Snap.

31Mar08

Brock has found that, unless they have broken someone else’s bones, most people do not know what the sound of a breaking bone is. After all, people who have had their bones broken are in too much pain to hear it.

The sound is actually quieter than authors and TV like to portray it as — it’s more of a quiet snap than a sharp one, like the sound a green branch would make if you broke it.

Molotov’s bones are even quieter, he notes as he crushes her hand in one of his, her punishment for being an unbearable pricktease who lets her fingers wander more than she should.

She pulls her mouth away from the crook of his neck to howl in pain, though she cannot move away from him, since he has her pinned against the wall, her leg between his, her thigh against his crotch, slowly grinding though Brock is more than aware that she would never let him finish. Her hand, still twitching in his, had been inching toward his knife, and he had only noticed in time to grab her by the hand and wrist, resulting in her broken bones. Molotov tries to jerk her leg up, but Brock squeezes her thigh with his legs, so that she is trapped there as well, and sneers at her.

“I don’t think so, Cocktease,” he says, though he is not really sure if he is actually using her surname or just calling a spade a spade. She is unable to do much besides shoot him a furious, if incredibly pained, look. Brock continues to sneer. “Move your leg.”

“Go to hell,” she returns.

“Move your leg,” he commands, teeth bared, “or I’ll snap your wrist, too.”

“Like that would fix the problem.”

“I’ll snap your wrist and then make you move,” he says, tightening his grip threateningly.

Molotov glares hatefully, and then starts to move her leg against him again, agonisingly slow and just a touch harder than he prefers. He’s still got her leg locked between his, of course, otherwise she would have already kneed him so hard that his testicles would have permanently retracted into his body, he knows this.

It feels good to him, but not right, because now she is angry, he can see, and she’s also pretty humiliated, if the way she has her face turned away is any hint, her eye pressed against the wall so that all he can see is her eyepatch. Brock grits his teeth, frustrated, and presses his forehead against her temple, eyes closed.

“Molotov… Molotov, stop,” he says, voice soft, then sighs wearily. “Just… stop.”

She immediately does, and he lets go of her to take a few very highly uncomfortable steps back. “Sorry,” he tells her vaguely, mumbling, then waves indirectly at the front door of the motel room, rubbing at the back of his neck with his other hand.

Glaring again, Molotov swears venomously at him in Russian, then leaves, clutching her crushed hand to her chest.

Brock sighs, punches through the wall closest to him, and then sits on the edge of the bed, placing a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, staring angrily at his lap. He smokes his cigarette down to the filter, then flops backward on the bed to look at the ceiling, lifting his hips as he unzips his jeans, taking care of things alone, like he always does when Molotov shows up.

It’ll be a long time before she shows up in his life again now, he knows that.

And the next time, he already can tell, it’ll be his bones that snap.

Filed under: Brock/Molotov, Deathmance, NSFW, Venture Bros   |  Leave a Comment