Icaro groaned, forgetting about the pride that forced him to be silent.
"What is the matter?" Queen asked playfully, still forcing his arms too high behind his back.
"Please," Icaro pleaded, forcing his voice to be even, he would be punished for stuttering, and Queen wasn't punish him yet, she was just playing, "It'll break, my queen, if you keep-"
"Shh," she ordered, and Icaro forced his mouth shut, "Let's see how far you can go."
Please no, please- another groan, she kept forcing his arm, twisting it painfully, the groans became a screams but she didn't stop.
Only when she heard his bones snapping she let go of him, making him fall on the floor with a tired and painful groan.
"That looks broken," she said with a child tone, towering over him, "On a better look, you seem just fine, but anyway I'll stop here."
"Thank...you," Icaro maneged, relived, "my queen."
Tiny hands and feet grabbed and pulled at his sweater, the tiny boy they belonged to was a nervous wreck. Oliver could feel Deeb's anxiety as the tiny boy watched him, studying each movement his large fingers made. It didn't help that Fish was cradled in his hands, the source of Dustbunny's worry.
"Deeb. Deeb… I'm gonna need you to relax a little bit, bud. You're worrying more than Fish is." Oliver murmured gently.
"I'll be as careful as I can, but, you need to know he's going to be in more pain before he gets better. Fixing his arm isn't going to be pleasant for any of us." Oliver reminded.
Deeb grabbed at Oliver's hair, holding it nervously in his small hands.
"Alright Fish, this will hurt but it'll be healed in no time, ok?"
The tiny boy in his hands nodded, a few stray tears rolled down his cheeks. Oliver's large fingers gently squeezed the boy's arm, beginning to pull it to try and get the bone back into place.
Fish let out a scream of agony as his painful arm was pulled, his lip began to bleed from how hard he bit into it. He could only think of the pain he was in as Oliver pulled his arm to try and get the bone back into place, a quick glance up let him see Deeb's worried face looking down at him.
Finally Oliver pulled the small arm to a point where he could let it go back into its place. It would be in pain for awhile but at least he knew that Fish could use it again.
The small boy lay nearly limp in his hands, drifting in and out of consciousness from the agony of his elbow being put back into place. His tiny chest heaving as he took deep breaths to try and recover.
Deeb climbed down Oliver's sweater sleeve, tripping and getting caught before finally managing to get into his hands. He threw his arms around Fish's exhausted shoulders and pulled him against his chest, just glad his best friend was okay. He felt his tears fall into Fish's brown hair while a damp spot had formed on his shirt where the other boy had begun to cry.
"Fish, Fish I'm so glad you're okay. I was so worried, you're okay though now, we're okay." Deeb mumbled into his friend's hair, still holding him close.
"We… we're okay.. my arm's gonna get better real soon." Fish mumbled back into Deeb's sweater.
Oliver carefully stood up, carrying the pair to the living room with him and set them gently into a nest made from a soft blanket. He watched as Deeb produced a small piece of fabric and tied it around Fish's neck and placed the recovering elbow into it, creating a tiny sling.
Finally content that Fish was comfortable and safe, Deeb let himself sit down in the blanket nest. He looked up to Oliver nervously, fidgeting with his fingers in the process.
"Thank you for helping him… I was afraid I was going to lose him."
"You're both very welcome, I would miss him and you terribly. Now, get some rest, it won't do him any good if his best friend is exhausted."
With that, Deeb nodded and snuggled into the soft blanket, keeping a hand on his already sleeping friend.
Welcome to installment three of the March whump mini-series for @amonthofwhump‘s March Madness challenge. (I need to come up with a concrete title for this mini-series... ah well.) Featuring the dislocated/broken bones and defiant whumpee tropes -- some of my favorites to use in both whump and regular writing. I have a whump modus operandi, or so it would seem. This chapter is dedicated to @ashintheairlikesnow because reasons.
chapters: one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten
~*~*~*~
“Quit making that noise, Maresh. You sound like a stuck pig.” Holland’s footsteps circled Kell where he lay on the flagstone floor. He had been listening to the redhead moan and yelp for an hour or so now. He couldn’t help chuckling at the thought. “Perhaps that’s what you are.”
Kell groaned, cheek pressed to the floor. After another minute of dramatics, he looks up with blazing blue eyes. “Fuck. You. Holland.”
Holland rolled his eyes, circling back around the small room, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. If only Kell realized how easy Holland had been on him so far. Astrid’s explicit orders. Leave the kid gloves on, Holland; I want him weeping when I get to him. If he had had his way, Kell would have been out cold within minutes — an homage to how quickly Athos had rendered him limp and useless years ago.
But he had orders.
So Holland leaned back, then threw all his weight forward. The toe of his boot connected hard with Kell’s stomach. The redhead let out a horrible, sputtering gag. He rolled onto his knees, clutching his stomach as he coughed and spit onto the stones. Holland grinned as he took another turn of the room, coming to lean against one of the walls.
He was disappointed, frankly, as he watched the scene before him. He knew Kell Maresh was soft — raised among all that wealth and excess, wanting for nothing, how could he not be? — but Holland had expected a better fight out of him. The younger man’s resolve had concertinaed the second Holland’s knife had gone through his hand.
“This is embarrassing,” Holland muttered, running a hand over his jaw. Stubble scratched at his palm and Kell continued to retch. Holland rolled his eyes, pushing himself off the wall, and crouched down next to the groaning man. “I didn’t expect you to be such a weak, whiny bastard, you know that Maresh?”
