Sometimes I just gotta write whump/darkfic for my favorite wholesome shows. I'm so sorry.
This chapter: Joxter gets caught up in an unfortunate game.
At this point, Joxter has already stopped asking why.
Why did humans do anything really? Fickle creatures, full of cruel whims and sudden fancies. They are impulsive and unpredictable, and not in the way he is, where you might decide to sleep until noon today or take an unplanned trip to the lake for a dip.
Humans are different.
"This is... different." They say, as they run the blade along his arm, just sharp enough to nick at him unpleasantly but without drawing blood altogether. They trace it across the discoloration of his skin, the short fur near his elbows, all the way down to his claws. "What a freakshow."
He bites his tongue, tastes the traces of blood blooming inside his mouth. Joxter is a rambler, a talker. Sometimes he just can't help but open his mouth and get himself in trouble. Right now, that's the last thing he needs. Not just for himself though, for-
The thought leaves him as soon as the blade digs into the soft tissue below his nail, shifting upwards. They pry, hard and relentless and it takes a bit before the claw starts to loosen, pulls slowly and with a sickening sound from the flesh. They whistle while they work, pushing the edge up and down until the nail lets loose with a wet plop.
His hand becomes slick with blood in a matter of seconds.
"A souvenir." The human says thoughtfully, holding it up against the light and inspecting it from a few different sides. Then they turn, grab Joxter's chin and angle his head up. One filthy finger pries into his mouth, curls up his lip, resting right against his incisor and the human smirks. "One of many." They say in way of explanation.
Joxter bites down, sheer instinct, and now it's a different kind of blood on his tongue. The human curses, their other hand comes down hard against his cheek and his head smacks back against the wall he is bound to with a dull crack. They inspect their hand ruefully, the marks are not nearly as deep as Joxter would have liked them to be.
"Fuck." They hiss, flexing their injured finger a few times. "Nasty little habit, isn't it? Must run in the family. Absolutely feral both of you."
Wiping it on their pants, the blood makes satisfying streaks against the pale fabric. "Aint nobody wants to bring him his meals no more. Should have taught your boy not to bite the hand that feeds and all. Though from what I hear ya aint teach him much of anything, did ya?"
Joxter doesn't answer, though he knows that if glares could kill the human would be dead twice over.
"How about we play a little game?" They ask, voice laced with amusement and viciousness. It isn't a question, because that would imply he has the option to refuse. It's a proposition then. "Let's start by picking a body part."
The human looks him over thoughtfully, their eyes are pale and colorless. "Something small would be best. Something rather expandable."
They make eye contact and the human's face lights up.
"Of course, that will do."
They approach, kneel down and Joxter considers kicking their feet out from under them but knows it would do no good except piss them off more still.
"Wouldn't be much of a game without rules though, would it?" They consider out loud. The tip of the blade rests against his lower lash line, just a breath away from its target. "Here's a grand idea. You or the boy, we make a bet out of it."
"No-" Their hand grips his throat, pushes him against the wall and steals his air. There will be bruises along his skin shaped like their fingers.
"Not a gambling man?" They hiss, too close for comfort and it's hot and moist against his cheek. "We'll make it a choice then. One of his or both of yours."
He can't answer, the pressure on his trachea robs him of any words but he nods, feels their palm slacken slightly to allow him to speak.
"Me-" Joxter forces out between the pain and the blood stuck in his throat, the nails digging into his skin. "Take mine. Don't you dare fucking touch him."
The human smirks, thin and amused and his eyes light up with sick pleasure. "How touching."
They inch the blade higher, closer. The edge becomes blurry when Joxter tries to focus on it so he doesn't. He stares at the wall, the grooves in the stones and the way the shadows play along them. There is a tiny window and through it a glimpse of ocean blue sky and fluffy white clouds.
He commits it all to memory. Vivid. Then there's a noise and it reminds him of midnight swims in too cold stream and the sound your drenched clothes make when you peel them off, the way they stick to you like glue.
For a moment there is no pain. Then he blinks and his lid brushes against metal. It blooms inside his socket, spreads out like petals unfurling and when the human pulls back it seeps down his face, drips from his cheek in big drops.
Joxter doesn't scream. But he gasps, a sudden inhale, the air stuck in his lungs. His head falls back against the wall and he jerks against the bindings. His vision is blurry even in the one remaining eye.
With a sardonic little chuckle the human watches him, considering the damage. "You do know he would have been fine right?" They say, calmly, as they inspect the fluid seeping from his ruined socket. "There's plenty of people who survive perfectly with just one eye."
They grab Joxter's chin again, keeping their fingers far away from his mouth this time. "Blindness though. That's a bitch to get through."
And with those words they thrust the blade in once more.
"Me." He says, as soon as he hears them come through the door. The human hesitates at the threshold, their boots scrape against the floor thoughtfully.
"I aint even tell you the game yet." They muse.
Joxter grins and it hurts, every single movement hurts. It has been a week. "Have the rules changed?"
The door slams closed, their footsteps approach and he tenses. They have something in their hand, it drags along the floor behind them, stone against wood.
"Not yet." They answer. They kneel down in front of him, something cold presses against his cheeks. It's the same blade as all the other times. "But you haven't even heard today's menu."
He doesn't care. It wouldn't make a difference. It never will. Joxter waits.
"One of his fingers." The blade drags down towards his neck, hovers dangerously over his pulse. "Or your hand."
With a nod he leans back against the wall. They shift, he can hear them exhale shakily, pleased.
"I'll let you pick which one." They slash through the rope around his wrists easily, confident in knowing the leash around his throat will keep him in place. "It will hurt just the same."
Joxter lays his right hand on the floor in front of him. They grunt as they rear back the thing they brought.
A hammer, he realizes, just as he hears the crunching of his own bones.
It's another week before they finally grow tired of the game. Their fingers are curled up in his hair, dragging him across the room. They throw him on the floor like a ragdoll.
"It's the grand finale, freakshow." Their foot comes down on what remains of his hand, grinds the fleshy bits into pulp. Joxter does try to scream this time, but their other boot pushes down hard on his throat and whatever was supposed to come out turns into a strangled groan.
"I think I'd like another souvenir." And as they say it he can hear his pulled fangs that they have collected into a pouch, like pieces of coin. "What about your life against his tail. Now that's a bargain."
His teeth sink into his lip hard enough to draw blood. His face is already streaked with it, dried and unpleasant. Joxter shakes his head.
"If you have so much as touched a hair on his body, I will end you."
The human doesn't respond right away. He wishes he could see their facial expression, because it has been two weeks. Two weeks and he doesn't know for sure if his son is even still alive. All he has is a flimsy promise and a rigged game and no trust.
But there are risks even he isn't willing to take.
They straddle him, their weight like stones on his chest and when their hands curl around his throat once more it's familiar, almost comforting.
Somebody is shaking him. The air smells like salt and iron. Tears and blood. Joxter smirks.
"Are you crying?"
The shaking stops, for just a second, and then there's sharp nails digging into his arm, something soft pressing against his side.
"You scared me." Is all Snufkin says.
"Did they hurt you?"
"I'm fine."
Joxter can't tell if that's true without visual confirmation, but he'll have to take Snufkin's word for it, and the room smells too strongly of blood to tell. He doesn't sound too much worse for wear anyway.
"Can we go home now?"
He struggles to get up and his son supports him, allowing him to lean onto him instead. He can't put any weight onto his broken leg. The pain radiates down from his shin and makes walking very bothersome either way.
"Yes. Let's go home."
Joxter is quite done with games for the time being.
Tumblr: sharada-n