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ccherrybloom · 2 months

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Ashtrays & Antihistamines Pt. 1

oc, m, hayfever, wc: 2.8k

Part 2

CW: foul language and allusions to gay sex lol

a.n. + summary: i don't think i've ever posted a snzfic on this blog, but there's a first for everything, right? featuring my lovely little ocs and their stupid dumb little band. i don't normally write them in snzcerions, but...every now and again i can’t help myself and one slips through the cracks lol. This particular one centers around my absolute shithead of an Irishman, Peter, as he deals with a hayfever flare up for the first time in like…twenty years, lol. of course, ever the lucky one, this begins to happen during the band’s first mini-tour. Cue shenanigans. I hope you all enjoy!

“hH’RRSHhiue!” Peter fell into himself with a harsh sneeze, the band’s rundown van jerking sporadically with its driver’s sudden movement. “Goddamnit!”

“Bless.” Geoff offered lazily from the passenger seat as he turned a page of his book, unbothered by the vehicle’s erratic veer. “That’s like the tenth one since we’ve left Dublin.” The bassist pointed out, shooting the guitarist a pointed look from the corner of his eye. “You alright?”

“Fuckin’ hayfever,” Peter answered as he scrubbed his palm aggressively against the underside of his nose, careful not to put too much pressure against his nose rings. He followed it up with a drawn-out sniffle. “I’m fine. Christ.”

“I don’t remember ya being like this before,” Maurice quipped from the back of the van, leaning forward to join in on the conversation. “I mean hell, ya lived in Dublin fer how many years…?”

“Longer than you, Frenchie.” Peter retorted as he thrust a tattooed hand backwards to try and shove the singer away. Maurice easily dodged with a laugh, swatting at Peter’s hand as Geoff instinctively reached out to steady the van as it began to swerve again. “You can piss right off.”

“Look, I’m just sayin’, yer born and bred Irish — who knew all it took was a few months in London for yer own country to turn on ya.”

“I said piss off.”

“Who gives a shit!” Chris suddenly interjected as he pulled his headphones from his ears, a curly lock of the drummer’s dark hair falling between his eyes. “Just keep your bloody eyes on the road! I dunno ‘bout you lot, but I’d like to get there in one piece.”

Maurice backed off with a snicker, hands up in surrender as Peter quickly flipped Chris off in the rear view mirror before returning his full attention to the road.

After Peter and Maurice had both left Dublin for London a few months shy of one another, the four men began to pour almost all of their free time into their passion project, The Undergrounds. Much to their genuine surprise, people seemed to really enjoy their band’s sound and performances, so much so in fact that they’d hit a point where pubs across the UK were beginning to reach out to them, asking the group to come play for their open mic nights, with some even offering payment. With the requests getting further and further away from their homebase in London, the band finally decided to bite the bullet and buy themselves some transportation, namely their shithole of a van lovingly referred to as Van Halen. Despite its old clunkiness, it really did do the trick, and allowed the men to head across the border on their first ever ‘Let’s-Not-Call-It-A-Tour’ Tour. Realistically, with two of the four members being from (or as close to ‘from’ as one could be, in Maurice’s case) Ireland, the band had picked up quite a bit of traction across the small country with the men getting many open mic night requests which they normally had to turn down, much to Peter’s dismay.

At least until now, that is.

Peter had noticed something was off after their show in Dublin the night prior. At first he just assumed he strained his voice singing backup vocals — a product of over-excitement from getting to play in his old stomping grounds. But by morning the scratchiness in his throat lingered and was now accompanied by faint itchiness in his nose that forewarned him of worse yet to come.

By the time the men packed up their gear and filed into the van late that afternoon, the unwelcoming prickle that had been festering in his nose demanded more attention, and his eyes began to itch in a maddening way that he hadn’t experienced since he was a kid back in Belfast. Initially he tried to ignore it, chalking it up as a residual reaction to dust from the old pub, or that it had been awhile since Van Halen had gotten a good clean. But as time slowly passed on their nearly three hour drive to Cork, and the itchiness in his sinuses progressed into full-blown sneezing, the reality of the situation began to dawn on him. He was immediately thrust back to Belfast, memories of summers spent constantly sneezing thanks to the fields near his old home, his eyes watering, his nose running, each summer spent absolutely miserable. He hadn’t had a hayfever flare-up in years, thinking it was something he had thankfully outgrown once his mum had moved them to Dublin, but yet here it was, back to rear its ugly head once more all these years later. The familiar lush scents of the countryside that used to conjure such vivid memories of home were now turning every intake of breath the guitarist took into a gamble.

The itchiness in Peter’s nose only seemed to increase in urgency as Van Halen bumped its way through the Irish countryside. The landscape blurred past the windows, a mix of greens and greys under a sky that threatened rain.

“Nearly there.” Geoff hummed, taking a peek at the map app on his phone. “About another twenty or so.”

“Thank fuck.” Peter grumbled with a sniffle, his eyes squinting past the relentless itchiness. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and pulled his glasses up slightly before slamming his wrist into one eye and scrubbing hard.

“I think we could all do with a pint,” Maurice chimed in, trying to lighten the mood. “Especially you, Peter.” He added, gently poking the man’s shoulder.

Peter managed a weak chuckle in response, his wrist still pressed hard into the corner of his eye.

“Just keep it steady Pete, yeah?” Chris leaned himself forward and rested his elbows onto his knees, eyes scanning the road ahead. “Not much longer and you can go ahead and drown yourself in whatever local brew you fancy.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but the van hit a particularly bumpy patch of road, jolting everyone inside. Instead he just swore under his breath, turning his full focus back towards the road as Cork began to appear on the horizon.

