maybe not prepared for an answer. Taking things back isn't in his nature though.
"One side or both?" he asks.
"Whichever you like." Matt's not going to push, he won't demand anything. But by the look of it, he won't have to.
Becker gets his knees under him, and Matt stretches upright, feels the rush of cool air across his skin, a second before Becker's hands steady his waist, then fall away. Matt shuts his eyes, and there's a long, quiet stretch of nothing and then -
Becker has strong hands, the numb shock of impact spreads out and burns, before the wave of bright pain washes it away. It's sharp and familiar, and Matt breathes through it.
He can't read anything in the darkness of Becker's eyes. But when Matt tugs him forward and kisses him, he grinds his erection against the soft side of Matt's hip, hisses out a curse, half-accusing.
"Do you want to do it again?" Matt asks quietly. He already knows the answer.
Becker grunts, it's soft, and it wants to be a yes. But there's a frown, a resistance that's instinctive. Matt thinks Becker doesn't want to be the sort of man who wants it. To be the sort of man who enjoys it. Matt would have words for that, reassurances, another time, another place. When he can breathe, when the blood isn't so close to the surface that it feels like it's pouring out. Matt lays his hands on the warmth of Becker's waist, digs his fingers in. The curve of Becker's ear is warm against his mouth when he leans in.
"Backhand me," Matt says quietly.
Becker inhales, head tipping to the side, towards the rush of his breath. But Matt's already leaning back, easy, relaxed. Because sometimes you need the reminders that you're alive. That when you're desperate enough, the people who care about you will give you anything you need to feel it.
This one hurts, it's a flash of shock and heat and for a second he's in the darkness, pressed into the wall, the smell of smoke and melting plastic everywhere. He's breathing adrenaline and desperation and jittery anger - and then Becker's kissing him, palm moving on the cheek he'd just smacked, a steady throb of heat, where it's over-sensitive under the pressure.
Matt fists a hand in his hair and kisses him until his mouth aches. Until they have to separate to breathe, Becker hisses his name, like he's reprimanding him for something, and Matt can't remember the last time he felt this dizzy. There's a thumb, moving on the heat of his face,
"I abhor violence, of course," Becker says quietly, and it's an apology, of sorts. He tugs Matt's mouth open, finds the sharp edge of his teeth. Matt bites down, hard enough to get a hiss, and the drag of a wet thumb down his chin.
"Of course," Matt says, because there's nothing to forgive.
Becker is heavy, but it's a comforting sort of weight. Matt doesn't object when he pushes him back into the pillows, mouth smooth and warm and aggressive. It's easy to twist, roll Becker underneath him. Matt fists a hand in his hair, shuts his eyes. Becker smells just a little bit too clean to remind him of home, but everything else - everything else is the same. He doesn't know whether that makes it alright or not.
Matt presses down into him, kisses him again, and the right side of his face is still hot, over-sensitive under Becker's stubble.
He smiles into the roughness. "Can I call you Hilary?"
There's a twist of mouth, amusement, and affront. "No, you may not."
Matt can't help but laugh. He smothers it in the smooth skin of Becker's throat, which stretches into the perfect angle to bite down on. Becker makes a low noise under the press of teeth.
"But you may fuck me, until I can't walk straight," he growls.
Matt swears into his skin, hands pulling on Becker's waist, until he has him exactly where he needs him. More than happy with that idea.
"And if I should slip halfway through?" he whispers.
Becker's fingernails dig into his back. "I might overlook it, depending on your performance."
It's easy, much easier than it should be, to push Becker's thighs apart with his knees, weight settled over him in a way that leaves them pressed together hard enough that rocking against his erection is instinctive, helpless.
"Is the military always so performance-focused?" Matt is tempted to tut disappointment.
"I like to think so." Becker's hand is already digging under the pillows for lube.
"Then I shall try not to be a disappointment."