Kell heaved himself up from the floor long enough to spit on Holland’s shoe. “Takes one to know one,” he rasped.
Holland’s hand shot out, fingers gripping the sweaty red strands tightly at the root. He stood, hauling Kell backwards and dragging him for a few feet before shoving him back down. The insults must have spurned something inside Kell. As soon as his back hit hit the floor, he was lurching back upright. Holland pushed him back down, dropping down over his chest. The rebellion was inspired — clawing fingers, biting teeth, kicking legs — but it was quickly snuffed out.
“That’s more like it!” Holland grinned. He grabbed at Kell’s hair again, cracking his head against the stone floor. Not wanting to miss an easy opportunity, Holland threw a fist. The give and snap of Kell’s nose under his fist made him grin. Fresh red blood dripped over Kell’s lips and chin. Holland went for another, just for the hell of it.
Kell coughed, spitting blood in a fine mist that settled like gory red freckles on his pale face. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“I was running. You could have let me go.”
Holland barked a laugh. “And risk you running your mouth all over London? Not likely, Maresh. You and you brother have been stepping into my territory. You’re bad for business. You understand.”
“The Danes’ territory, you mean.” Kell glared up at him.
Holland watched him brace for another punch. It made the yelp he made next that much sweeter. Holland gripped the other man’s arm, shoving it over his head and twisting the wrist once. He felt a pop and what might have been a crunch underneath his palm. The gashes in Kell’s palm, still pink and painful, began weeping blood again.
“Sanct!”
“Curse like you mean it, for fuck’s sake,” Holland sighed. He yanked and twisted Kell’s wrist again to drive the point home.
Kell let out a sharp, strained scream. “Fuck! You get off on this, don’t you?”
“I don’t,” Holland answered, leaning all his weight onto the injured arm. “Believe it or not, you do nothing for me.”
“Pilse,” Kell spat.
“Don’t tire yourself out, Maresh. Better save some of that fight for later, when the Twins decide to pay a visit.” Holland released his wrist, sitting back on his heels and dusting his hands on his pant legs. “This is kid-glove treatment. A warm up. Even after weaseling into our joints, stealing our customers, disobeying the agreed-to line, you get off easy.”
“Jealous?” Kell raised an eyebrow, looking confident he had struck a nerve.
“Not a chance.” Holland twisted his fingers in Kell’s shirt front, yanking him up off the floor. “Even day one, when Athos and Astrid laid into me like there was no tomorrow, I wasn’t the sniveling, whining, squealing disgrace you are right now.”
“I’m not—!”
Kell’s protest was cut off as Holland released his grip, tossing him across the room. His shoulder hit the ground first, his forehead following as his body rolled with the momentum of the throw. Holland didn’t have time for Kell to refocus. In a breath, Holland was back on him, dragging him back only to throw him into the wall of the small basement room. He stepped back to observe, lying in wait for whatever move Kell would choose.
Kell slumped down onto the floor, rolling forward onto his side. He was still for a moment, his ragged breaths echoing softly around the room.
Holland counted in his head. Ten seconds for the redhead to stir back to life. Seventeen for him to try pushing himself upright. Another twelve spent whimpering after putting too much pressure on his sliced up palm and injured wrist. A final thirty for Kell too roll up onto his knees to press himself up on the wall. Holland watched, impassively, as the younger man cradled his wrist to his chest, tears welling up and spilling down over his cheeks. A darker part of him hoped the minute bones were broken.
Holland stepped forward, relishing Kell’s flinching and wincing. He crouched down, balancing expertly on the balls of his feet. “Yes. You. Are. Look at yourself, Maresh.”
Kell stared blankly at him. “Look at yourself, Vosijk.”
“I have. Plenty of times.”
“And you’re happy with it?”
“I’ve learned to live with what I’ve become,” Holland said, low and threatening. “Someday, you will too.”
Holland reached out, grabbing Kell by the ankle and pulling him back down onto the floor. He snatched Kell’s arm from his chest, subjecting his wrist to an iron grip as he flipped the other man onto his face. He wrenched the arm up around onto Kell’s back, the joint popping loudly. Kell yelped and wriggled, trying weakly to throw Holland off him.
Shoving a knee into the small of Kell’s back, Holland dropped heavy on the other man’s hips, then leaned forward to Kell’s ear. “I have my orders, you know.”
“Dis-disobey,” Kell hissed through gritted teeth.
“My will against yours, Kell.” Holland twisted Kell’s arm. The joints and bones crackled. The fabric of his soiled shirt strained and ripped. “Strange how one small deal can ruin so much.”
“Make. A Choice. Holland.”
“You know I don’t have one.”
Kell wriggled, then screeched. He panted, open-mouthed, into the stones. “Make. One.”
“Answer me something, Kell,” Holland answered, throwing his weight forward. “Are you afraid of dying?”
“No.”
Holland chuckled at the defiance — the flaring, bitter, anger. He leaned forward, biting deeply into the shell of the redhead’s ear. Just to hear him squeak and squeal again. When he released it, he licked the wound, and hissed: “When I’m done with you, you will be.”
So my wrist had been hurting for a while now so I finally went to see a doctor. Turns out it's been dislocated for a couple of days and i didnt even realize it. Pretty sure my doctor wanted to strange me. He got his revenge in electrical shock therapy.