“There she is.” Geoff whistled, pointing ahead. “Welcome to Cork, lads.”

Peter managed to manoeuvre Van Halen expertly through the narrow streets of Cork despite battling his allergic reaction, the van’s tires crunching over cobblestone as he pulled them into the parking lot of their dingy motel.

“Home sweet home.” Maurice hummed as he clapped a hand onto Peter’s shoulder, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as the other two members filed out. “At least fer the next few days.”

Peter leaned back into the driver’s seat and let his eyes drift closed as he exhaled deeply, shutting off the engine. He only cracked an eye back open when he felt Maurice give his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You alright?” The singer asked, his voice low and expression soft.

“I’m grand, Mur.” Peter grumbled, his voice heavy with sarcasm. The real truth of the matter was that he was miserable, itchy, and absolutely dying for a cigarette — not that he cared to say any of that out loud.

The guitarist pulled off his glasses to give his watery eyes another scrub before continuing. “Just got a fierce bad dose of this nonsense…This shite best be all said and done before our show or I’ll–hh! hH’ITSHHhiue!”

“See, but that’s what we don’t wantcha doin’, actually.” The blonde teased as he patted the guitarist’s shoulder before the other quickly slapped it away as if he were swatting a mosquito.

“You fuck right off, Murry.” Peter sniffled hard, dragging the backside of his hand beneath his nose. “Just get yer shit and get goin’.”

Maurice did as he was told and hopped out of the van with Peter not far behind as the pair hurriedly began to help the others unload. With the sky steadily darkening the four moved quickly, eager to avoid the potential rain. Luckily the unloading and reloading of Van Halen had become more and more familiar with each passing gig, and it didn’t take them long to have all the necessities laid out beside the van, ready to go.

The motel itself was a shabby vintage looking two-story building, its neon sign flickering with an almost uncertain intermittence as if it were clinging onto its last shred of life.

Maurice and Geoff took the lead, carrying the group’s heavier equipment while Chris and Peter followed suit with their four bags. They bustled their way to the reception desk where they were met with a disinterested looking clerk who simply handed them a single worn key with a faded plastic tag attached.

“Yer in room 107.” He mumbled, barely looking up from his magazine.

“Cheers, mate.” Geoff scoffed as he shot the others an exasperated look and snatched the key. He led the group down the dimly lit hallway, their feet dragging against a carpet that had clearly seen better days. When they reached their room Geoff wasted no time unlocking the door and shoving it open, revealing a tightly packed space with two queen beds, a small television, and a bathroom that looked like it hadn’t been updated in at least two decades.

“Alright, how we doin’ this?” Chris asked as he tossed the bags he had onto the closest bed.

“By drawing straws, of course.” Geoff instructed as he pulled a set of straws he had prepared earlier out of his pocket. “Shortest straw shares with the other shortest straw.”

The others agreed on this being fair enough and drew their straws, quickly comparing them.

“Well, it’s you and me, innit?” Chris said as he held up his short straw next to Peter’s. He gave the other a playful nudge and smirked. “Just don’t go tryin’ nuffin, yeah?”

Peter sniffled thickly and shoved Chris away before pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, careful to avoid the rings, and itched it aggressively. “I got enough of ya the first time.” He moved from rubbing his nose to scrubbing his eyes, trying to ignore the way Maurice bristled at the mention of their one-off fling. “Won’t be doin’ that again.” Chris flipped him off and called him a wanker, but he went ahead and ignored that too.

“Hey, Pete,” Geoff called out as he tossed his bag onto the other bed. “Why don’t you take a shower? Might help clear up a bit of that hayfever.”

Peter, who’s eyes had started to glaze over, did his best to nod in the ginger’s general direction. “That’s the best ideee-hha I’ve heard all d—hh! hhUH’DITSHhhiuew! ‘IGKSHhhiueww!” He doubled over hard into cupped hands, his entire body tensing violently with each sneeze before he groaned thickly against his palms. “—all damn day.” He finished on an exhale, voice cracking. “-snf- Jaysus…”

“Bless you.” Geoff offered, a twinge of sympathy in his voice. “You know you really ought to—”

“G’way outta that.” Peter interjected with a dismissive wave of his hand as he trudged his way to the bathroom, eyes half-lidded. “Last thing I need is yer bloody mother hennin’, Geoffrey.” He added before pulling the door closed behind him.

Flicking the light switch, Peter had to wait a full second before the dull fluorescents sputtered to life, illuminating the unsightly bathroom as he dragged his feet towards the shower. The tiles were cracked and the floor was splotchy, but he didn’t care, he just wanted some relief.

The pipes whined in protest as he turned on the taps before water began to sputter out from the shower head. The water pressure seemed abysmal at best, and Peter cursed to himself as he leaned his weight against the sink, waiting for the water to warm. As steam steadily started filling the small space, he could feel the tightness in his sinuses ease up slightly, making his nose run. The liquid caught on his septum ring and trailed rapidly down towards his upper lip. Blowing out an annoyed breath, the guitarist took a second to wipe his nose haphazardly against his sleeve before stripping and stepping into the tub, letting the warm water cascade over him with an appreciative sigh.

Outside of the bathroom Geoff and Maurice were seated on each side of their shared bed as they sorted through their bags.

“Think he’ll live?” Maurice asked as he pulled out his plastic toiletry bag, setting it to the side.

Geoff gave a small shrug in return, glancing towards the bathroom door. “I reckon it could go either way with that dumb git.”

