Being Human: Whatever fetish I decide myself to cast you in [Hal/Cutler]
Title: “Whatever fetish I decide myself to cast you in”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: NC-17 [voyeurism, disturbing imagery, mild gore]
Timeline: 1950’s
Summary: The rules of Hal’s games are unclear and one game always leads to another. It’s the price of being with Hal, and Cutler pays it gladly. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title from “Who Needs the Sunshine” by The Heavy.
A/N: This came out of nowhere. IDK.
WHATEVER FETISH I DECIDE MYSELF TO CAST YOU IN
The girl moves up and down in a dull, routine rhythm that brings the word “professional” to mind. Nick watches Hal disappear inside her, deeper and deeper, and from what he can see of Hal’s face, he is almost certain that Hal is counting her rises and falls. Women always end up on top, with Hal just lying there, doing nothing. It’s as if Hal finds touching them redundant. Hal isn’t the most selfless of lovers.
She tilts her head back, a cascade of yellow hair rippling down her back. She’s easy on the eye, but she’s no Grace Kelly, that’s for sure. At some point Nick finds himself looking beyond her doll-like face, wondering what she would look like without skin. It’s a random, Hal-lish thought (pun completely intended). He imagines a being made entirely of blood-soaked meat encased in an ivory corset of ribs. The grueling vision persists but instead of disgusting him, it electrifies him with a fresh jolt of hunger. The room smells of sweaty flesh, with a pungent undercurrent of blood. The girl inclines her head and he can see that her cheeks are flushed. Blood plays just below the surface.
Hal raises his hand and brushes his fingers between her breasts. They are heavy and round and they hardly move along with the rest of her.
Nick forces himself out of the arm-chair he’s been glued to for the past half an hour and approaches the bed. It creaks quietly as he edges onto it. The girl doesn’t pay any attention. She’s a whore, and they have paid for this.
Her left shoulder is dotted with red marks that look like pinpricks. Mosquito bites. Nick scratches at them, fascinated beyond reason. She flashes him a bemused glance but doesn’t protest. She must have all sorts of clients with befuddling whims; besides, she is not allowed to talk. That is Hal’s condition tonight. Not a word. Not a sound. Hal enjoys taking something from people, however small or insignificant it may be.
Nick picks the crust off of one of the bites. A tiny bead of blood wells up. He licks it off squarely with the blade of his tongue. He doesn’t like the taste of her skin, or the scent of perfume that clings to her body. What’s worse, she’s got it all over Hal.
She holds out her hand and cups him through the trousers, strokes him half-heartedly, making sure the clients get their money’s worth. It’s not her touch that does it; it’s the look on Hal’s face, half-teasing, half-amused.
Cutler leans closer and plunges his teeth into her neck. She jerks, a scream rising in her, but he chokes it, slurping her blood greedily as she keels over, and he pushes her off of Hal like a useless load. Good thing they are in a hotel room. The last time this happened - in the car, Hal’s car - Nick got blood all over the seat upholstery and Hal made him lick it clean.
Hal is watching him now, speculatively. Nick stiffens, the blood still hot in his throat. He attempts to draw closer but Hal bends his leg and rests his foot against Nick’s chest, preventing him from moving. Nick’s breath hitches. Hal slides his foot down his stomach and abdomen until it finally stops against Nick’s crotch. There is a slight pressure, and Nick eagerly buckles to meet it. Hal observes him with studious detachment. It is the continuation of the game, Nick realizes.
He rides out the rhythm picked by Hal in silence, biting his lips to contain moans of ecstasy. The girl’s blood coats his chin. He sweeps his tongue over his lower lip but Hal wiggles his finger in a prohibiting gesture. Nick freezes. He never knows exactly what mood his unpredictable maker will be in. Sometimes he abhors chaos; sometimes he welcomes it.
Hal sits up and traces the outline of Nick’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. He slips his hand behind the waistband of Nick’s trousers; his lips twist into a brief, cruel smirk when Nick exhales voicelessly. The smirk cuts like a jagged edge of a broken glass. Hal is made up of these little smiles that don’t reach his eyes, of jeers that peel off layer after layer like a flaying knife until they hit the sorest spot they can find, of swift tantrums that strike like lightning, and rare moments of unexplained tenderness.
Hal licks the smears of red off Nick’s skin and squeezes him harder. Nick gasps. He leans forth and bites at Hal’s shoulder fiercely. Maybe it’s cheating, maybe not; it’s hard to tell. Hal’s rules are never iron-cast.
He comes into Hal’s hand, the taste of Hal’s blood on his tongue and a cry of pleasure caught in his throat. The bed feels crowded. Must be the body of the dead slag still lying across it. Sweat dribbles down the back of Cutler’s neck, making his shirt stick to his spine.
Hal gets dressed deliberately slowly. The overwhelming stench of perfume still saturates the air. Nick opens the window and takes a deep breath.
He wonders briefly what her name was. Not that it’s important.
The arrangement was to keep silent until the night ended, and the night ended with Hal getting fully clothed. Nick realizes he’s spoken out loud only when he turns around to see Hal twirling his tie around his hand. Just one item short of a proper attire.
A dark, playful smile unfolds on Hal’s lips.
