artdecosupernova-writing

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Honest Chapter Titles Part III

Aw, shit, here we go again. Book one and book two, icymi.

Thriving: Rebirth—

Chapter One

Real: Gods in the Stars Honest: Revenge is an Incredible Color on Thrive

Chapter Two

Real: Tournaltis Honest: Introducing the Most Important Characters in the Series, Actually

Chapter Three

Real: Rebirth Honest: OH HELLO

Chapter Four

Real: Echoes of Cosmos Honest: We're Getting Real McSpicy Now

Chapter Five

Real: Consortium Waste Honest: It's a Connection to WASTE, Get It? 'Cause We Meet Guetry...? He's an Operative for the Consortium? And Then the Skywaste Thing? Get It??? He's a Waste is Basically What I'm Saying, Here

Chapter Six

Real: Jupiter's Moon Honest: The Gang's All Here! And They All Want to Fuck Each Other I Guess

Chapter Seven

Real: Utter Spirals Honest: Warren Loses His Mind and Likely Doesn't Get it Back

Chapter Eight

Real: Logoryt Honest: War Never Fucking Changes

Chapter Nine

Real: Th'saiya Honest: Oh We Are Tired. This is Tiring.

Chapter Ten

Real: SKYWASTE (stylized) Honest: Guetry is in His Element, and He Unknowingly Helps Warren Get Laid

Chapter Eleven

Real: The Bitter End Honest: War... Really Never Fucking Changes

Chapter Twelve

Real: Setae'togun Honest: Yeah Buckle Up it Gets Bad

Chapter Thirteen

Real: Abyssal Harbinger Honest: Yeah I Told You it Gets Bad

Chapter Fourteen

Real: Blanc de Blanc Honest: Warren Takes the Ultimate Leap

Chapter Fifteen

Real: SCOT Honest: Arguably the Only Thing AI is Good For

Chapter Sixteen

Real: For Rotanga Honest: FOR ROTANGAAAAAA

Chapter Seventeen

Real: Leader in Gold Honest: Oh No The Original Alien is Still Hot

Epilogue

Honest: Trouble in Paradise?????

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Find the Word Game XXXV

tagged by: @space-writes!! my words: become, begin, belong, before tagging: @drippingmoon, @zmwrites, @ashen-crest, @sleepyowlwrites, @pertinax--loculos, and open tag! your words: way, write, wrong, young, yearn, yawn

become (Meridian)—

Corin poked his head out of the shuttle. "Three weeks has become one and a half."

"Oh, shit," Warren groaned, letting Plio take his smoothie bottle from him as he passed. "That barely leaves us enough time to even get there."

Thrive ducked into the shuttle past Corin. "It's a good thing we packed in advance."

"Your stuff is already loaded onto the Rodedra," Calen said. "All we need is you two and we're off."

"And me, of course," Corin added. "I'm the most important part."

Thrive settled himself in the co-pilot seat. "Not a claim I would make, personally."

Corin leaned over Roel and Warren, rummaging around the shuttle as if searching for something. "I... can't... seem to find where I asked."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

begin (Warpath)—

"I see." The sound of Thrive's fingers tapping a message out on the touchscreen surface of his desk drowned out Warren's thoughts for a moment. "What is it you plan to accomplish with this task group?"

"Find out where FaiTh is located and take 'em out. Thought that was pretty obvious."

Thrive's eyebrows lifted and he turned to Warren. "Would you know where to begin?"

"Nope. But that's where the task group comes in. People a lot more tech-savvy than I can figure all that out. Or at least get the ball rolling."

"Failure to Thrive is a powerful, heavily elusive cyberterrorist organization that managed to not only find where Delegate Sinkship and her family were residing, but they managed to also seize control of the entire Consortium Node to shut off life support to one row of homes in the Eastern Division to assassinate her. They won't allow themselves to be found easily, if at all."

Warren stepped around the desk to face Thrive head-on. "Hey, man, have you seen all the impossible shit we've been able to do together? Didja happen to be there for any of it?"

After a pause, a smirk tipped at Thrive's lips. "Take Scot."

