#revised piece

[marimeeko]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

IT'S DONE ~! Revised post of an old Oneshot I wrote for the Jak fandom back in 2017! Consider it a Damas and Daxter character study!

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Preview:

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“What happened?!” Damas ordered tersely, closing the distance between them in urgent strides. “I was given no details. Explain yourselves!”

Daxter immediately flinched away at the harsh tone in the king’s voice, his glaring match with Sig forgotten and unimportant. His sun-darkened ears lilted downwards as Damas continued to Jak’s side, scrutinizing the blonde’s condition. The redhead scuttled out of the way of the broad-shouldered king. He stammered for an explanation, suddenly finding his boldness fading away in the presence of Damas’s commanding authority.

“He, I… we were..!!”

“The boys got jumped by Marauders,” Sig interjected himself over Daxter’s shaky attempt, as Damas ran a calloused and over Jak’s forehead, brushing through some green-gold bangs. “Ambushed, they told me, car totaled, nothin’ but scrap metal! And to top it off? They scored a lucky hit on our man Jak here--He’ll be fine, just a K-O is all.”

Daxter opened his mouth to contribute, but Sig’s voice became forceful as he rounded on the teen again.

“But this Chili Pepper over here,” his tone became incredulous, a thumb pointing out the redhead, “lost his gun in the crash and somehow thought it would be a good idea to take on a full-sized Marauder on his own without a weapon, before I got there!”

Daxter’s slack jaw clamped shut with a growl, freckled cheeks staining pink with annoyance underneath the bloom of a bruise and a bloody gash across his brow.

Sig rounded on him before he had the chance to protest. “And no, Daxter, you weren’t fine, in control, or ‘coaxin’ him into a false sense of security.’ You were outta your gourd, and you woulda been jam if I hadn’t come over the dune and shot his ass down!”

“Okay, ya know what?!--” Daxter screeched, stomping his foot down, jabbing a finger at the larger man.

“Enough!!” Damas roared. “I have heard enough of this bickering. Sig, thank you. That will be all.” Sig’s jaw set, and he nodded dutifully, and turned away. He paused. Daxter pointedly ignored the look Sig gave him, tightly crossing his arms over his chest with an audible huff.

“We both gotta cool down, Cherry. But I'm glad you’re in one piece.” And with the sentiment stubbornly unreturned, Sig headed off towards the driver's side of his vehicle. The engine roared back to life, and Sig disappeared back out into the fray.

“Daxter,” Damas’s voice snapped Daxter out of his pout, and Dax looked with wide blue eyes at the warrior king, who was now holding Jak’s form in his arms as if he were as light as a child. “Follow me. We must talk.”

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[the-lone-wolf-poet]

Heart’s Crescendo

A crescendo lies patient Ticking tick tick towards the tip For a forgotten love Withheld above in golden cuffs

His tears await her kiss Her breath says it all What a pathetic way to fall Deep deep into abyss

Nothing drops from above Left as an abandoned son He falls only below Where the devil hears him bellow

But she doesn't always hear him Yet always he listens He always hears her hymns Only to her lips will he be arisen

But the longer the wait The dimmer his heart So he hunts at late Where a god rests high afar

Some nights it is clear As some hold it dear For him, the guide to her hymns And so she saw in him, a lover, cleansed of sin

Left together they stare Paramours in the moonlight

[penned-debauchery-blog]

Imbedded

I want to pull all the secrets I told you 

back out of your skull 

caught in the teeth of my comb 

untangling a fondness of the found 

A longing to grow antlers 

coated in velvet 

pearls along my vertebrae 

I became a feral creature on 

shaking faun legs and 

among decayed dryads I was 

gypsy dancing, witch chanting. 

Bunches of rotting dead bits 

tied up prettily with ribbon 

collecting sleep dust 

between rolled up maps 

I remember when my father 

told me about his funeral 

We built a bonfire 

danced the dust up like ashes; 

Inhalations that taste of earth, 

Exhaustion is a toll booth across my mind 

But the watchmaker said 

I have spent innumerable moments 

on this piece of time 

I cannot remember sleep 

but I’ve felt a fox being run to ground 

from a Saguaro moon 

rising blooded rust. I spent the age of five 

drinking too many Shirley Temples 

lead to dancing alone in corners 

and dreams of concrete trampolines 

Pretending I was a carousel horse 

paint chipped with splintered sides. 

I was five, and if I buried myself under blankets 

I was invisible.

I wore my grandmothers green silk gown 

hair-ties holding it to my waif-body. 

Once I was caught in a flash-flood 

and it was the smell of wet dirt,

how loud pebbles sounded, 

the red of the clay under my toes. It was how tall the cacti were, 

recognition that they were in bloom, 

and my clothes were soaked through. 

My mother would be furious 

for playing in the wash in my 

new sunflower dress, 

and no shoes on. 

My father is now 51, and his 

hair turns blonde, not grey. 

My hair-ties indent my wrists

close to veins, rushing 

blue water under translucency. 

Now there are

blow-jobs in a graveyard and 

the perfection of being a connoisseur of cunts 

I have a Persephone complex, 

and empty cigarette packs. 

I will scribble stars into your orbit 

carve my name into your bones 

because your favourite apple tree was 

cut down to make my paper. 

I’ve broken the world and 

no flannel could re-kindle the 

nearly zombified inner workings of 

my blood-pump, inside of my flesh-shell. 

You’ve lined up all my faults 

for target practice; 

the bow my hollowed out ribs, 

my vocal cords taunt singing strings, 

arrows of oleanders driving home 

poisonous habits. I am Atlas, 

and I am tired.