The second round is about to begin.
May 21-22, 2012
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: NC-17 [voyeurism, disturbing imagery, mild gore]
Timeline: 1950’s
Summary: The rules of Hal’s games are unclear and one game always leads to another. It’s the price of being with Hal, and Cutler pays it gladly. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Title from “Who Needs the Sunshine” by The Heavy.
A/N: This came out of nowhere. IDK.
WHATEVER FETISH I DECIDE MYSELF TO CAST YOU IN
The girl moves up and down in a dull, routine rhythm that brings the word “professional” to mind. Nick watches Hal disappear inside her, deeper and deeper, and from what he can see of Hal’s face, he is almost certain that Hal is counting her rises and falls. Women always end up on top, with Hal just lying there, doing nothing. It’s as if Hal finds touching them redundant. Hal isn’t the most selfless of lovers.
She tilts her head back, a cascade of yellow hair rippling down her back. She’s easy on the eye, but she’s no Grace Kelly, that’s for sure. At some point Nick finds himself looking beyond her doll-like face, wondering what she would look like without skin. It’s a random, Hal-lish thought (pun completely intended). He imagines a being made entirely of blood-soaked meat encased in an ivory corset of ribs. The grueling vision persists but instead of disgusting him, it electrifies him with a fresh jolt of hunger. The room smells of sweaty flesh, with a pungent undercurrent of blood. The girl inclines her head and he can see that her cheeks are flushed. Blood plays just below the surface.
Hal raises his hand and brushes his fingers between her breasts. They are heavy and round and they hardly move along with the rest of her.
Nick forces himself out of the arm-chair he’s been glued to for the past half an hour and approaches the bed. It creaks quietly as he edges onto it. The girl doesn’t pay any attention. She’s a whore, and they have paid for this.
Her left shoulder is dotted with red marks that look like pinpricks. Mosquito bites. Nick scratches at them, fascinated beyond reason. She flashes him a bemused glance but doesn’t protest. She must have all sorts of clients with befuddling whims; besides, she is not allowed to talk. That is Hal’s condition tonight. Not a word. Not a sound. Hal enjoys taking something from people, however small or insignificant it may be.
Nick picks the crust off of one of the bites. A tiny bead of blood wells up. He licks it off squarely with the blade of his tongue. He doesn’t like the taste of her skin, or the scent of perfume that clings to her body. What’s worse, she’s got it all over Hal.
She holds out her hand and cups him through the trousers, strokes him half-heartedly, making sure the clients get their money’s worth. It’s not her touch that does it; it’s the look on Hal’s face, half-teasing, half-amused.
Cutler leans closer and plunges his teeth into her neck. She jerks, a scream rising in her, but he chokes it, slurping her blood greedily as she keels over, and he pushes her off of Hal like a useless load. Good thing they are in a hotel room. The last time this happened - in the car, Hal’s car - Nick got blood all over the seat upholstery and Hal made him lick it clean.
Hal is watching him now, speculatively. Nick stiffens, the blood still hot in his throat. He attempts to draw closer but Hal bends his leg and rests his foot against Nick’s chest, preventing him from moving. Nick’s breath hitches. Hal slides his foot down his stomach and abdomen until it finally stops against Nick’s crotch. There is a slight pressure, and Nick eagerly buckles to meet it. Hal observes him with studious detachment. It is the continuation of the game, Nick realizes.
He rides out the rhythm picked by Hal in silence, biting his lips to contain moans of ecstasy. The girl’s blood coats his chin. He sweeps his tongue over his lower lip but Hal wiggles his finger in a prohibiting gesture. Nick freezes. He never knows exactly what mood his unpredictable maker will be in. Sometimes he abhors chaos; sometimes he welcomes it.
Hal sits up and traces the outline of Nick’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. He slips his hand behind the waistband of Nick’s trousers; his lips twist into a brief, cruel smirk when Nick exhales voicelessly. The smirk cuts like a jagged edge of a broken glass. Hal is made up of these little smiles that don’t reach his eyes, of jeers that peel off layer after layer like a flaying knife until they hit the sorest spot they can find, of swift tantrums that strike like lightning, and rare moments of unexplained tenderness.
Hal licks the smears of red off Nick’s skin and squeezes him harder. Nick gasps. He leans forth and bites at Hal’s shoulder fiercely. Maybe it’s cheating, maybe not; it’s hard to tell. Hal’s rules are never iron-cast.
He comes into Hal’s hand, the taste of Hal’s blood on his tongue and a cry of pleasure caught in his throat. The bed feels crowded. Must be the body of the dead slag still lying across it. Sweat dribbles down the back of Cutler’s neck, making his shirt stick to his spine.
Hal gets dressed deliberately slowly. The overwhelming stench of perfume still saturates the air. Nick opens the window and takes a deep breath.
He wonders briefly what her name was. Not that it’s important.
The arrangement was to keep silent until the night ended, and the night ended with Hal getting fully clothed. Nick realizes he’s spoken out loud only when he turns around to see Hal twirling his tie around his hand. Just one item short of a proper attire.
A dark, playful smile unfolds on Hal’s lips.
The second round is about to begin.
May 21-22, 2012