"He could probably do this whole thing himself, honestly."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

belong (Aurora)—

They passed ——— rushing the other way to get a look at Ashva, and Warren lowered his voice. "Are you worried they'll find us threatening?"

Thrive didn't respond until they reached their destination; the observation deck. It stretched out twice as far as the one on the L2, and more window meant more opportunity to watch the Ingress Gate shrinking away into the distance and the clouds of the galaxy swallowing their vessel whole.

"Maybe some more than others."

Warren looked at him in the quiet hum of the engines, the calming silence of the room. "You're worried they won't accept you as one of them."

Thrive's brow knitted in such a way that suggested Warren had just tugged on a raw nerve. He kept his focus drilled on the stars, fighting the nosedive the corners of his mouth threatened to take, and he worried his bottom lip with his teeth for the hundredth time in a short while.

"You think that if ——— rejects you," Warren speculated, "then it means you don't belong anywhere. Am I in the right ballpark here?"

"The obhelians have done nothing much for me," Thrive said coolly. "If not to make sure I was 'other' my whole life. Slodia apparently made me a pawn, attempted to keep me on a leash for the right moment when they could sic me onto their adversaries. I disagreed with their views as a whole and I was labeled a miscreant, a rebel, but I never asked to be one of them. I loved my people...but they didn't love me.

"If ——— thinks I am nothing more than tainted goods…" Thrive inhaled a sharp breath. "...I didn't ask to be made this way."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

before (Asylum)—

Warren stepped aside as [Senator] Ravnik brushed past him. He didn't even have time to recoil before Ravnik input the key into the touchpad and a flash of amber illuminated the outer corridor behind the sliding door.

Thrive's eyes flashed the instant they locked onto Ravnik. For the span of a heartbeat, he appeared cordial and amiable.

"Senator," he said.

Then, without giving Ravnik a second to process, Thrive jabbed his fist into his throat. Ravnik let out a noiseless cry and doubled over, allowing Thrive the opportunity to take a further step into the room, which he did with a deep and intense glare directly into Ravnik's eyes. His pupils took on a familiar golden glow.

The air grew heavy, pressed into Warren's chest, and his ears started to block. He slid closer to Thrive, trying not to make it too obvious that he couldn't pull a breath when a drip of blood skated out of Ravnik's nose and onto the floor.

"You great and pathetic fool," Thrive snarled. "Consider yourself fortunate I've allowed you time to rectify your extreme lapse in judgment, as limited as that time is becoming by the day."

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Thriving: Rebirth is LIVE!

paperback

ebook

goodreads

The future has arrived far too soon for Warren. Awoken from cryostasis into a galaxy ravaged by war, he finds himself in the middle of the greatest conflict the Milky Way has ever seen. Working with Thrive, he must recruit a team of adept individuals to take down the tyrannical Prince Hyret, whose forces have a ruthless chokehold on the galaxy. Warren and Thrive's growing bond faces its own trials as conflict rages. Compounded with the Emmuli no longer content to linger in the shadows, grief threatens to tear them apart before they can even properly begin. The revolution begins now, in the hands of those who've lost centuries…

The Darkspace Portent Series (M31 Arc; Books 1–5)—

The dramatic collision of Orthrive'poliea's vehicle with a nearby lake upends Warren Cougar's life more than he ever expected. Along with conspiracies, intergalactic war, and tumultuous dealings with interspace politics, he has to survive a hostile alien army and a semi-omnipotent sentient darkness doing everything in their power to destroy Earth and the rest of the Milky Way—and Thrive's native galaxy, Andromeda. Navigating their way through seemingly endless battle after seemingly endless battle, Warren and Thrive also find they must navigate themselves as well as their growing relationship with each other.

