J, 27, raging pansexual, one of the OG pervs in this specific microcosm of filth. Emeto is my bread and butter but I just generally like to make hot men miserable.
@its-a-goddamn-heartbreak and @lickstynine Collab Masterlist
For the sake of this not being ten miles long, each group is in its own mini masterlist linked here. We have:
The Cardiff Crew
Nicky, Nye, Nate, Gwen, Delilah, Ffion, Jac, Genevieve, and anyone else who has the misfortune of stumbling into their path
Sk8r Bois
Shiro, Daichi, Ryosuke, and their family, along with Sasha and Valentina
West Coast U
Luke, Matty, Milo, with occasional friends and family
Prep School
Christian and Flossie
A/N: we've literally been writing this group for five years and this is somehow the only fic of them posted to tumblr. so that's insane and will change soon and they'll get their own list once there's things to listify.
Flossie, Island Princess
One-off Sickdays Collab
Kit and Flossie
A/N: Yeah so this was ten thousand years ago when I was still writing with Kit and just wrapping up the Misadventures saga. Unlike the Crossie (Christian+Flossie) universe, don't expect any more from this storyline.
Stuck Between the Heat and a Loud Place
Newly obsessed with a caretaker that deduces sickie is not feeling well based on the content of their cart when they stumble upon them at the store... before noticing anything else.
for him to curl into me, warm and soft and sleepy. to feel his lips on my ear as he mumbles, so shy and sweet, those four words that drive me crazy--
"i don't feel good."
i want him to open himself up to me, let me under his shirt to rub his chest and his sides and his belly, let me kiss his hair and hold him close and ask what i can do to make it better.
i want to hold the trashcan for him while he hiccups and drools and spits, terribly nauseous but struggling to find relief, to really let go, so i can whisper reassurances to him, it's just me, let him know i'll happily take care of him and he's safe with me
okay so i'm still thinking about strictly business--as one does--the part where sasha thinks about how disposing of the body was a part of the test and he was going to fail because he didn't know what to do with the body, well obviously that problem solved itself because jace and vody are amazingly chill about weird things but my question is... did boris not have anyone keeping tabs on sasha? because it seems like vody actively helping him would have triggered some level of a shitstorm
Boris doesn't monitor Sasha as long as the work gets done. It's when jobs go unfinished or done poorly that he gets in trouble.
This one was a fucking nightmare to fix, but after 3 years, there were some anatomy issues I just couldn't leave as is. For some reason, I didn't have the layered file even though I drew it on the same iPad I'm still using. I had to digital paint on the fucking png like I was restoring some ancient artwork but the fixes came out seamless (enough).
Maybe if I survive artfight I'll finally draw Back. In the meantime, enjoy the fluff ending to balance out the angsty open.
why do i find lactose intolerance so sexy 😳 just wanna rub somebody's bloated, aching, gassy little pot belly while they moan and whine in pain and relief
No right I’m such a slut for like “medical” tummy issues… lactose/gluten intolerance, ibs etc. cause ooh that just takes it to a whole different level 😵💫😵💫
First of all makes it way easier to mess up their tummy heehee, just give em a little bit of milk or bread or whatever trigger food that really gets their insides churning & watch it take almost immediate effect 🥴
Was digging thru my iPad gathering refs for artfight and found some drawings I did literally three years ago to accompany Crawling Back to Me.
I never posted them bc I was originally planning to do three illustrations, one called Crawling, one called Back, and one called To Me, each for a different portion of the fic, but I never managed a draft of Back that I didn't hate and so Crawling and To Me just sat in my photos gathering dust.
I hope you've been enjoying the Ryosha fluff, cause it's ANGST TIME
from the evil minds of me and @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak
tw: minor character death, blood, violence
If you do not kill the snake, you deserve to be bitten.
Boris' words rang heavy in Sasha's ears, each weapon a lead weight as he checked the knives in his boot and belt, the brass knuckles in his pocket, the pistol in his coat. He knew what he needed to do, and he wasn't scared. He was never scared to handle Boris’ dirty work. He simply hated it.
Swift and silent as a phantom, he slinked out of the apartment, electing to take the stairs from his towering penthouse. Practiced athlete that he was, his long legs traversed the flights with ease, the exertion far preferable to spending an eternal elevator ride staring at the reaper in his reflection. The parking garage was blissfully empty when he arrived, greeted by the shine of his freshly-waxed Aston Martin. Jace had begged and pleaded to take it for a proper spin, promising to take good care of the car, and to his credit, he had done just that. He had driven up to his father's house, where he and Vody admired it for the afternoon, racing it against their own flashy sports cars before cleaning it inside and out, polishing it to a mirror shine, and topping off the gas. Cars, Jace once told Sasha, were a passion he and Vody had shared since he was little, and he'd grown up learning how to take them apart, put them together, and keep them in peak condition.
Sasha didn't dare to wonder what it was like, having a father who gently and joyously passed on his hobbies. Even now, he remembered the weight of a pistol pressed into his palm at only eight years old, the sharp bark of Boris' critique each time he missed still fresh in his mind. He remembered the biting cold of the hunting lodge, with wolves howling outside and the dogs snarling in anticipation, and the way Boris had furiously shoved him aside when he couldn't bring himself to cut into their catch. He remembered smelling the metallic tang of blood spilling over his shoes, as he was forced to watch exactly what happened when one of his father's subordinates stepped out of line, the life draining from a sickeningly familiar face as Irina’s father collapsed at his feet.