Maurice snorted at this, but his knit brow betrayed his feigned air of nonchalance. “Just hope the shower helps, I s’ppose. Don’t think we can really afford to have him down fer the count.”

Chris, already sprawled out on the other bed, headphones back on, piped up. “Eh, he’ll be alright. Just needs to wash off whatever’s settin’ ‘im off. It’s no big, yeah? You French people are wound too tight.”

Maurice rolled his eyes at this but chose to ignore the drummer’s comment. “I just don’t want anythin’ to screw this up for us.” He murmured as his eyes fell onto the bathroom door. “That’s all.”

“hh-Hh! hH’dDZTShiueww!” Peter sneezed loudly and openly, his head snapping downwards as the shower’s stream continued to steadily pelt against his tattooed back. He blinked hard, eyes bleary as the need to sneeze lingered in his nose like an unwelcome houseguest. Instinctively he brought up a hand to hover over the lower half of his face as his breathing began to come out in shuddering, shallow gasps. “hah…Ha’TdSHhhiuew!” This one bent him double and he swore immediately afterwards, more than a little frustrated as he blew his nose harshly into his hand. Had his hayfever always been this maddening? He couldn’t remember. It had been a long time since he’d had a flare-up, probably pushing two decades at least. The thought that it had come back now during the band’s first tour just pissed him off further.

Sighing, Peter turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, reaching out for one of the worn threadbare towels from the hotel rack. He dried himself off quickly before wrapping the towel dangerously loose around his waist – the only member who had yet to see his dick was Geoffrey, and the guitarist couldn’t give less of a shit if today was the day that changed.

Wiping a hand across the fogged bathroom mirror, Peter allowed himself a moment to peer at his reflection as he dragged a hand through his damp, dark hair and threw on his glasses. His green eyes were still red-rimmed and watery, his nose and cheeks were decorated with a soft dusting of pink…he looked pathetic, but at least the shower was helping him breathe a little easier.

Residual steam billowed out into the cooler room as Peter made his way out of the bathroom, catching the eye of Maurice.

“Peter,” The singer looked up from his bag and offered the dark-haired man a small smile, taking in the other’s lean frame. “How ye fairin’?”

“Bit better, I’d say.” Peter hummed, though a small sniffle still escaped him as he wandered over to his bag, making Maurice frown.

“Reckon you’re up for a drink?” Geoff asked, not looking up from his phone. “We were thinking of checking out this pub nearby. Interested?”

Peter mulled it over for a moment, turning his back on the others before dropping his towel and pulling on a pair of boxer-briefs. “Yeah, g’wan then.” He finally affirmed, clearing his throat against a fist as he fished an old t-shirt from his bag. “Pint’ll do me some good.”

“Are ya sure?” The singer asked, chewing on his lip nervously as Peter wiggled into a pair of jeans. “If yer not feelin’ up for it–”

“Sod off, Maurice, will you?” Chris suddenly retaliated as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Actin’ like you’re his bloody mum or somefin’ just cos you’re shaggin’. Prat.”

Peter couldn’t help but snort as Maurice glared daggers at Chris, his face turning a delightful shade of crimson. The fact that he and Maurice slept together on occasion wasn’t exactly a secret – their initial one-night stand was how the two had met in the first place, after all – but it wasn’t something that was often discussed amongst the group. Peter personally didn’t care, but Maurice clearly did.

“You don’t see me actin’ like a bloody bellend even though I’ve also sucked his–”

“Ça commence à bien faire!” Maurice shot up suddenly from the bed, cutting Chris off as his native tongue spilled rapidly from his mouth. “Fer the love of God, no more, thank you!”

The singer hurriedly made a beeline for the hotel room door, grabbing his coat as he rushed past the others, his face absolutely aghast as the others snickered. “Just…hurry up, then! Christ, I need a feckin’ drink…”

“I think we all do.” Geoff huffed as Maurice stepped into the hall. “C’mon, lads. Let’s go.”

#if you recognize these characters from somewhere else #blue hellsite i’m looking at you #then no you don’t pls don’t mention it or i’ll kms lol #anyway thanks again to those that encouraged me to post original fiction!! it is very much appreciated of course #i used to be big into writing but really haven’t done it in awhile so i feel quite rusty — i hope that doesn’t reflect too obviously—#—within the story and that it’s still something you can enjoy!#i admittedly got a lil carried away with this but i still have more planned so hopefully you will???? um???? stay tuned???????#snz #snz kink #snzfic #snz fic #m snz #oc snz #op #cherry fics #ps if y’all have questions you want answered about the boys literally pls send me an ask b/c i could talk about them and their lore all day #pps the ending is weak i know that but i'm tired and want to post this lol #plus i have plans to continue this (obviously hence the pt 1) and i think the pub scenes would tie in better with the next part #anyway enough rambling i'm just shy and unconfident ahhhhh #i need to write more i'm so out of practiceeeeee #LAST THING but i fully intend for peter to have a lil meet cute with someone who might like his sneezing a lil too much so uhhhh hehehe #cw foul language #cw sex

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knivestothroats · 9 months

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ITWS/ProVic Crossover Event Of The Century (part 1)

This is a crossover of In The Woods Somewhere by me and Professional//Victim by @victimeyez. Part 2 is here. Content warnings: Captivity, discussion of torture, discussion of sex trafficking, drug and alcohol use

Fletcher owned one suit. It lived in the back of their closet next to their old lucky leather jacket. They figured they used up all the luck when they took a bullet to the chest and didn’t die, so it had been cleaned of blood and retired.

The suit only came out for dinner parties Fletcher grudgingly attended for networking purposes. This one was a business mixer someone had rented out a ballroom at a hotel for. Almost a two hour drive for Fletcher, but it’s not like events were being hosted in the woods.