Book Hub (Carrd)

[artdecosupernova-writing]

this hilarious but also the amount of time it's been since I last took my arthritis medication lol

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Find the Word Game XXXIV

(Double Feature)

tagged by: @space-writes & @pertinax--loculos!! my words: sleep, breathe, play, exact, plunge, coy, valid, naked, rose tagging: @drippingmoon, @ashen-crest, @zmwrites, @oh-no-another-idea, and open tag! your words: feel, life, burn, pulse, grave, water

(a)sleep (Meridian)—

Warren escorted him through the station to NodeSource headquarters, where a couple of Thrive's guards broke off to inspect the place and make sure it was safe enough for His Majesty. Once it was deemed adequate, they all moved inside to a small room where a terminal was set up, attached to a powered-down, very human-like android chassis sitting in a chair. "He's...lifelike," Thrive said quietly as two guards posted themselves inside the room out of the way of the techs and programmers filing inside as well. "Even while inactive, he's simply...asleep." The chassis had cropped, pale blond hair, a soft face. It didn't look to be any taller than Warren, and it was dressed in a gray NodeSource t-shirt and black jeans. Its hands were placed on its knees and its eyes were closed, short brown eyelashes resting against rounded cheeks. It had fair skin, cool-toned on the pink side, and realistic intermittent freckles peppered on its face and neck. "Guetry loved the model," Warren said, brushing a knuckle over the chassis' hand. Its skin was indistinguishable from the real thing. "They worked on it while he was...they all worked on it together. I came in for the programming." "This is highly impressive," Thrive said, running his fingers through the hair. "I don't think even Slodian obhelians could've done this, not to this level of realism. Admittedly, I feel as if I'm being forward even now touching it like this."

breathe (Aurora)—

Thrive took Warren's face in his hands, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so severe in the moment, and he looked him right in the eye. "Do me a favor and breathe." Warren did as he was told, inhaling for four seconds and releasing for five. "Go with Sig and their crew. You're extremely vulnerable in this state." "No," Warren said immediately. "No way. I'm not going anywhere, I—" "Please," Thrive interrupted, steady and clear for someone on the verge of panic. "I need you to go. Warren, I need you to go." Something huge rammed into the window, sending a fissure across the glass, and Warren caught the terror in Thrive's eyes that was replaced in an instant with fiery determination as he whipped around to throw a shield into the window at the exact same time as the shattering of the glass into hundreds of pieces that sprayed all around the bridge in the second before the breach barrier prevented them from getting sucked out into space. Warren made a move to jump forward, but Thrive caught him in a blast of force that threw him into the bulkhead and out of the way. He slid down the wall, mildly stunned, and watched, horrified, as a battering ram of dense black fog slammed into Thrive's shield over and over and over. Thrive struggled to keep it in place, but the fog began to bleed onto the bridge. "Oh, god," Warren breathed, trying to scoot further into the wall. "Thrive…!" He turned his head, eyes alight with the orange glow, and the fog poured in around them, pooling on the floor. It gathered at his feet, vines of onyx crawling up his ankles, slithering around his legs. He grit his teeth and dropped the shield, instead sweeping powerful blasts over the fog, dissipating it only for a second or two at a time. Someone has been deceiving you. Warren could do nothing but stare in wide-eyed horror as the tendrils caught one of Thrive's arms and gripped tight enough that he had to struggle to break free. It caught him again, and the determination in his eyes doubled behind the steadily brightening light. And as a vine of black smoke snapped from the ground to wrap around his throat, Warren realized what it was the Emmuli was trying to tell him. "Fight it," Warren said, his voice fracturing. "Thrive, fight it. You've gotta fight it!" But he knew, as soon as the toxin wrapped itself around Thrive's torso and he thrashed wildly about to overthrow it, that the doubt and fear and insecurities had been far stronger than he'd let on. He harbored too much guilt, too much self-loathing, too much hurt to keep the Emmuli at bay. And when the fog swallowed him where he stood, the tendrils snaking into his mouth and down his throat, he made eye-contact with Warren, a hopeless apology welling beneath the orange glow that was snuffed in a second.