Insubordination can never be tolerated, Boris told him. You let one wasp go free, and a nest will build under your nose. The same rules applied now. It was his man who had been selling secrets to the enemy, and it was his job to eliminate the problem.
He knew where Rodya would be - the same place he always was, a seedy bar where the drinks were flowing, the gambling was rampant, and everything was paid in cash. Not much different to the place he had first met Ryosuke, although he tried not to think too hard about Ryosuke keeping that kind of company. Regardless, it wasn't the type of place where he had to worry about anyone seeing him or interfering. The denizens of such a criminal den knew full well how to mind their business. On top of that, anyone who ran in those circles knew exactly who Sasha was. Not only was he a force to be reckoned with in his own right, but crossing him would, by extension, be crossing Boris. The local criminals were unscrupulous, not suicidal.
Pulling up outside the dimly lit alleyway, Sasha swallowed his hesitation and stepped out of the car. He kept his face stern and impassive despite the knot in his chest. The last thing he needed was to show any sliver of weakness here. He was only in this situation because he'd already been too weak, too absent, too passive. If he had stayed more involved in following Boris' orders, in handling his underlings, then Rodya wouldn't have felt comfortable double-dealing behind his back. Now, it was the least he could do to re-assert his authority, for Ryosuke's sake as much as his own. If he continued to slack in his work, he would draw more scrutiny from Boris.
Shaking away the sickening thought of his father discovering Ryosuke, the renewed fury of protectiveness pushed Sasha forward down the alley. His boots thundered against the concrete, echoing off the dingy brick until he stopped in front of an unmarked door. Slamming it open, he loomed in the doorway, relishing the way the men inside went quiet. Not everyone was stupid as Rodya, it seemed.
As Sasha let the silence hang, the chatter in the bar began to resume. A burly man sitting by the door gave him a small nod, and Sasha stomped inside, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. It didn't take long for his gaze to zero in on a familiar face - buzzed hair, crooked teeth, and an arrogant grin. Rodya. His attention had quickly returned to the cards at his table, where he was trying to bluff his way through an abysmal hand. He was still yammering away at the men playing with him when a dark shadow fell over the table.
“Rodya.” Sasha growled, making it immediately clear that none of the others need address him.
“Sasha!” Rodya flashed him the same crooked, cocky smile. “Come play with us! I have not seen you in so long!”
“No. He is leaving,” Sasha said shortly to the others at the table.
Rodya didn't give up, protesting, “Oh, come on! At least let me finish my game. I’ll buy you a drink!”
Sasha wondered whether he was still bluffing or truly oblivious. It didn't matter. “Fuck your game. Get up, now.”
The message finally made it through Rodya’s thick skull, and he stood up without further objection. “Right. Uh, I fold,” he said, dropping his cards on the table.
Without another word, Sasha led him outside. Rodya started to speak as the door closed behind them, but he was promptly cut off.
“Not here.”
Sasha said, walking towards his car. He climbed into the driver's seat, glaring at Rodya until he got in the other side. They took off right away, following narrow streets into a more derelict area where the only witnesses would be the rats, the roaches, and God.
When he'd gotten sufficiently far into this rotting concrete wasteland, Sasha stopped the car, turning once more to glare daggers at Rodya.
“Get out.”
Rodya did as he was told, trying once more to offer a schmoozy smile as Sasha crept around the car like a tiger closing in on its prey. “So, uh… what's going on? Do I have a secret assignment? Do you need information?”
Sasha punched him.
The brass knuckles cracked off of Rodya's jaw like thunder, leaving him reeling.
“Is that what you said to the Italians?” Sasha sneered.
Stumbling back, Rodya put his hands up to protect his face. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he stammered.
“Don't fucking lie to me,” Sasha snarled, grabbing Rodya by the throat and slamming him into the nearest wall. “I know you've been selling secrets to Florimonte, you slimy piece of shit.”
“Flori - who?”
Rodya’s eyes flew wide. Unfortunately, he was about as good at lying as he was at cards. Sasha saw the answer he'd been looking for in his eyes - the truth that, even with the pile of concrete evidence his father's spies had provided, he hadn't wanted to believe. Rodya, who had worked for him since he came to America, who had dutifully followed his orders all that time, who was closer to Valentina's age than his own, had betrayed him.
“I said. Don't. Fucking. LIE TO ME!”
Sasha gripped his throat tighter, dragging Rodya across the wall before slamming him down onto the cracked concrete below. He leaned over Rodya, breath coming in heavy snarls. Under his clenched fingers, Sasha could feel the racing pulse of his prey, fluttering and fearful under a predator's claws.
Don't kill yet. Play with your food a bit. See if little birdie has anything to sing about.
This time, the voice in his head was Irina's. Where Sasha had recoiled from bloodshed, she had always relished it, cunning and ferocity making up what she lacked in strength and size. She wouldn't be scowling in Sasha's position. She would grin and giggle and savor every moment, enjoying the mental anguish she caused as much as the physical pain. The thought of it made Sasha feel a little sick. He'd played cards with Rodya, and partied with him, and….fuck, Rodya had even been to his place.
