Authors notes: REWRITTEN!
The sound of screams
There was something incredibly nice about hearing the mute-boy sing in screams…
The needles were slow to release their hold on him, Erol's hands in no haste to draw them out as the blonde one arched up into the machine involuntarily, almost driving the metal into his chest as he shuddered – the spasms wracking his body and making him moan even through the hell of his consciousness.
But the lights did go out, flicking off as that gloved hand toyed with the switches of the dark eco beast.
He absolutely adored this little creation, and it was shame to hear the throaty growls die in a hiss and a whirr of grinding gears. The gleam was reflected in his amber eyes, which stayed fixed upon the gleaming metal a moment longer – not yet willing to remove themselves from this toy of death.
Erol had always had an affinity for machinery – the more destruction it could do, the more he loved it.
Suiting – metal man and metal weapons of mass terror!
Joy.
He finally tore his eyes away, sliding them over the boy before flicking up to catch at Praxis. "Still sore?" mutter Erol slyly, blinking lazily as he removed his hands from the machine and let them rest lightly upon his pistols.
A vein in the Baron's neck bulged.
"What on earth are you talking about, commander?" he grated out – although he knew exactly what it was the redhead was speaking of.
His reaction made Erol chuckle as he moved to the table, his boots thudding on the floor as he did so - hands resting on the table, weight pressed upon it as he leaned forwards and smiled.
"Don't play coy, Baron, it doesn't suit you."
The vein seemed to lunge from Praxis's neck, his temper rising at the silky tones.
"We are done tonight," he growled, gesturing towards the blonde with one massive hand. Erol's only answer was a smirk, the thin lips growing wide as he struggled to contain his mirth.
Sometimes avoidance wasn't really the best route.
Seething, the Baron turned on his heel, feeling Erol's eyes slide from his back – and he knew instinctively what they were looking at now. He paused, choosing his words carefully and speaking a low and gruff tone. "I know about your little fetish's, Erol, and I would like to remind you to exercise some caution."
There was a hiss of breath behind him, as if the commander had been about to reply but had sucked back the words as they teetered on his lips.
So Praxis took his leave and made his way towards the thick doors, which slid open obediently before him…
As soon as they grinded shut Erol moved, his left hand resting upon Jak's chest as his right moved to wipe away a strand of blonde hair from the boy's sweaty forehead.
Blue eyes flared open.
Erol laughed again – fuller this time, harsher and painful to the ears of the elf that he now towered above. Those thin lips are wide and parted, that vile tongue clicking against gleaming teeth as he drew in a hasty breath and leaned closer – almost nose-to-nose.
"Well well, so the wonder boy wakes," he purred, each word dripping so sweetly from his open mouth. "Does it still hurt, freak?" It was a dangerous hiss, the muscles in his jaw clenching as his teeth ground together.
"I can make it hurt more…"
The moment was tense, freakish – past the point and madness and straight into the deep dark waters of the clinically insane.
"Do you want me to do that for you?" Closer still, so that Erol's breath fluttered on Jak's lips and the blonde could almost feel that venomous tongue as it formed the sickeningly charming sentences.
"Well?"
Erol's eyes narrowed, his left hand sliding upwards to rest ever so softly against Jak's sluggish pulse – the feel of it drawing a bitter chuckle from his mouth, washing over the blonde's face.
"No, I don't think you do."
How could he get closer? How could he manage to close a gap so small, so that there was no room to think, or see, or breathe? That vile tongue so close it made Jak gag, his body shuddering as he attempted to slink further back into the hard surface of an unyielding chair.
Erol followed close behind, leaving no room between his delicately curled lips and Jak's own gaping mouth – until all pretense of breathing space was torn brutality from our hero's thoughts by a questing tongue and a hiss of breath.
The bitter slickness was enough to make Jak shake, his throat working furiously as he choked on the intrusion, lips forced wide as he attempted to scream against the wetness. Teeth worked into his lower lip, sharp and quick – until every moment was tainted by the copper tang of blood, the drip of red slinking down his chin.
He could barely think, barely distinguish the words Erol murmured into the dark cavern of his mouth, and barely feel those wicked lips twist into a smirk as they pressed violently into his own.
Jak was helpless, and he hated it.
But, alas, our commander was far too much of a fan!
His hands did not register in Jak's mind, although one had now hooked around his neck – dragging him upwards and deeper still into the lock of Erol's 'fetish'.
What could he do but retaliate? His lips softened, yielded – if only so his teeth could find some purchase in those intruding lips and sink deep, causing Erol to shove him back onto the table with power you would not think could be found in one so lean.
And he shoved him back hard.
Almost choking now, Erol still did not relinquish his hold as he followed Jak back, although his lungs hungered for air and his world was going black around him. He would not give in – not until he pressed further still and make Jak gasp at the suddenness.
The sound was all he needed…
It rang through his head like thunder, and he drew back with a smirk already forming on his bruised lips. Blood dribbled from his mouth, though he did not know if it was his own – cutting through the pallid whiteness of his jaw in a long run of crimson.
He was slow to move, slow to press a gloved finger to that spring of blood and survey the wetness in the sickly light – but not slow to smile, although it pulled taunt the wound and made him wince.
Then that finger is on Jak's mouth, the digit pressing against them as if he was shushing the boy – although the flare of pain and the sharp intake of breath was enough to betray such a naïve explanation.
"Not yet, eco-freak," he crooned.
"Not yet."
Then all was still and silent, the two held captive into that moment – one exuding a sense of fury, the other simply smiling, teeth bared in a sickening interpretation of a once pure show of emotion.
Erol spun on his heel, lip curling as he stepped away from the table and prowled across to the large doors.
Tck tck. Tck tck. Tck tck.
They slid open before him, gears grating as that moved sideways to reveal the two guards standing wait in the hall beyond.
A pair of heads snapped towards him, four eyes played across his torn lip and blood-tainted fingers.
No one asked a thing...
No one ever did...
And no one ever will.