They combed back their hair neatly. But they couldn’t stand to look at their reflection, so they tousled it again. Stylishly.

Fletcher scanned the room for familiar faces when they walked in. Not wanting to make an immediate beeline for the bar, they walked to it casually instead and ordered an old fashioned. Something to hold and sip would help them look and feel more at ease, less awkward and out of place. They leaned against the bar for a moment, surveying the crowd again. Still, no one they knew. That meant it was time for cold introductions.

It was what these events were for, but… ugh.

Fletcher’s eyes landed on an intriguing pair. One was on the taller side. He was wearing a blazer over a turtleneck, silver wire-frame glasses, and his hair in a half pony. One hand held a cocktail, and the other was planted firmly on the shoulder of a slightly shorter man. He had dark curls falling around a gaunt but pretty face. Shadows clung under his eyes, which drifted nervously around the room before returning to the floor. He was dressed in black slacks, a white button-down shirt that hung a bit loosely on his frame, and most notably, a red leather collar with gold details.

If nothing else, they were the most interesting.

Fletcher approached the pair. They held their hand out to the taller man.

“The name’s Fletcher, nice to meet you.”

He took it gladly, with a firm but non-threatening grip. "I’m Caius, and my friend here is Tommy."

Fletcher managed to refrain from cringing at the name. They glanced in his direction in time to catch Tommy looking at them nervously before turning his head away. Fletcher hadn’t intended to offer their hand to him - the power dynamics were clear here - but now they barely wanted to look at him.

It wasn’t an uncommon name, but it still struck a chord every time they heard it.

"What business venture are you two representing?" Fletcher asked, shifting their attention back towards Caius.

With practiced ease, Caius pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and held it out to Fletcher between two fingers. "We make dreams come true."

Oh, Jesus. Fletcher raised their eyebrows just briefly as they took the card. An almost velvety texture, sharp edges, silvery print. “Personalized entertainment,” followed by a phone number. Fletcher flipped it over to a blank back.

"How very enlightening," they said dryly.

"You'll have to forgive me for being discreet. Tommy works for us as a private entertainer, of the torture fantasy variety. He's very responsive to direction, and… stimulus. He's less of a call boy, there are a lot of rules if you want to fuck him." Caius smirked on the word "fuck." He spoke with an even, telemarketer tone throughout.

Tommy wasn't facing Fletcher head-on, but his eyes were focused on them just to the side. He squinted slightly, as if trying to think of something.

"Hm." Responded Fletcher flatly. "So, torture is a free for all, but sex has conditions."

"We have ways of fixing most things, but penicillin can only do so much.” Caius said. “We have a state-of-the-art lab for flash healing and scar-free recoveries. He's a blank slate every time."

To the side, Tommy's gaze lowered, filtered by long eyelashes. Fletcher turned their sights back on him, sizing him up from a new perspective. He was pretty, in a frail way. Timid, most likely beaten into submission. Collared, but not leashed; that meant he could be trusted to follow orders, at least to some extent. He had the allure of a prey animal to a predator like themself. Caius had chosen well. Or molded him well.

“Which do you get more requests for?” Fletcher asked, returning their attention to Caius. “Torture or sex?”

Caius grinned wolfishly. "Torture - sex is cheaper from anyone else." He tipped back his drink for another sip, but did not take his eyes off of Fletcher for one long gulp. It was weird. He made it weird. "I'm sure customers like you get it for free."

"Customers like me?" Fletcher echoed. "What makes me so special?"

Caius cocked his head, shifting gears. "You tell me. Who are you, sharp stranger?"

Ok, so definitely the type who thinks flirting with customers will help him close deals. Fletcher answered unaffected. "I run a training operation. People send me new recruits or nepo babies that aren't living up to expectations and I teach them the skills to be productive members of criminal society. Mercs, mobs, murderers of all kinds. Done work with a lot of families and guilds, hoping to make some more connections tonight."

"Aren't we all." Caius looked around the room briefly. "We will be doing a demonstration later, hoping to drum up some noise for our service." Tommy was a statue at his side, staring off into space like he had drifted from his body. At least for now, while he didn’t have pain to pin him in place. "Maybe you could help me out - you see, I don't want to get this blazer stained... and you could use a bit of color."

"Mm," Fletcher took a sip of their drink. "People usually pay me for that kind of service. I come highly requested. Or I did, when that was my game."

"People usually pay me for that kind of service. Or at least… providing the body. But look at us - we could be here, right now, making a connection."

He was laying it on thick. Fletcher tried to retake control of the direction the conversation was heading. "Not sure if I should be surprised that there’s a market for it. Obviously this is a more major industry than people realize,” they gestured around the room, “but in my experience, not everyone wants to get their hands dirty. Not that dirty, anyway. Not everyone has the stomach for it, let alone the appetite. What's the going rate for something like this?"

"It depends on what you have in mind. Time, tools, location, severity. You could get a quote from my associate over there," Caius said, pointing to a neatly groomed salesman with short, ginger hair. The gesture caught the attention of said associate, whose eyes widened upon seeing Caius talking to a potential client. He rushed over, trying not to look panicked.

"Hi, hello, I'm Rory." Slightly out of breath, he stuck out his hand for Fletcher. "I see you've...met Caius."

Fletcher shook his hand. "Fletcher. Pleasure. You handle the finances for this operation, then?"

He gave a short, biting laugh. His chill, easygoing sales persona was slightly tight on him at the moment. "Yes, I do, you don't have to give Caius any money, all the payments are processed through me."