Rodya knew where he lived. The realization turned to ice water in Sasha's veins. If the Italians, or hell, even a rival group of Russians, knew where to find him, then whether they realized it or not, they also knew where to find Ryosuke.
Sasha's heart began pounding in his chest, faster even than Rodya's labored breaths below him. He wasn't supposed to let emotion cloud his judgement. He was supposed to lock his feelings away until the dirty work was done. Instead, his head began to reel with visions of thugs breaking down his door, grabbing Ryosuke, being crueler to him than Sasha was being to Rodya now. He could be sick.
If you do not kill the snake…
Boris’ voice returned to his mind, echoing louder than the blood roaring in his ears. Sasha looked down at Rodya, seeing, despite his tough exterior, just how young, how unimposing, how weak he truly was. He could still feel the frantic, fearful pulse of a trembling mouse, frail and powerless under the heavy paw of the tiger. It wasn't a fair fight. It wasn't a fight at all. Rodya hadn't dared resist - he'd seen firsthand what happened when people tried to stand up to Sasha. He’d seen it. And yet, he dared to hand over information to the Italians. The payout certainly hadn't been worth incurring Sasha's wrath. Or was it?
Had he really lost so much authority? Was his influence so absent that his own men no longer worried about his anger? If he really seemed so vulnerable, what would be next?
Unbidden, more violent than before, came the images of thugs bashing down his door. Tearing his apartment to bits, the minimalist loft leaving nowhere to hide. Ryosuke, pinned to the ground, fighting and thrashing and crying out. Red spraying across clean white couches, Ryosuke's own blood spreading across the carpet he'd cleaned so many times.
…you deserve to be bitten!
Boris' words became Boris' hand, grabbing Sasha's and guiding it to the knife on his belt. Before he could think, before he could hesitate, before he could let Ryosuke get hurt, he plunged the blade into Rodya’s chest, feeling it scrape against bone before meeting its mark. Rodya let out a hoarse gasp, staring up at Sasha with the wild eyes of a desperate animal. He didn't speak, but his face asked clearly, Why?
“If I cannot trust you,” Sasha said, his voice low and heavy with an accent so thick, he could've been mistaken for his father, “I cannot let you live.”
He withdrew the blade.
Rodya's body went slack, blood spreading across his white t-shirt. Sasha wrinkled his nose, wiping the knife clean on Rodya's shirt before sheathing it again. He stood up, drawing a slow breath before exhaling the tension from his body. Overhead, the watchful eye of the moon stared down at him, casting the shadow of Sasha's towering figure over his handiwork like an artist's signature. The cold light on his back beamed down like judgement from above, but Sasha didn't care. He had done what he needed to.
It was only as he drove away in his car, the interior still sleek and spotless, that Sasha realized he hadn't been sick. Had he, after so many years doing Boris' dirty work, finally grown a spine? Was he more like Irina now, brutal and bloodthirsty and killing because he wanted to? At the very least, she could no longer mock him so mercilessly for not being able to stomach his own acts of violence. Something about the thought brought him relief, perhaps even a glimmer of pride.
The feeling went cold as quickly as it had sparked. How could someone who took pleasure in such brutality be deserving of someone like Ryosuke? Was Ryosuke even safe around him anymore? He had done all this to keep Ryosuke safe from the monsters around them, but what good was that if the real monster was inside the house all along?
His mind flashed back to the first time, over a year ago now, that Ryosuke spent the night. Sasha was used to nightmares. They were simply a part of sleeping for him, even more so when he was stressed or unwell. A raging fever had sent him to bed far earlier than usual. Then, like so many nights before, he had woken in a frantic terror, but this time, there was someone there to target. Bedroom lit by the same cold, judgemental moon that had watched him tonight, his vision had blurred into view, and he found his hand wrapped tightly around Ryosuke's throat, just as he'd grabbed Rodya moments before.
That should have been the end of their relationship. To this day, Sasha couldn't fathom why Ryosuke had stayed. Sure, he had a nice apartment. Sure, the food was good and the sex fantastic, but someone so beautiful, talented, and charming could easily have found someone else to fit that bill, someone who wasn't a jenga tower of baggage and danger waiting to come crashing down. Someone who hadn't nearly killed him for the simple act of spending the night.
He squeezed the steering wheel tightly, fingernails digging into the expensive leather. Rodya could have found Ryosuke, he reminded himself. Rodya had proven he couldn't be trusted. Rodya had to die. Sasha had to kill him, to keep Ryosuke safe.
Truthfully, Sasha wasn't sure there were any lines he wouldn't cross for Ryosuke's sake, or Valentina's, for that matter. As a child, he'd spent all too many hours lying awake, thinking of how grateful he was that his sister was the favorite. He would gladly endure Boris' cruelty to save her from being treated even half as badly as he was. And he would do just the same for Ryosuke. Sasha’s own wants, his needs, his feelings, his morals, none of it truly mattered. He was a weapon first and a person second. But at least he could be a weapon in defense of those he loved.