(re)play (Meridian)—

Charis shrugged dramatically, face scrunched in a disapproving frown. "I can't get this routine down. I don't have enough talent for something this complicated. I quit, man, I quit!" Warren quirked an eyebrow and snorted. "We just started this choreo today, dude. If you're expecting to perfect any of my routines in less than a half-hour, you're gonna be sorely disappointed all the time." "Don't give up, Char!" Fiorella called across the room during her stretches. "You're really good!" Charis attempted a particular move—a downward thrust of the right elbow that was supposed to slide into a sideways pull while simultaneously crossing his ankles but ended up looking a bit more like an aggressive flail of the arms. He threw his hands up. "See?! Mr. Cougar, I'm so sorry for getting short with you but this is ridiculously impossible and I'm frustrated." "Right," Warren said, facing Charis. "Do that again but in instant replay." He did, resulting in the same flub, and a few other kids stopped hydrating from the fountain to watch in curiosity. After observing carefully, Warren nodded and set his water on the floor away from his feet. "Okay. Start with the fist up." He made his arm into a right angle with his fist pointed up. "You're super excited. Your mom's taking you to that extreme amusement park on Earth that's got eight hundred laws pending to try to get it shut down. Fucking psyched, right?" He brought the elbow down as if he'd just received good news of the slow-motion variety. "Yes! But what—your dipshit brother's running up behind you because he wants to get out the door first. Uh-uh." He tilted his elbow to the side, ramming it into an invisible person running at a glacial speed. "Not today." Charis followed along move for move, entranced. "Hey, I did it!" "Rockstar. Now, the feet," Warren said. He began to cross his left ankle over the right one. "You've really gotta make sure that elbow gets into Yalis' gut so you pop a slide, and...pow!" "Screw you, Yalis!" Charis exclaimed. "You're named after a planet you've never even been to!" Warren laughed out loud and went over the moves with Charis until they became somewhat second nature, after which Charis continued into the rest of the dance with the entire class hyping him up in a circle around him. Warren clicked the remote for the music and joined in the encouragement.

exact (Asylum)—

"That is correct," Thrive said coolly, eyes never leaving Cattaneo's face. "Currently taking the form of a male-presenting human…biological sex classified as H with the markers 3130-B formation 6…you've undergone entu'borah and are, in Earth years, approximately eight-thousand—" Thrive sighed again, shorter and more agitated. He cast his waning attention onto one of the walls. "Yes, that's correct." Cattaneo shoved the tablet away. "Alright, fine. Let's get right down to it, then." He narrowed his eyes at Thrive during a pause in which his forehead began to visibly perspire. "...Would you like to explain why you decided the way to stick it to the Consortium was to murder hundreds of innocent people?" A pit began to open in the bottom of Warren's stomach. Thrive, however, returned his focus to Cattaneo. "I won't dignify that with a response." "D'you see these?" Cattaneo leaned forward and rapped a knuckle against one of the cuffs emitting a steady white glow around Thrive's wrists. "You're the only one in the entire universe with this level of security at current. These were invented because of you. What makes you think we haven't been preparing for this? What makes you think we haven't been gearing up for the exact moment you turned your back on the galaxy, your people, the very oath for which you've supposedly devoted your entire self and soul, 'Protector'?" Thrive slammed his hands down onto the table and also leaned in, causing Cattaneo to recoil before attempting—failing—to reestablish his dominance within their dynamic. Warren's teeth clenched. "I have turned my back on nothing," Thrive hissed. His eyes flashed, quite literally, a brief ribbon of gold ripping through the green of his irises and the voids of his pupils. "It is the likes of you and those clutching your puppet strings in cold, merciless fingers who have turned your backs on me."

plunge (Eternal)—

Mercury turned off the feed and they were plunged into silence. Warren looked at everyone's faces—stunned, horrified, unsure if they could process the last several hours. He realized with a start that Thrive wasn't on the bridge, and he sprinted out into the corridor, skidding to a stop right beside the door to their quarters, which didn't open. He placed a palm on the metal and it slid open for him, shutting immediately once he stepped inside. He crept carefully, not noticing anything out of the ordinary...and then he caught a faint reflection in the false window, toward the floor. He came to a sudden halt and turned sharply to his right as he discovered Thrive sitting against the bed, facing the window, his knees up and his face in his hands. Weeping.

