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“Take off your jacket.”
Dirk’s voice cuts through the silence like a knife, making Jake jump as he squeezes his 3DS.
“I-I beg your pardon?” He asks, turning his head away from Pokemon HeartGold to look up at him. Jake had been spending the better half of the last hour trying to deal with Whitney, which might have caused him to ignore Dirk a bit.
“I told you to take off your jacket, are you fucking deaf?” Dirk's tone is cruel as he snarls as Jake, seemingly a second away from starting to yell at him. Or hit him. Or both.
Jake rolls the words over in his brain as he places the device down on the coffee table. Dirk didn't tell him to take his pants or shirt off, so he probably isn't looking to fuck Jake, and he sounds Mad Mad, not Horny Mad where he takes it out on Jake by shoving his cock down his throat or ass. No, he sounds more like he's about to put the smaller boy through a wall.
His eyes flick down to Dirk's hands, noticing that they're neatly clasped on his lap, as if to ensure that Dirk doesn't hurt Jake so badly (read: noticeably) that old Granny English runs him through with her bayonet. Jake continues to stare until he finally notices something. A bright orange box cutter placed on the coffee table.
Oh, fuck.
“Oh, fuck.” He squeaks out before he can stop himself, probably pissing Dirk off more.
He knows what the boxcutter is for. His wrists throb in pain under their wrappings, still not fully healed from last time. Dirk likes to cut into his skin, or to make him do it. It's probably one of the few things that bring him actual joy, along with his puppets and those colourful horses. It captivates his attention in a way that Jake is unable to when showing him movies or comics he enjoys.
He's still staring at him. Crushing Jake under the weight of his glare, as if he were pressing down on his ribs, pushing all the air out of his lungs, making his ribs bend and finally snap with a pop, stabbing his squishy organs and preventing him from breathing.
“Well?”
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Jake takes his jacket off.
His hands shake as they neatly fold the piece of clothing into a square and plop it down next to his 3DS, the battle music still ringing out through its speakers as Whitney's Miltank mocks him with its beady eyes and still green health bar. Bastard.
The wrappings on his wrists are clean, the cuts stopped bleeding a few days ago once the blood finally started clotting, plus they weren't even that deep, wouldn't even scar.
He did have some scars from their sessions, when Dirk would be too mad or Jake would be put in charge of the process and end up going too deep, sparking either a laugh or a scolding from Dirk accompanied by a smack. He didn't mind the scars!! They looked pretty cool. It was just hard to explain to Grandma why he had them if he never joined her on her expeditions.
“C’mere.” Dirk’s voice brings him out of his thoughts, making him remember what was happening and finally walking over to drop his tiny ass in his lap.
Jake gulps as a gloved hand wraps around his forearm, then flinches as a finger digs under the bandages and pulls, easily undoing them and revealing the still healing scars.
“Really did a number on you last time, didn't I?” Dirk asks, reaching over to pick up the boxcutter and slowly push the blade out with a few tick sounds.
“H-ha, you sure did… S-say Dirk- chum- maybe we could not do this whole ordeal today, I’m sure whatever I did can be solved by some other way.”
Dirk hums in response, weighing the boxcutter and lightly tapping the blade against Jake's skin. “So, you know you did something wrong.”
“Well- based on current events-” he cocks his head a bit, trying to point at the tool, “-I can say, with some certainty, that you may not be too pleased with me.” He punctuates the end of his sentence with a small chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
“You know what you did wrong?” He asks, pressing the tip down on his upper forearm, clearly implying “Get it right, or I cut you.”
“Um… I ignored you?”
“And do you know why it's wrong for you to do that?”
“Be..cause… you… don't like being ignored?”
Clearly, that was the wrong answer.
That fact is reinforced by a quick swipe of the boxcutter, slicing into a spot between two scars and causing blood to slowly bead out.
“Holy sweet Christopher Kringle- Fuck! That hurts!” Jake jumps but is quickly grabbed and held in place by Dirk's arm. “Goodness gracious, can't we make a point system or something before we jump straight to mutilation!?”
“You ignoring me is bad, because-” Dirk continues, ignoring Jake’s suggestion, “-I don't let you stay here so you can play fucking Pokemon and ignore me when I speak to you.”
“Did you try to speak to me?” Jake asks, pressing his palm against the scar as blood starts to trickle down his forearm.
“Yeah. I called for you, and you didn't reply.”