He parked in his usual spot, taking a minute behind the wheel to compose himself before he went back up to the apartment. His eyes stayed shut through the elevator ride, though the motion was disorienting. By the time he reached the penthouse, Sasha was shaking faintly, and even he didn't know whether it was anxiety or exertion. His trembling hands struggled with the key, taking what felt like a thousand years to manage the myriad of locks. He stumbled in, leaning back as the door shut and taking in the sight. Low lights, candles flickering on the coffee table, Ryosuke -
He took a sharp, shuddering breath, pressing a hand against the sudden, swelling pressure below his sternum.
Ryosuke, sprawled out asleep on the sofa, cosied up in joggers and a jumper he had clearly stolen from Sasha's closet. His fine, straight hair fell delicately over his forehead, splaying out on the cushion he was using as a pillow. His hands, held tight to his chest, drowned in the oversized sleeves. His face was slack and young and gentle in sleep. He was okay. Thank God, he was okay.
The briefest wave of relief only allowed Sasha a fraction of a second before a different beast swallowed him whole. The nausea he had been so disgustingly proud of avoiding grabbed him round the middle and squeezed like an iron claw. Cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck. He tried to swallow the metallic taste, but it caught in his throat, and the floor seemed to teeter beneath him. He knew at once that he was going to be sick. Legs suddenly spindly and brittle, he staggered across the apartment. He was barely halfway to the bathroom door when a dry retch folded him over, one hand bracing against his knee to keep himself upright.
From the sofa, Ryosuke shifted, hearing the noise but not fully awake yet. The sound of a proper heave seemed to bring him more to life and he sat up, rubbing his eyes with a drowsy groan. “Sasha-chan?”
Sasha, frozen with nausea and regret, couldn't respond. He blinked, and the burst of colour behind his eyelids looked just like the bloom of Rodya’s blood as it unfurled across his white shirt. He retched, bile rising in his throat as he forced his body to move, wobbling on his long legs like a baby deer as he stumbled and swore and banged his shoulder against the doorframe of the bathroom in a desperate scramble. He made it inside just in time, bending over the toilet more through muscle memory than through any conscious effort.
The room swirled around him, and Sasha braced his hands against the toilet to keep from collapsing on the spot. It was cold, hard, just like the concrete he'd leaned over earlier. Once again, he saw the red slowly spreading across white fabric, felt the scrape of blade against bone. He threw up.
He was panting heavily, gearing up for the nausea to rise again in his throat, when Ryosuke finally shuffled through from the living room. Sympathy creased his face, and he stepped closer, too experienced to reach a hand out before Sasha knew it was him.
“Hey,” Ryosuke said softly, his voice still low and scratchy from sleep. He waited for Sasha’s eyes to flick in his direction, for the panic to shift to recognition, and then he stepped closer. Stroking a hand gently over the tense muscles in Sasha's back, his own drowsy brain slowly picked up details. Knuckles scuffed and bruised. Coat and heavy boots still on. Knife on belt. Knife in boot. Holster under one arm. Pocket heavy, probably brass knuckles.
Everything confirmed what Ryosuke had initially suspected - Sasha had been out running some grim errand for Boris. He'd gotten that feeling the night before when he saw the look on Sasha's face after a phone call in Russian. Ryosuke knew better than to pry, but he had intended to stay up, wanting to check on Sasha when he got back. Fatigue has settled over him like a weighted blanket though, the combination of his mild headache and scratchy throat altogether more exhausting than the sum of its parts, and he'd barely crawled into Sasha's comfiest clothes before he'd passed out on the couch.
Ryosuke’s sleepy musings were interrupted by another miserable retch, and he stroked a hand gently over Sasha’s back again. “Breathe,” he murmured, “it’s alright.”
“‘M fine,” Sasha coughed, scrubbing a wrist over his eyes to banish the tears that had started to well up. “I’m fine.”
“Sure,” Ryosuke nodded. “Yeah. Do you want some water?”
Sasha nodded, his breath coming in heavy puffs as he struggled to steady himself. “Yeah, just… gimme a second.”
“No rush,” Ryosuke assured him, giving Sasha’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
“‘Kay,” Sasha mumbled, long legs crumpling as he crouched down to the floor, leaning back against the adjacent wall. He wasn’t remotely comfortable, but all the energy had sapped out of him, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down. His stomach was still in knots, hands trembling faintly as the adrenaline drained from him, but he was done throwing up. Sinking his head into his hands, he took a shuddering breath.
“Sasha.”
Ryosuke’s quiet voice just barely broke through the roar of blood in his ears, and he looked up blearily to see a cup of water being held out towards him. “Oh. Right. Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the cup in both hands in an attempt to keep it steady.
Ryosuke flushed the toilet then crouched down next to Sasha, once again not reaching out to touch him.
“Will you let me wrap your knuckles?”
“It's not that bad,” Sasha muttered, staring down at the cup as he forced slow, shaky breaths. He knew he needed to take a drink, but the lump in his throat only tightened further.
“Okay, but will you let me?” Ryosuke asked. “I know you don't care, but it'll make me feel better.”
“I…uh…in a minute,” Sasha nodded, raising the cup to his lips and taking the tiniest sip to rinse his mouth. The cool sensation was a welcome distraction, and after a moment, he took another drink. Slowly, carefully, he worked his way through the cup, finally setting it aside and dragging himself to sit upright. He leaned heavily on the wall as the weakness of long-lost adrenaline threatened to bring him back down. Rubbing both hands over his face, breathed out a long, shuddering sigh. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to shower. He wanted to curl up in a little ball and disappear.
