Maledicted Marina returns. And upon my return, I bring this as a big 'fuck you' to the prude who reported me.
I dunno who you are, but I hope for your sake that we never meet. Because you royally pissed me off, asshole.
Or you can think of it as a big "OMFG I MIISSSS YOOOU skajfsdaks;djf" to everyone who read my stories on here. I feel awful! ;; Anyways, onward.
This is more of my regurgitations of the Jak boys' sexualities. A year has passed since I became active in the fandom, and there is still an insufficient amount of stories featuring Erol. I exist to remedy this.
This has got to be the weirdest title I've ever given a fic. Forgive my fangirlish obsession with being on the high school drumline. Voyeurism and descriptive masturbation ahead. I do not believe I have seen this done in the fandom yet. Hurray for innovation. This is a PWP. Don't like, don't read. Simple.
Enjoy. Vomit. Whatever.
12/13
"Twelve-Thirteen" (12-13) is the name of a warm-up used by some marching band drumlines. It is named for the complex and syncopated 'strokes' that it involves, and the order in which they are played.
What haste could do to a certain situation may not always create the best results. Even Erol, driven by the catalyst of impatience, fast-paced lust and the infinite speed of time; inspired by the quick rush of blood to the head, the abdomen and the tips of his fingers, knew when to yield to a situation and experience every second that passed between him and his destination.
There was hardly any reason for haste to take place. He had found him. Knew exactly what lay behind the sliding door in the end of the pathetic little slum cove. He had been standing there, regarding it for several minutes, admiring his discovery and furthermore contemplating his current position.
He had followed him there. Rather than make his nearby presence known when he witnessed him floating by on a zoomer that was undoubtedly stolen, he crept behind him at moderate speed, taking care to camouflage himself behind other vehicles.
What to do? The choices were delectable. It would be a truly beautiful moment if he were to walk out right now and see his nemesis standing in front of his zoomer, battle-ready with that crazy tint of insanity swirling about his eyes.
But to go inside would entice a more dangerous confrontation. The Extra Risk was always one Erol willed himself to take, and so he took his first step towards the sliding door, and then the next, and then the next, one after the other, his stride in perfect time with the atmosphere around him and evenly spaced. After all, he was in no rush.
Twenty steps away, and twenty inches below ground, a faucet twisted to the far right of its function, nearly scorching the skin of its user.
Dead Town had its way of making its few and far between visitors take with them so much of the dirt and dust that plagued it, that Jak supposed it was probably the place's own way of getting rid of the gritty substance. After the mission, Daxter had bounded away to visit Tess and he had come directly to the hideout to get a shower, stripping almost immediately upon entrance (thank Mar that Torn was not present). The hot water turned his skin red almost upon impact, but he showed no sign of pain as he let it rinse the sand off of his person.
There was a tiny, rationed bar of soap present, but there were no washcloths, he realized after entering the shower.
Guess he'd just have to use his hands.
Nine steps away.
After washing himself as efficiently as he could with nothing but bare palms and fingertips, it dawned on Jak how much his body had changed since…well, since he'd last touched himself. Areas that were once thin and boyish now sported muscle, hard features that, as a boy, he only dreamed of possessing.
Five.
Absently, he ran his fingers across each opposite bicep, and they came to rest in a fold across his chest. He looked down, squeezing his eyes shut, then opening, and repeating the process over and over again.
It won't. Go. Away.
Tucked in the crooks of his arms, his fists clenched tightly.
One.
Inside of truth, there was no denying. There was no denying, and there was no resistance. There was, and you did it.
The door slid to the side, nearly welcoming Erol—strange to him, in the back of his mind; why would the door be unguarded at this time of day—and he dragged his fingers along the sides of the corridors as he submerged himself into the dim, futile atmosphere of the infamous Underground headquarters.
…not too impressive, in his opinion. He nearly laughed aloud at the pictures of him with scribbles all over them; he never thought Torn would do something so… elementary and childish.
His feet came into contact with a familiar discarded piece of clothing. He lifted the dirty, bluish-brownish garment with the tip of his index finger and inhaled the cloud of dust and the musky scent that mingled with it.
"…I guess that means I have a victim," the racer said aloud, without truly knowing it.
Above him, the structure creaked slightly, and the sound of rushing water sloshed against ill-managed pipes inside of walls in worse condition. He looked up, head following the sound of the water to its destination--another compartment of the pathetic hideout located a few steps below the main room. He took more steps. Along the way he found more pieces of clothing—a belt, a holster for a gun, armor, and at the bottom of the steps, pants—as if they'd just been dropped and walked right out of.
Dead in front of Erol was an old-fashioned wooden door on hinges—it lacked a doorknob, and feeble light and steam oozed from the hole and the cracks that formed due to its inability to close properly.
He knew what was behind that door.
Unable to rationalize his actions, he leaned himself flat against its surface, long, curved ear to the heavy wood, listening to the inconsistencies of the water splashing against the tile surfaces, due to Jak's moving around. He inhaled whatever mixed scent came through to him, letting it settle in the back of his throat before exhaling.
Erol slid down the door and glared into the hole, pulling free his left hand from its glove to hold the door steady as he searched the steam for the boy.
His mouth came open when his eyes spotted him, bottom lip hanging listlessly below his teeth. The tip of his tongue ran across it, making it more susceptible to the cold.
Jak's skin had reddened and numbed to a point where the scorching drops of water no longer bit—it was all dull pounding against throbbing flesh. He tried locating his pulse, but it seemed to be everywhere at once.
He felt embarrassed, like he was a pre-teen and he'd done it for his first time all over again. As if he were doing something that looked incredibly stupid, and he was dying to stop, but that irresistible magnetic pull egged him on, kept his fist closed around his cock and his arm working.