“Oh! Well, why didn't you just try harder instead of deciding to fucking butcher me!!” Jake's voice cracks as he raises it, the small fire of indignation over what was currently happening quickly being put out as he realised what he just did.
“I-I mean-” He's cut off as the hand that was holding him snatches his still bleeding wrist, before he feels two more swipes of the metal, along with his skin splitting.
Fuck. It hurts. Big shocker! Doesn't matter how many times Dirk slices into him, it'll always hurt like a whore.
Jake tries to slow his breathing and not focus on his current injuries, before Dirk unceremoniously shoves onto the couch, making him bump his head against the armrest.
“Shorts off, faggot.” Ah, he's using slurs. Jake must've really struck a nerve.
He should be more resistant when it comes to taking his shorts off, but he's more used to the pain of a cock being forced into him than that of being diced like he's a cheap veal cutlet.
His shorts come off easily. Unlike Dirk,he isn't a psycho that likes to wear jeans when home. He also doesn't like to hurt boys seven years younger than him. But, hey! Opposites attract or however the saying goes.
His boxers join the pile. Dirk didn't ask him to, but he guessed that he was going to have to take them off either way. It leaves his flaccid cock hanging out and drooping down onto the couch cushions.
“Spread ‘em,” Dirk orders, flicking the boxcutter a bit and shuffling closer to Jake.
Oh god, he's going to cut my dick off. Runs through Jake's mind, before he feels cold metal press against his thigh fat.
“Your wrists are too fucking full. The thighs are my only option if I wanna do this properly.” He speaks as if he's obligated to do this. Like Jake asked him to slit his wrists and he's been forced to explain why he's not able to. Dirk's hand presses on his knee to push his thigh flat against the couch, with his other hand ready to cut.
“Maybe, you could not do it at all. Just a thought.” Jake grits out through his teeth, his heart slamming against his ribs as he waits patiently for the- Oh! There it is.
He grits his teeth harder, letting out a groan of pain as the split skin starts to pump out blood.
Dirk doesn't give him a second to think before he feels another cut, parallel to the one he just made and closer to his crotch. His eyes flick down to glare at the tool, and he's forced to watch another slice occur. This time, it catches in his leg hair and causes it to be unfinished, a tiny gap between the two parts, leaving then uneven.
“Fucking- I truly, truly apologise for ignoring you, but there has to be some other way I can earn your forgiveness.” Jake tries, but it's clearly to no avail as Dirk cuts him again. This time driving a horizontal cut through the three vertical ones.
“Nope. Just shut your mouth and take it.” Dirk answers, delivering another one. As if he were trying to create a grid on Jake's thigh. Maybe once he's done, they can have a jolly game of tic-tac-toe. Before he can continue that thought, Dirk slices again, finalising the grid.
He pulls the boxcutter back to admire his handiwork. The cuts are bloody as they drip blood down Jake's thigh, making some of the hair clump together, before landing on the couch cushion. Dirk, clearly unbothered by the future cleaning he'll need to do, switches to the other thigh. But, he hesitates for a second. Maybe, realising how fucked what he's doing it.
Or, based on the fact he immediately dives in, stumped on ideas. He must've figured something out, as he cuts one line into Jake. Deep.
“Ow!!” Jake yelps, his other foot planting itself onto the floor as Dirk holds his other leg in place. He feels him cut three more lines into him. Diagonally, vertically, then diagnonally again. All of which deeper than what Jake was used to.
Dirk cuts again. Three more lines next to the previous ones. All of them diagonal.
“I’m done,” he states as he sits back up, sliding the blade back into its cave then tossing it away. Reaching over, he picks up a box of tissues and hands it to him. “Clean yourself up and quit bleeding on my couch.”
Jake would like to spit back with something just as snarky, but he doesn't want Dirk to change his mind, so he plucks a good amount of tissues with both hands and presses them down on his thigh cuts, opting to deal with the ones on his wrist later since they're not as deep.
Dirk leaves him to his devices as he disappears into the kitchen, mumbling something about dinner before he does. Jake hisses as he pats the cuts down, the tissues constantly coming back bloody along with leaving torn off parts stuck to the gashes.
Jake huffs as he works, tossing the too bloody tissues onto the table once he can't use them anymore. Eventually, they're clean enough for him to make out the grid Dirk left, along with a very shoddy “D S” left on the opposite thigh.