Ryosuke sat down beside him, shuffling slowly closer until they sat shoulder to shoulder. Sasha leaned against him, another shaky sigh rattling in his chest. He knew he shouldn't spend the whole night on the floor, but the prospect of getting up seemed too great to surmount. Reaching out beside him, he wrapped an arm around Ryosuke, hugging him tight. He was here. That was the important part. He was here, and he was safe, and Sasha had made sure he would stay safe.
Gently, Ryosuke laid his hand over Sasha's knee. When Sasha didn't flinch away, he gave it the ghost of a squeeze. Sasha leaned further into his side, and Ryosuke took the invitation to snuggle closer. He knew they would need to get up soon, - spending a night on the floor would make them both miserable - but he didn't want to disturb the fragile peace that had arisen. Even now, he could feel the unsteady stammer of Sasha's heartbeat, pulse racing and breath shaky. Ryosuke didn't dare ask what was wrong; he could infer enough to know he didn't want the details, and Sasha wouldn't want to share.
“I love you,” he murmured instead, thumb stroking over the heavy, woollen fabric of Sasha's suit trousers.
You shouldn't, Sasha wanted to say. You deserve better. At the same time, he felt selfishly possessive, disgusted by the idea of Ryosuke in the arms of another. Instinctively, he clutched Ryosuke tighter, eliciting a little squeak of surprise. He immediately loosened his grip, finally seeming to break from his shell shock to give a sheepish, “Sorry.”
“It's fine,” Ryosuke shrugged. “Just didn't expect it. Are you feeling better?”
“Mm.” Sasha nodded non-committally, taking the hint to climb to his feet. He still felt horrible, aching and shaking and vaguely nauseous, but he knew he wasn't going to throw up again. Better to be miserable in his cozy bed than on the cold bathroom floor. He offered a hand to Ryosuke, who stood easily but kept Sasha’s fingers in his grasp.
“Don't run off just yet,” Ryosuke told him.
Sasha felt a tight stab of panic, ready to be lectured or chastised or even berated for his behavior. Was this finally the time Ryosuke realized he could do better? Sasha didn't blame him. His heart was jackhammering in his chest by the time Ryosuke continued.
“I still need to wrap those knuckles.”
“...oh.” Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, the tension in Sasha's shoulders went slack. This was a practiced routine of theirs by now, and he sat on the closed lid of the toilet right away, holding his hand out obediently.
“What, did you think I was going to bite you?” Ryosuke kept his voice gentle even as he teased, stooping to grab alcohol, gauze, and bandages from the cabinet beneath the sink. Standing back up, he pecked a kiss on Sasha's forehead, pulling away with a mischievous smirk. “I'll save that for when you're feeling better.”
headcanon which is canon bc im the artist i make the rules is that the guy on the left woke up in the middle of the night, shaking and sweating after tending to the right guys fever feeling worse than ever. soo he goes to take his temp (39.4), which although is significantly higher than the guy on the right (im deciding hes at 38.8), left guy is still too worried about right guy to prioritize himself
hence why he is shivering despite wearing thicker clothes but the other guy is not. but hes only looking at right guy dont gaf about himself.
but then when the right guy wakes up hes gonna freak out and try to take care of left guy and overexert himself, raising his fever and symptoms 😇
written, as always, with @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak
-----
New Year's day. Bright and early. Crisp and cold outside. Daichi's apartment was silent, the heavy curtains still drawn to hide the winter sun. Oliver had only stayed up long enough to watch the ball drop, and Daichi had been asleep long before that. They were both still out cold when the silence in the apartment was broken by a thunderous knocking at the door.
Oliver groaned, rolling out of the guest bed and groping around the nightstand until he found his glasses. Sticking his head into the master bedroom, he saw Daichi struggling to sit up. “I got it,” he assured. “Go back to sleep.”
Daichi couldn't argue, crumpling back into his pillows with a low moan. Talking was almost impossible for him anyway, with the wire holding his jaw in place, but quite apart from that he had woken feeling dizzy and disoriented and headache-y. Even opening his eyes was a chore, let alone getting out of bed while his head flopped around on his neck like a bowling ball.
From his room, Daichi couldn't quite make out Oliver's conversation, but the other voice coming from the front door sounded familiar. As he fought to place it, the visitor's volume rose, words more distinctly audible now.
“You can't be serious! Of course he wants to see me.”
Brynlee.
Daichi felt a heavy dread sink into his chest. His girlfriend had been sending him texts as she got ready for a New Year's Eve party yesterday, but Oliver had quickly confiscated Daichi's phone, reminding him that he wasn't supposed to be staring at screens. The rest of the night had been slow and lonely, with only the pain in his jaw to keep him company. He tried not to think about the party he should've been at. The friends he should've seen. The girlfriend he should've kissed at midnight. He hadn't even been awake at midnight to send a ‘happy new year’ text. But now, actually confronted with the prospect of human interaction, there was nothing in the world he wanted less.
At the same time, he felt guilty. Surely Brynlee missed him, too - if she didn't care, she wouldn't message him constantly to keep in touch. Surely he was doing wrong by her just lying in bed and leaving Oliver to deal with it. Surely it was the least he could do to go say hello.
