This is an interesting piece of mine, brought back to life by the lovely Bluberry. (So blame her for anything that transpires XP) I revamped the story, all the chapters and the bad sex, so… I think it's pretty good now. In the end, I so enjoyed working on it!

In the crudest of terms, this little collection/short series pits Dax as a slutty fanboy out for Jak's ass, and Jak as a cold, equally slutty racer with an anger complex. Sound too idiotic to be at ALL good or sane? Or plausible? Hmm?

Well, it's way beyond that now! TOO LATE! This fic got reaaally messed up, and turned in on itself. Now it's just a little ball of hatred and angst and drugs with hot sex as an afterthought :O IT MAKES ME SAD!

Waitno. It makes me HORRIBLY happy. I will burn for this, I assure you.

Yep, this IS an Alternate Universe, but I've only tweaked the characters in a few significant ways. They still have their essences, I think: it's just that Dax is a little more... er, gay. Way gay. And more clever/observant than usual (and crude!), and Jak is… Jakkish! But mean. But a lot of people think he's mean, so that's no big.

His heartlessness is ALL for a reason, though. Plot ahoy!

ENJOY. It's just a fun, demented read :3 With loads of disturbing imagery.

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Rating: M (Adult language, sexual content, drugs and rock'n roll)

Pairing: JakxDaxter, Alternate Universe

Type: Multichapter

Warning: Slight implied spoiler for Jak3, due to a bit of name-changing I pulled. Plus copious amounts of bad words, violence, drug-use and sex EVERYWHERE.

Be on the lookout for connections between AU themes :3 I DO tie aspects of Jak2-3 in here very heavily. SO YIPEE!

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PROLOGUE

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It was fast. Alllllways fast. With him, it couldn't have been anything BUT fast.

Slow? Phht. Never. Hell, he didn't have an off-switch. He took life like a race, never thinking he could stop or else he'd lose.

Lose what? Search me.

All I knew was that hell or high water, I was gonna keep up. For the prize, for the race, to win what he was tryin' to-- 'cos damn it had to be good. Good like he was good, and boy was he was worth it.

Worth it every time, even when everything else got seriously fucked up.

I loved a hell of a lot of things about the guy. I loved how he'd talk to me, like I was the only one hearin' it--even if I only got stupid little tidbits, even if he never talked to me for real.

I loved how he raced, like he was the only guy mowin' the track. Soaked through with colored lights like some sort of blurry sponge of electricity, trailing the stuff like fire: all the hotter 'cos you knew that same burn was cranked up on the inside, too. Waitin' for you.

I loved how he sunk his teeth into my neck and called me his prize as he pinned me hard against the lockers, not even peeling off that stupid rubber suit but stripping me down to zip and a half to do whatever he wanted. I loved how I took that, how I loved all of that: the smell of wet leather and oil, the clammy strain of his suit against my stomach, zipper grazing my thighs as he panted in my ear, moving as fast as he could 'cos it was a race to him.

He told me, hey, let's race.

I said, sure. Why not?

And he always, always got there first, groaning silently as he crossed the line and heaved us both against the frigid lockers with a deep-set shudder. I racked up so many bruises from that I didn't even wanna count, but I could never feel the hinges digging into my shoulders as I followed him to the checkered mark, sagging over his strong shoulders.

Life's a party. That's what he always told me.

Life's a party, life's a race.

But what do you do when the race is finished and you got first?

What do you do when the party's over and your ride skipped out on you? What then?

You never know 'till it slaps you in the face. Then it's just too damn late.

… Fuck. It's just too damn late.