Fletcher chuckled. "Caius wasn't trying to shake me down. I was just wondering what you charge for this sort of service. Although it sounds like it varies. You have a ballpark, or a range?”

"Well, it depends on a few factors, yeah. Tools, time, location, severity. But if you can tell me a little about what you have in mind, I can get you one right away." Rory flashed a winning smile. "And if I may, you might be interested in a special contraption my associate has made, which we'll also be demonstrating later today. Maximum pain for minimal effort sort of thing, if you don't want to get your hands dirty. Or if you do." He raised a conspiratorial eyebrow, leading the upsell with practiced charm.

"Mostly just asking out of curiosity," Fletcher said. "What's the contraption?"

"The Cradle," Caius easily volunteered. "Michelle is making toys now, and they're just so inspired." Whatever the contraption was, the mention of it seemed to snap Tommy out of his reverie. He promptly switched to a more refined look of abject misery.

Fletcher caught the change in demeanor. "It rocks them gently to sleep, I take it?"

"Something like that. You'll have to catch the whole spiel when we do the demonstration. Then maybe you can do a demonstration for me."

Fletcher had been trying to be diplomatic, but that was a bit much. "Ok, slow your roll, bud. You’re laying it on way too thick right now and I’m gonna need you to tone it down.”

Rory very firmly stepped on Caius's foot, and he dropped his smile suddenly to a more neutral expression. "One hour, ballroom stage. See it for yourself. Come and join the fun, or don't."

He spoke matter-of-factly, betraying no emotion if he was insulted by Fletcher's rebuke. Rory gave Fletcher a tight smile and moved to pull Caius away by his arm. "Caius, come get a drink with me."

Sweat was beginning to form on the ginger salesman’s forehead. Bags forming under his eyes, slight jitters in his hands - probably due for another bump. Caius resisted for a moment, seeming to consider. Tommy moved in to Caius's other side and subtly touched the sleeve by the man's relaxed arm. Caius turned at the touch and they met eyes, exchanging something wordless shared with just a look. Caius walked away amicably with Rory, but Tommy stood there, staring at Fletcher. Studying their face for a moment before telling them, with a defeated voice, "I know what you want."

Fletcher raised their eyebrows. "And what is that?"

Tommy did not keep a prideful look, he just looked experienced. Performing an unpleasant role that had long become old hat to him. "You like it when they squirm."

Fletcher smiled, flashing teeth. They took a step closer to Tommy. "How long have you been... doing this?"

"A while. Around five years, as far as I can tell. They don't let me put tallies on the walls."

Fletcher folded one arm across their chest and left the other loose to swirl their glass. They thought of a number of questions, but weren't sure if they wanted to know the answers. There was a certain level of detachment that made everything easier. Asking how he ended up in his position may be tempting, but hearing his story could create sympathetic feelings that Fletcher would inevitably have to smash down when they left him at the end of the night. Because they sure as fuck weren't going to rescue him like an abused dog. He could have been an enemy who crossed them and lost, he could be a random victim picked up off the street. It didn't make a difference.

"Caius said you fulfill fantasies. You've gotten good at figuring out what people want, then."

"I had to."

"You're better at it than your owner." Fletcher glanced over their shoulder to the bar. Rory was leaning in a little too close to Caius and talking fast while Caius glowered at him. They turned back to Tommy. "Five years, huh? When did you give up?"

"Handler,” Tommy corrected. “I guess...it doesn't really matter." There was a low table off to the side of the crowd, flanked by two plush chairs. Tommy took a few deliberate steps towards it to check if Fletcher followed, and then eagerly claimed one of the seats. He seemed to enjoy sitting down in such luxury like a child might enjoy playing in a pool. Scant pleasures abound for him.

Fletcher pushed out the other chair with their foot and sat, somewhat poised on the edge as if they’d have to jump up at a moment’s notice.

"It's hard to place an exact moment, but...I would say, whenever it was when they had to reattach my hand." He smiled numbly.

Fletcher put their drink down on the table and studied his face. He seemed too aware of his situation to tell an easily refutable lie if he didn't need to. Still, Fletcher had been around the block, and that was extreme. They didn't want to seem gullible. "Are you fucking with me?"

"I'm five years in and just - just look at me," he gestured vaguely to himself. "No scars, no bumps. Experimental stuff. They gambled on the right guy. I say guy, because he's not a doctor any more."

Fletcher did look Tommy over. He was right. This was a person who had accepted his place in Hell, which means he'd been there long enough to get through all the stages of grief. He should be covered in scars. He should have a crooked nose and fingers. He should be in pain when he walks. All he really had to show was a sunken face and dead eyes. Fletcher leaned back in their chair and glanced over to Caius and Rory and again. There was a third person with them now, and they all seemed like they were trying not to make it obvious they were arguing. "Any chance your not-doctor is here tonight?"

Tommy opens his mouth with a wry grin and then seems to think better of it, closing his mouth to chew over his answer again. "No, he's not. I'm not sure Caius would share. That information."

"I saw the smirk,” Fletcher said playfully. “You have something you want to tell me."

Tommy chewed on his lip as he thought about it. "You're going to get me in trouble."

Fletcher put their hands up innocently. "How am I going to get you in trouble?"

"You almost talk to me like a person," Tommy said.

God, he was so pathetic. Part of Fletcher wanted to be nice to him and part of them wanted to grab his face and smash it into the table. Either could get a fun reaction. "Look," they leaned in conspiratorially. "This is your chance to get it all out. You probably don't get to talk shit with customers, right?"