Getting out of bed was more of a battle than Daichi anticipated. Sitting up, a brutal wave of vertigo hit him like a brick, and he was forced to clutch at the mattress for stability. As his balance slowly crept back, he pulled the duvet up over his shoulders, shambling out into the living room on wobbly legs.
“Now's really not a good -”
Oliver broke off, head whipping round as he heard the creak of a floorboard behind him. His face dropped immediately from stony frustration to exasperated concern as he pointed a finger sharply at Daichi.
“No. Lie back down. What the fuck, dude?”
“‘m fine,” Daichi mumbled, shuffling closer despite Oliver's instructions. “‘s fine. Let her in.” He turned to Brynlee, forcing his aching face into a weak smile. “Hey, babe. ‘d you have a good time at your party?”
Squeezing past Oliver, Brynlee strolled inside and looped her arms around Daichi's neck, pecking a careful kiss on his cheek. “Well,” she sighed, “The bartender was great, and I looked really hot. But your teammates were super weird to me.”
Oliver rolled his eyes, closing the door and turning around to cross his arms at her. “Maybe because you showed up latched onto some other guy instead of spending the night with your boyfriend,” he suggested drily.
“‘m sorry,” Daichi murmured, ignoring his brother to wrap an arm around Brynlee, one hand pressed into the small of her back. “They're just weird guys anyway, you know that right? Like, that's hockey.”
“You're not weird, though,” Brynlee said, nuzzling into his chest. “You're the best.”
“Well, exception that proves the rule or whatever,” Daichi shrugged, giving her a squeeze. “You wanna drink or something? I've got… I've got…” His face scrunched in desperate thought, but he eventually turned to Oliver with a defeated sigh. “What do we have?”
Oliver swallowed his prepared remark about the misuse of a common idiom, his smarmyness dissolving into concern at the pained, helpless look on Daichi's face. “Orange juice. Gatorade. Could make coffee.”
“Oooh, an iced latte?” Brynlee brightened, smiling hopefully over at Oliver. “You still have that hazelnut syrup, right babe?”
“Uh…”
“I'll look,” Oliver shrugged, turning towards the kitchen. “Make him sit down.”
Brynlee blinked, having seemingly forgotten about Daichi's situation for a moment. “Oh, right!” She looked up at him with a stern expression that didn't quite read seriously on her soft features. “Come on. Couch,” she ordered, pushing Daichi towards the sofa. He moved much more easily than expected, her gentle shove nearly tipping him over as he crumpled into the seat. Brynlee giggled, plopping down beside him and snuggling up. He sighed tiredly, tugging her in close.
“Tell me more about the party,” he said, tipping his head back against the cushions.
“Well, the venue was unreal,” Brynlee chattered, eager in her excitement. “Like, super grand, arc deco vibe. I got amazing photos on the staircase, Sven must have had a girlfriend back in Sweden because he is well trained.”
Oliver snorted derisively at her last comment, but Brynlee was thankfully focused on Daichi's reactions. He was slow to process her words, nodding gingerly. “Yeah, that's… super good. Glad you found a good dude.”
“You already had a good dude waiting at home,” Oliver grumbled, speaking in Japanese so he could gossip freely. His scowl faded slightly when he saw Daichi grimace.
“Not now, Ollie,” he begged.
Brynlee pouted. “Are you talking about me? What did he say? What are you saying?”
“Just an old inside joke,” Oliver said quickly. “We had a lot of jokes about hockey guys growing up.”
“Yeah, babe,” Daichi said. He rubbed his mouth, trying not to slur his words the way he had been every time a headache came on. Not now, he thought miserably. Not yet. “Don't worry about it, he's an idiot. Tell me about the food.”
“Oh my God, it was so good!” She gushed. “There were little fancy sandwiches and veggies cut into cute shapes and charcuterie boards with weird cheese and these little dumpling things that I don't know what they were called but they were so cute!”
Though it wasn't intentional, her pitch rose as she got more excited, and Daichi strained to keep a neutral expression. “That's nice,” he mumbled.
Brynlee nodded eagerly. “It was so nice and it was all so good and I looked so hot. I got tons of pictures, didn't you see them?”
Daichi nodded. He felt a little sick.
“Y’ looked good,” he agreed.
“He can't look at screens,” Oliver said flatly, appearing from the kitchen with an iced coffee in a tall glass. “I took his phone off him after the first twenty pictures.”
Brynlee's face fell. “You didn't see my midnight pictures?” She asked sadly.
“I was asleep,” Daichi said quietly. “You can show me now.”
“No, you can't.” Oliver's tone sharpened, and he leaned deliberately between them to hand Brynlee her coffee. He made eye contact with her, stern and serious as he repeated, “He can't. Look. At screens.”
“Not even for like…five minutes?”
“I can look for five minutes,” Daichi promised, “just turn the brightness down.”
“You already have a headache,” Oliver grumbled. “You're gonna wreck yourself.”
“Ollie, stop it,” Daichi said firmly, switching once more to Japanese. “I'm not a child.”
“No, you're just humoring one.” Oliver snapped back.
“Stop.” Daichi repeated. “If you're so bothered, leave.”