The burn was there, and it was crawling up his forearm, seconds away from his elbow. He dreaded it reaching past that point; it became painful from then on out, and even more so because he couldn't stop to rest aching muscles. It defeated the whole purpose.
What was his purpose, anyways? he pondered as he pressed his back against the dirty tiles and slid down, facing the door.
The structure of the shower reminded Erol of those he was familiar with at the Fortress: no stalls, no curtains, just a spout that came extended from the wall. His eyes followed the water as it fell onto Jak, flattening his hair against his head and rolling down the sides of his body. He was kneeling now, one thigh parallel to the ground and the other perpendicular.
The zipper of his jumpsuit was so noisy, and it broke the perfect near-silence of nothingness, the splash of water, and his own heart wanting to explode against his ribcage. It vibrated soundly in his ears. He tried as hard as he could to slide it down without it making that irritating ripping noise; he stopped just above the hips and sunk his teeth into his lower lip as he saw Jak turn towards him and sit back against the wall, head bowed and arm pumping at about half the speed his heart was.
Later on, when he would take his cold shower in his own quarters and run the day's thoughts through his head, he would not recall slipping his ungloved hand into his jumpsuit.
Muscles shifted beneath tight skin.
Water kept falling into his eyes, so when they slid shut, they rubbed painfully against the lids.
He was trying to slow down—he wasn't sure why; and didn't he just want it to end sooner?—without losing interest, to give his arm a break. It wasn't working very well, and he would keep shifting paces: picking up speed, dropping it, repeating. He would have heard himself suck his breath in, or his head knock back against the tile had the shower not been running, but he could only taste the blood drawn from his lip from biting down too hard. He forced his eyes open, watching the room run to the ground behind a watery veil.
It wasn't hard. It wasn't complicated. It was simple. He wanted to come. Why did he have to coach himself through this?
His eyes rolled back into his head and all was dark again.
The yellow jumpsuit was sticking to parts of his body now. Sweat is supposed to do a body good, unless you were spying on someone and moving around got noisier and more uncomfortable.
Erol's chest was exposed to the small track of steam that came through from the hole in the door. It crawled against his bare skin, expanding and moving towards his neck and down his waist. He still sucked in the tainted air from the bathroom; he watched as Jak's facial expression shifted uncomfortably: tired, elated, frustrated, repeating. His own hand was conditioned to match Jak's varying position and speed, because in the Guard, they were taught that decadence could lead to disaster. It was like marching: left-right-left-right, follow the stupid little ditties that the commander yells; only here they followed their heartbeats and Jak's ill confusion.
It drove Erol mad, because this was one of those times when he knew that going fast was an asset. He wanted to push the door open, march in with his left hand still in his pants and use the other to speed up the boy's pace. Oh, if only.
Jak's head leaned back, chin up towards the ceiling and Erol did the same in his mirrored position.
Eventually, his arm went numb, and there was only the almost-painful tingle that crawled up his length at a slow, agonizing speed. Something like a millimeter per three quick, fluid pumps. It was getting there, though. Gradually.
He wasn't sure when it was that his vision faltered and all he could feel was the tingling spread throughout his lower regions. He wasn't sure when the heat in the steam began to suffocate him, become thick in his throat and make his head feel heavy. He wasn't sure when the shower began to lose its warmth and pound dully against his skin: for all he knew, he was just numb all over. And furthermore, he wasn't sure when the urge to just stop came to replace his want to make it last—now he wanted it to end, more quickly than ever.
This was illustrated beautifully to Erol as he witnessed the boy's fist quicken its motions; his mouth parted slightly and emitting delicious sounding little moans, the tip of his tongue snaking out to run the lining of his lips. Erol did the same, not realizing it until another cold blast of air glided across the wet skin.
Teeth pierced into its own flesh, and Jak came just as soon as he tasted the copper sinking into his tongue. It was violent, vulgar, even—and left his body with a sharp, throbbing pain afterwards. He kept moving his hand automatically, even though it had no effect. He exhaled slowly, banging his head back against the dirty tiles lightly. He didn't even want to try standing up at the moment. His thighs hurt. His arm hurt. His head hurt.
Erol blinked lazily through the hole, wet fingers in his pants sliding against each other. He'd stopped touching himself when Jak did, using his other hand to pull a sweaty strand of hair from his face. He was sure his cheeks were tinged red. Nonchalantly, he flicked his soiled left hand into a shadowy corner, hearing the residue splat slightly against the wall and the floor it impacted, where it could dry up and disappear unnoticed. He stood gracefully without stumbling, ignoring the matching burn in his thighs.
Without making an effort to stand, Jak reached up behind him to twist off the now freezing water. He listened to pat pat pat of the drops hit the tiles, concentrating more on the puddles that he sat in.
Torn could be here any moment, he thought. It would be a good idea to get dressed and clean up after yourself.
Erol winded his arm around, stretching it out to relieve some of the pain. It wasn't until he was on his way up the staircase that he zipped up his jump suit and made himself look at least semi-presentable to the public.
One step out of the hideout, he heard the water stop running.
To his delight, the lot was still as empty as it was when he arrived. Not that it would have mattered too much; he'd would love to settle scores with Torn one day.
Just not that day.
It seemed that he was in less of a hurry than he felt he should be, he pondered as he walked slugglishly towards his zoomer, boots scraping the ground. He maintained his posture.
Just as he flipped out his keys to start up his vehicle, he looked back at the slide door.
thump. thump. thump.
Finally mustering enough strength to push himself off the ground and find a yellowish, stiff, less-cleaner-than-he'd-have-liked towel that hung from a nearby rack, Jak dried himself off the best he could, all the while thinking about how nasty his dirty clothes would feel against his skin.
When he reached up to dry the back of his neck, he found his pulse.
/end
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