Tommy's face was slightly flushed. He was practically bursting at the seams, but he swallowed down the desire and sat back, sinking into the seat. "You think you're the first to try this?"

Fletcher blew out a breath and rested their chin on their hand. "You are a professional, huh?" they said with a smile. "I may not convince you, but... I like you better than your handler, so far. I think it would be fun to know something he doesn't."

Tommy sighed and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a long moment. "You're the type that needs a reaction. You like being feared. You've been doing the 'lone wolf' thing for a while now." He removes his hands from his face and his eyes stare at them in his lap. "You've convinced yourself you're comfortable with it."

The smile faded from Fletcher's face. They paused for a long time, staring Tommy down. He wouldn't look up to meet their gaze. "I wasn't asking for information about myself," they said coldly. "Look at me."

"I don't - I don't know why I said that." He kept his eyes down.

Fletcher reached out, put two fingers under Tommy's chin, and tilted his head up. They fixed him with a hard stare for a moment. Studying his face, thinking, but also... he wasn't wrong before. They wanted him to squirm. "That's quite a skill. I don't know if you're wasted in this role or if you're perfect for it."

Tommy closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them again they met Fletcher's with focus and clarity.

"I'm perfect for it."

Fletcher put their chin back in their hand. They drummed their fingers against their lower lip. "I haven't talked to anyone else here yet," they said. "But I think you're probably the most interesting person in the room."

Tommy sat up suddenly, turning as Caius, Rory, and a third man joined them. Caius wore a grim smile. "Has he told you I'm evil yet? Made you sympathetic to his cause?"

"Um, no, but I can figure that out," Fletcher said. "We’re all at the evil convention." They finished off their drink and pointed to the newcomer. "Michelle, I take it?"

"You may take it," The other man said with a nervous laugh. His hair was divided into twists that nearly touched his shoulders. "And you're Fletcher in the Rye?"

Fletcher laughed. "That's pretty good." They stood to shake his hand. "You're the inventor?"

"Oh, more like tinkerer, but I suppose. Are you looking for any new toys for your collection?"

"Well, your associates keep alluding to your 'cradle,' trying to create an air of suspense to keep me interested, I'm sure. But, it's working enough that I want to know what it is."

He laughed. "Yeah, they're the ones that know how to sell. It's a curved brace that connects into nerves along the spine. Are you sticking around for the little demonstration we have planned?"

Rory stood by as if waiting for one of the others to say something he would have to try to make up for, but held fast for now. Caius leaned over Tommy's chair and cupped his boy’s face with one hand, his thumb pressed to his lips while his other fingers supported underneath his chin. A peculiar touch, and an almost casual gesture, but some meaning was hidden there. He was touching Tommy where Fletcher had, in order to tip his head up. Caius dug his fingers into the hollows of his cheeks in an almost teasing squeeze before letting go.

Fletcher watched the interaction carefully, studying both their faces. "I'll stick around," they said. "I should work the room more, anyway. And I need another drink." They picked up their empty glass and raised it in a salute. "Gentlemen."

Rory and Michelle gave small, appropriate nods. Caius flashed them one last winning smile before turning suddenly and leaning into Tommy's space to whisper something in his ear.

Fletcher returned to the bar and opted for a whisky sour this time.

“I’d prefer honey, if you have it,” they said as the bartender set to work. They glanced over their shoulder to scope out perspectives to chat up, but ended up turning back to the bartender.

“So, do you work for the hotel, or do you work for the host of the event?” Fletcher asked.

“I’m employed by Ms. Hannowitz,” he said, referring to the host.

Fletcher nodded. “Okay, so you know what’s going on.”

“Indeed I do,” he said, setting Fletcher’s drink on the bar in front of them.

“Thanks.” They took a sip. “It’s great, thank you.”

They turned towards the crowd… then back to the bartender.

“So how does that work - are you solely employed as a bartender for Hannowitz, or do you do other stuff for her, or is there like a catering company specifically for illegal events?”

A pair of women approached the other end of the bar and waved the bartender over.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Fletcher before walking away.

“Oh, sure, sure,” Fletcher muttered. Taking another sip of their drink, they surveyed the crowd. Finally, they saw someone they recognized - a capo in a family they’d done work for in the past, and trained a couple foot soldiers for. He was talking to a couple people Fletcher didn’t know; perfect opportunity for introductions. They made their way over.

The troupe doesn't make a spectacle of it when they make their way to the stage. Caius and Rory each clasp a hand around Tommy's wrists and rush him up to prevent a last-minute escape attempt. Caius had slipped him a little something earlier, which was not pain meds as Tommy had hoped but instead a muscle relaxant. He wasn't running off anywhere any time soon.

Backstage, Michelle opened the suitcase they had loaded in earlier and started to fit together pieces stored inside. Rods interlocked into a surprisingly sturdy frame, and the suitcase was detached from the wheeled base. With a few turns of an allen wrench, the base unfolded into a longer, thinner platform that the metal frame fit into. It resembled a rolling clothing rack, but unusually tall and wide.

Tommy was watching the construction, his stomach tight with fear. It had been a long time since he cried before the torture even started, but his eyes were prickling with unchecked emotion. Beside him, Caius fussed at the backstage vanity. He had pulled out a little doggy bag of cocaine and poured some onto the chalky desk. He dug in his wallet for a credit card and a crumpled receipt, which he smoothed out and rolled with ease. He cut the ivory with his credit card into two lines before wiping one off the edge into a vial.

"Head back," He instructed Tommy, and when he didn't respond fast enough Caius wrenched his head back by his hair. He pressed the vial under his nose and tapped it gently, emptying the coke into Tommy's sinuses before pinching his nose shut. "If you sneeze, I'll leave you up for them all to use. Don't waste my shit."