Oliver scowled. “God forbid I care about my brother,” he grumbled, stalking off towards the guest room nonetheless. Though he had no desire to be around Brynlee, he didn't actually want to go far, knowing Daichi would need him before long.
Daichi let out a tense sigh. “Sorry about that,” he said, turning back to Brynlee. “Show me your pictures.”
Although she had watched the interaction like a tennis match, Brynlee was quickly distracted. She scrolled through her phone, telling Daichi about all the people that she'd met and how many compliments she'd got on her dress. He nodded along, offering as many of his own compliments as he could muster, but his mind was quickly starting to struggle. Each new image flashing on the screen stabbed was an ice pick piercing his skull, and he felt flashes of pain in his jaw with every unbidden grimace. Blissfully ignorant to it all, Brynlee continued to talk.
“And this one was right at midnight, when the ball dropped!” She chirped, looking at him expectantly for a response. To her frustration, Daichi was silent. “See? Don't I look good?”
“Mmhmm…”
He couldn't look at the phone any longer. Trying not to groan, he blinked several times. Colour flashed behind his eyelids.
“Did you even look at it?” Brynlee asked, dissatisfied with his response.
“I did. Y’looked great, Brynn,” Daichi said, struggling to keep his words coherent. His vision had started to blur, the glow from her phone agonizingly bright even in his peripheral.
“Well, Sven liked it.”
“Uh huh…”
He blinked again, squeezing his fingers into his thigh in a vain attempt to…what? Distract himself from the growing discomfort in his head? Steady himself as vertigo swelled in his chest?
“Daichi?” Brynlee’s voice warped and warbled in his ears. “Are you listening? I have more pictures to show you.”
“Uhhhh… maybe ‘n a minute,” he slurred, squeezing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to escape the overstimulation.
“Baby?”
Her fingers found his jaw and he hissed in pain, jerking away. The room tilted sharply. Brynlee wrung her hands, unsure of what to do.
“Daichi? What's wrong?” She asked, desperate for direction.
“Ollie,” he croaked desperately, blinking tears out of his eyes. “Need…”
Brynlee frowned, looking around to see where the older Jansen had gone. “Oh, shit, uh… Oliver?” She called out.
As if waiting in the rafters, he swooped down upon them in seconds, flashing Brynlee a sharp glare. “Don't shout. He's already in pain.”
He crouched down, squeezing Daichi’s shoulder.
“Don't feel good,” Daichi mumbled, folding forwards to burying his eyes in Oliver's shirt.
“You wanna lie down, bud? I can get you a shot for the pain.”
“Please…”
“A shot?” Brynlee pouted. “He doesn't like needles. That's why we didn't get tattoos together.”
“Well, he'll have this one,” Oliver said shortly. He hooked his arm around Daichi's back, slinging his brother's big arm over his shoulder. “Alright, up we go. God, you weigh a ton.”
“Sorry,” Daichi mumbled, clutching Oliver tighter to stay upright.
“No, you're fine,” Oliver muttered, still straining under the weight. “I'm sorry I don't go to the gym anymore. For both our sake.”
“Don’ put your back out,” Daichi said, clinging harder to Oliver. It was unclear whether he was teasing or seriously concerned.
“Yeah, it's not on the agenda,” Oliver assured him.
Brynlee hopped up from the couch to follow after them. “Don't drop him!” She fussed, the shrillness of her worry arcing like lightning through Daichi's head. He whimpered, and Oliver hushed him gently.
“Stay out here,” he said firmly to Brynlee. “Come on, let's get you lying down.”
“But I want to help,” she protested, hurrying ahead before Oliver could shut her out.
“Then get out of the way,” he snapped.
Daichi flinched, face pressing into Oliver's shoulder.
“Don’ fight,” he begged. “Please. Hurts.”
Oliver sighed. “Right. Sorry,” he said quietly.
Brynlee, in a rare moment of good judgement, stepped aside so Daichi could be brought into the bedroom. She still hovered at his elbow, fussing quietly, but at least allowed Oliver to work.
“Here,” Oliver said, lowering Daichi down as gently as he could onto the bed. “Lie down, there you go. Let me just…” He lifted Daichi's legs up before tugging the duvet over him. “I'll be right back, yeah?”
“Feel like shit,” Daichi lamented, slinging an arm over his eyes to hide from the light.
“It's okay, baby,” Brynlee crooned, perching on the edge of the bed. The movement made Daichi groan, and she stroked her fingers through his hair, oblivious to her own fault in his discomfort. “Shhh, you're okay.”
He flinched again, moaning softly. The pain wasn't so bad as when he truly had a migraine, but the dizziness… God, the dizziness was unbearable. Even his own breath moved the mattress an unbearable amount, and it was all he could do to stay still against Brynlee's hand. He hoped Oliver would be back soon. Hopefully the shot would knock him out for a bit and he could get a moment's peace from the sickening spin of the world underneath him.
“Okay.” Daichi wasn't sure when Oliver had returned to the room, but suddenly he was at his bedside and a cool hand was lifting his pyjama shirt. “Little pinch in three, two…”
Though he managed not to flinch, Daichi let out a little involuntary whimper. Brynlee stroked his hair, continuing to shush him and ignoring the nasty look she was getting from Oliver.
“Okay, there you go. All done,” Oliver said, sticking the needle into the sharps container that now lived on Daichi's bedside. “Hopefully you can get some rest now,” he added, looking pointedly at Brynlee.