Tommy's eyes watered at the pain triggered all the way down his throat, but managed to nod. Caius let go and let him wipe his nose while he took the other line for himself.

"Ready?" Michelle had a hand on one of the supporting polls, wheeling the rack along.

Caius coughed and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. "Where's Rory?"

"He's already out there, setting up the table."

Caius sniffed and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, alright, let's do it."

Tommy wondered what coke was like for Caius. He seemed energetic and focused and jolly. For Tommy, it just made his nervous heart pound harder. He felt like trapped prey, with an overwhelming urge to run, but nowhere to go. Mixed with the muscle relaxant, he felt caged inside of his weakened body.

They walked on stage to see a sizable crowd already waiting for them - enough people had noticed the set-up begin, and plenty others had been invited to attend personally by a member of the team. Caius slunk off to go about some nefarious business while Michelle positioned the rack facing out towards the audience. He stopped at each of the four wheels to press a trigger down with his foot, the wheels locking stubbornly onto the stage with a rubber seal as each was fastened. Rory was laying the finishing touches on a folding table to the side, covered in a variety of implements to inflict pain. In the middle layed a long black piece of metal, curved and thin with an appearance reminiscent of a xenomorph's detached spine. Tommy’s heart hammered in his chest looking at it, and he took one step back towards the stairs.

"Hey," a friendly voice said, as a hand gripped him by the arm. He turned and Michelle was looking at him with a curious smile. "Come here, this way." He was led towards the frame by Michelle's push, who gentled him like a wild animal backed into a corner. "Stand here, just like that, good. Strip down to your underwear, please." Tommy gave an anxious glance at the crowd formed in front of them. "Don't be shy. Here, I'll help."

Tommy didn't resist as Michelle helped him undress, cooperating slowly in a daze. None of this felt real. His head throbbed in time with his heart. A moment later he was strung up to the frame, pulled taut up on the balls of his feet by his wrists chained above him. Michelle took his clothes, and Caius reappeared at his side, one cold hand spreading over his lower back.

"Let's get started."

In another life Caius was some shithead Shakespearean actor. At least, he knew how to project to the room.

"Friends among us, we are here to demonstrate a new and original design from our labs." He did not have to clap his hands or ring a bell, the people were intrigued enough by Tommy's public binding that the dull roar simmered to a quiet murmur among the crowd. Michelle stepped up to center stage and took a deep breath.

"Pain is not evil. It is not inherently a punishment from our bodies. It is a part of our natural homeostasis system, our bodies' need to maintain good, working order. Our body tells us what we need through these systems. We feel thirst when we need water, tired when we need sleep, hot when we are overheating, cold when our body temperature is low. We even crave foods that satisfy nutritional needs - red meat when we are low on iron, maybe some popcorn when we need the salt." It got a very modest chuckle from the crowd. "We have built-in sensors throughout our bodies that tell us when we are injured or wounded. All of our sensitive nerves are there to alert us when the body has been damaged. The signal we receive that holds that information, is how we sense pain.

"Common methods of interrogation - or just play - manipulate the body to create pain. But sometimes, we need to generate a lot of pain without causing a lot of bodily harm. What if we used these nerves, these sensors, directly, to cause pain without unnecessary damage?"

Caius fetched the Cradle from the table and brought it to Michelle, who held it up to the audience.

“We are here today to introduce the Cradle, a device for not only generating pain, but immobilizing the subject by it, too. No more handcuff keys to lose. The Cradle conforms to the human spine, and when lined up correctly, slides pins directly into the shallow bundles of nerves along the subject's back. With physical damage no worse than a few pinpricks, you can latch this into a person's spine with an incapacitating amount of pain. The Cradle then locks in place with a simple mechanism that the victim physically cannot reach to unlock. "

There is an excited murmuring through the audience, and Michelle is received well when he holds it aloft.

"As I began the build and manufacture process, I realized the Cradle could accomplish much more than I had planned. By wiring electrodes into the crest of the artificial spine and running copper filament through the pins, the Cradle is able to directly stimulate the nerves with electricity from the rechargeable battery pack located at the small of the back. Each charge is good for 250 hours of consecutive use, and can be stored without charge degradation nearly indefinitely. "

Caius and Michelle moved to Tommy then. He didn’t even register that Caius was telling him to turn around, but they guided him into it, twisting the rope suspending him so his back faced the audience. He felt distant from his body and his hands were already numb.

"By lining the dial up with the top vertebrae, which you can feel at the base of the neck here - " A firm few fingers felt along the back of his neck for a moment before circling a low spot. "-minor adjustment to account for varying heights-" Something cold was pressed to his back, and then there was an intense pressure as the pins there threatened to pierce his skin. "-clamp to insert the pins at an angle, and lock in with a further series of hooks to secure the mechanism-"

Almost as soon as it breached his skin, the pain was unbearable. His back seized with the intrusion and he screamed until he had no air left. Dragging in another deep breath agitated the creature biting hard into his spine and he struggled to collect air.

They let him go and he was slowly turned back with the unwinding of the twisted cord. He was forced to face the audience as he trembled and seized, muscles clenching up into painful cramps, only driving the pins deeper. He kept waiting for the pain to plateau, to break, but it seemed to only heighten more and more. He dry heaved and his legs shuddered, his body spasming in some attempt to relieve the pain it only stoked. They let him dangle there, the monster on his back crushing his spine in shocking agony as he screamed himself hoarse.

"As you can see, it is quite effective at its original purpose. The Cradle has two forms of charge to create different reactions."

Fletcher watched intently. Tommy clearly knew what was coming. His movements were sluggish - either doped up or disassociating. Maybe both. The moment the device kicked on was clear. His face contorted and his legs gave out, bending awkwardly beneath him as his restraints kept him from collapsing. The screaming was loud, and long, interrupted only by gagging breaths. Michelle explained different settings for pain and immobilization. Fletcher figured they could adjust the settings to make it impossible to scream, hitting that sweet spot where the pain takes the breath from your body. At the very least, cause his muscles to seize enough that he can’t open his mouth, and the cries seep through muffled and broken. But these men were showing off - they wanted the screams.

It looked like a good device. Sure, there were tasers and jumper cables that could cause similar effects. Paralytics, nerve agents. But the Cradle seemed more fine tuned, most versatile. Portability was a question - does it fold up? Still beats a car battery, but not the other options. And they’d be interested to see if it left any marks on his back when they were done.

Michelle turned the device off. Tommy hung limp, jerking with aftershocks. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn’t sob. Just moaned with pain. Fletcher had wondered if they were going to feel conflicted about watching the demonstration. After all, they had enjoyed talking to Tommy more than they had any of his owners. But they ate up every moment.

Tommy really was good at it - or good for it. Not much participation was required on his part. Maybe if he had gotten a chance to beg. He was probably really good at begging. Hell, he reads people so well, he probably had it down to a science.

He would probably look good bleeding, too. The contrast of his pale skin and dark hair would pair so well with the rich red of fresh blood.

The troupe on stage took a few more questions. Blah blah blah warranty, blah blah blah voltage, blah blah blah tetanus. One older woman up front piped up.

"What is the lasting damage remaining after use? Have you studied the extent of the nerve damage left?"

"Why don't we ask him?" Michelle and Rory had been fielding most of the questions, but Caius stepped up to address that one. He crossed over to Tommy, who was starting to recover enough to just barely keep himself up. Caius took his face between his hands and lifted his head to speak directly to him. They had a low, murmured conversation for a moment, before Caius dropped his head and turned again to face the crowd.

"As you can see here, there is some bleeding from the punctures." Caius addressed the woman while he used Tommy's back like a prop, gesturing to his various parts like a ranger teaching children about some animal captured for their wildlife display. "The bleeding is little more than the amount shed for removing a simple IV, as the needles are only a wider gauge by two or three times. Immediate after-effects can include tingling, numbness of the extremities, muscle spasms, cramps, and a low-grade fever. Tommy here is doing quite well for having undergone our trials, though he has reported continuing nerve pain for up to three months at a time."

Caius gripped Tommy's arm suddenly and pushed, spinning him around on his suspension a few times while he struggled to get his feet to support him. He slowed to a stop facing out to the audience. His dark curls stuck to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat from the pain, and his eyes were red from crying. He still had little drops of his tears down his chest, and he cowered in his near-nudity before the excited audience. Caius ran his fingers through Tommy's hair, smoothing his hair away from his face and adjusting his curls with a few sharp tugs.

"I'm afraid we did not properly introduce him before, but this is Tommy, and he's a very important part of our business. He's not just here to model Michelle's wicked inventions. See, he is our most requested product by far." Caius put a possessive hand on his clammy lower back, pushing Tommy slightly forwards towards the audience.

Michelle and Rory stepped to the side to let Caius do his song and dance as they moved into a different part of their show-and-tell. Rory seemed to have given up on directing Caius, mollified by his drugs. The same drugs that kept Tommy awake as he already trembled from the strain.

"What would you do if you had him to yourself for a few hours?” Caius asked the crowd. “Anyone?"

There was some nervous shuffling before a young man called out, "Bull whip!"

Caius cracked a grin. "Whipping, certainly. I'm partial to the cane, myself. What else?"

“I'd make him walk on nails!" Another enthusiast called. More people were getting intrigued.

“I'd use him like a punching bag."

“I'll make him beg for his life."

“I'd skin him to the bone."

“He could clean my house in a thong."

“I could use a car battery to make him dance."

“I'd make him dig his own grave."

Talk amongst the crowd grew as people began to brainstorm, and then to one-up each other. Caius laughed with mirth and called them off with the lazy wave of a hand.

"So many good ideas! We use top of the line medical procedures that can't be found outside our labs to keep Tommy fresh for his next date. If you can host, we can come. Tommy is responsive, vocal, and sensitive."

Caius turned and punched Tommy in the stomach. The wind was knocked out of him immediately with the well-placed strike and he struggled to curl in on himself as he wheezed. He could not shield himself with his arms tied above him, and he looked exceptionally vulnerable as he struggled. Mostly nude, strung up in front of a crowd eager to devour him. He had no recourse as Caius dug his fingernails into the tender flesh of his side, raking them across diaphragm and leaving angry red lines in their wake. Tommy flinched and wriggled, a fish caught upon a hook.

"To demonstrate his uses tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, we will invite a very special guest on stage. Please give a round of applause for Fletcher!"

[continued]

@victimeyez @lonesome--hunter @desert-dyke @coldresolve @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @suspicious-whumping-egg @whatwasmyprevioususername @whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump @thatsthewhump @aqua-blogging @utopian819 @bloodinthemud @pretty-face-breaker @cursedandtired @morning-star-whump If you changed your url or don't want to be in the taglist anymore lmk

#we wrote this mostly rp style #god even splitting into parts is long #pt1 is 11 pages and pt 2 is gonna be 7 #in the woods somewhere #professional//victim #hm when i link part two the post title says part 1 in the url so #hopefully it works #writings #original

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