“I can be quiet,” she said, turning back to Daichi with a little huff.
“No.” Oliver stood up, gesturing for her to leave. “He needs rest. You can sit quietly in the living room if you want to stay so badly.”
“Well, if you want me gone so badly, I'll just leave,” Brynlee said, obviously hurt.
Though he couldn't have wanted company less, her tone sent a pang of guilt through Daichi's chest. “No, you c’n… she c’n stay. ‘s okay, Ollie.” he mumbled.
“No, she can't,” Oliver said firmly. “The doctors were very clear that you should be allowed to rest. You have a fucking brain injury, we're not fucking around with this.”
“So you think I don't care about him?” Brynlee asked incredulously. Offense swelled in her chest, and she stood from the bed with careless speed. The movement made Daichi groan, but she was distracted, turning her back to Oliver and stalking off out of the room. “I don't have to deal with this kind of disrespect.”
“Sorry bud,” Oliver muttered, glancing down at Daichi. “Had to be done. You get some sleep now, the drugs should kick in in a minute. I'll be outside if you need anything.”
“Don' go yet,” Daichi begged, one clumsy hand grabbing for Oliver. Then the front door slammed, and Daichi recoiled like he'd been shot, the sound reverberating violently in his head.
“Christ,” Oliver hissed, a poisonous glare whipping around as if he could follow Brynlee’s retreat down the corridor. Behind him, Daichi whimpered, and his attention quickly returned to what actually mattered. “It's okay,” he breathed, voice barely more than a thought. “You want me to stay? I'll stay.”
“Cuddle,” Daichi demanded, tugging weakly on Oliver's sleeve.
“Sure,” Oliver sighed, toeing his sliders off and slipping into Daichi's obnoxiously large bed. Immediately, Daichi curled against him, creased forehead pressing into his shirt.
Oliver wrapped an arm lazily around his brother, thinking back nearly twenty years ago to when he was actually bigger than Daichi. Though they were the closest in age, Oliver was still the oldest, and Daichi would come to him for help with homework, or video game bosses, or even just because he was having a bad day and wanted some company. How simple things had been back then.
Absent-mindedly, he traced gentle circles over Daichi's shoulder and back. Bit by bit, he felt his brother relax into him as the medicine kicked in. Oliver sighed softly. He couldn't do much about the pain. He couldn't speed up the healing. And he, unfortunately, couldn't do anything about Brynlee. But at least he could be there.
hey~ sorry if this is random but i'm curious about the process of collaborative writing, like the logistics. do you both have characters that are "yours" and whose PoV you write, or do you both just write everything? do you divide who writes what or just whoever can continue a story when time & inspiration happens? how far do you outline/plan plot developments together, does it ever happen that one of you is writing and the story goes somewhere unexpected?
Fantastic question! Let me try to answer this as thoroughly as possible.
So when Boo and I write, it's usually one of us throws together a couple paragraphs to start and the other picks up from there, and we go back and forth, sometimes in a couple sentences, sometimes much longer chunks (eg the mean ass Sasha WIP where I've been yapping my ass off, y'all will see it soon enough). It works pretty similarly to paragraph style roleplay in that regard. Once one of us has finished writing our reply (or replies, our ADHD asses are usually writing more than one at a time), we message the other person "ding." It's a shorthand I developed years ago, essentially just means your turn, but in my head it's like the ding of a typewriter when it finishes a line or whatever. Sometimes it's rapid fire back and forth all day, sometimes it takes a day or two to reply. Life happens.
As far as whose characters are whose, there are a few old ones that belonged to one or the other of us before we started writing pretty much exclusively in tandem (eg her Nye, Nate, Gwen, Delilah, my Christian, Jace, Vody), but most of them were created together for the purpose of collaborative writing. In general, we both write from the POVs of whoever is in the current story, though sometimes one person will take the lead with a character if they "know" that character better.
Some characters have long ass storylines in place (some of which are literally mapped out a decade plus in advance, and we even have some of those far future stories already written), some we're still figuring out as we get to know the character(s) better. A lot of our ideas are initially just hashed out in the DMs, which has led to me downloading a backup of my entire blog several times over to be able to search through said DM archive because Tumblr itself is garbage. (I actually need to do that again tbh, my last one is pretty out of date. Would you believe my crazy ass has done it on my phone before?) For more organized thought, it desperately needs updating, but we do have a giant Google sheet of fic chronology with a page for each character grouping, which I'll show a sample of here:
I've cropped out several less important categories as well as blurred future stories that would be spoilers but just to give you an idea of the level of evil plotting happening here. Between some future fics there's also red lines which is where we write bullet points of plot that needs to happen but doesn't have a fic yet.
As far as plot going in its own direction, that definitely happens sometimes. The characters are developed to the point that when we're writing it's pretty easy to let them "take control" so to speak, and sometimes that leads us down a different path than anticipated. There's also been times where we wrote something, hated it or hated where it went after a certain point, and went back and re-wrote those parts. God knows we make new characters and by extension add new storylines all the time. The writing process is about as linear as a ball of yarn.
I hope this answered all your questions! Feel free to ask more. And of course if @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak wants to add to or correct anything I said, please go for it.