coy timid (Meridian)—

The sight of Thrive on his throne in Leviathan was a rare one, but intimidating nonetheless. Surrounded by vast shadows and shimmering precious metals sculpted into Escherian shapes, draped in an endless cascade of gold fabric that dwarfed his old cape by what appeared to be miles, meticulous strokes of black and gold paint creating intimate patterns of geometry on his tired human face. Warren loved how gorgeous and powerful it made him look. But he hated what it did to him. "Your...Majesty," he said timidly as he entered the throne room flanked by the High Guard. Thrive closed his eyes and sighed, connecting the thin lines on his eyelids to the lines that broke off in opposite directions along his cheekbones. "Please, Warren." "The last time I didn't address you by your honorifics in front of the High Guard, they yelled at me." "I've had a word with them. I don't like this any more than you do." Warren stuffed his hands in his pockets, aware of the cold and gaping distance between them as they stationed on separate ends of the room. "Then tell them to make me a king too or something." "If I had that kind of power, I wouldn't be one myself." Thrive shifted on the throne, sending a shimmering ripple along the cape and cloak dark as night, highlighted by small strips of white LED along the stitching. "The paradox is cataclysmic."

valid (in)accurate (Meridian)—

Warren's voice caught in his throat. "That looks like—" "It isn't." Thrive spun around, scanning the panicked faces streaming past them before pointing at two of the sentries. "Track down Thoeala'laris and Ataneq." "Your Majesty, our jobs are to protect you and the prince—" "Your job is to do what I say," Thrive barked. "Track them down or I will break your spines with a single bare hand and render your already obsolete positions additionally unfeasible." With a nod, the two sentries ran off in the direction of the security office. Warren stood back as Thrive pried the atrium door open, and even then he couldn't have been prepared for what they witnessed. Soldiers of some kind, fully dark and phasing in and out of solidity, aiming strange weapons into the screaming crowd, opening fire. There were dozens of them, and they looked as if someone had taken a vague description of Consortium operatives and molded an inaccurate, shadowy representation of them. Thrive immediately snapped out a blast of force, knocking back an entire group in the midst of phasing out. He did it again, knocking another group away, and their attention diverted to him. He deflected their weapons fire from Warren and himself with a shield. "Gimme a gun," Warren shouted. He caught a rifle thrown to him by a security officer taking cover behind a large bench next to them. "Thrive, go!" They both ran into the atrium, Warren picking off the ghostly figures a few at a time. Thrive lifted stones from a cluster of planters, melting them down and forming long blades with them on the way to his hands. He cast one into the side of a long-range gunman, summoning it back to his grasp in tandem with driving the other blade upward into an intruder's ribs. He swung at a phaser's head and his arm went through, but he recovered in time to send a blade into a sniper aimed down at them from the second floor.

naked (Warpath)—

"Then let's spend whatever time you've got left here fucking each others' brains out." "I'd like to see the remainder of our children at some point if that's alright with you." "No, no," Warren teased. "They're overrated. When you've seen one kid, you've seen them all." Late into the night, once Thrive had reunited with ——— in such a time frame—and after another passionate hour and a half—Thrive stood at the window of Warren's room, stark naked in the light of three moons. He gazed at a point in the distance, thoughts running a mile a minute, and Warren approached him with a light dressing gown. "I gotta tell you something." The silence from Thrive was thoughtful and patient, and he took care in sliding the garment on. His lack of haste was almost a considerate act, a way of quietly conveying that he knew Warren's eyes were on him, his shoulders, his back. The material shifted over his arms and he flexed beneath the material, and it seemed deliberate. Warren stepped up to him, then, couldn't help himself. He slid his arms around Thrive from behind, burying his nose into the space between Thrive's shoulder blades, inhaling him deeply and running his palms over his pectorals. Thrive clasped his hands over Warren's, held him tightly to him. "What is it you need to tell me?" he asked, voice gravel over the liquid gold of his body heat. "Oh, man," Warren groaned, pressing his forehead to the back of Thrive's neck. "This…I dunno how you're gonna take this." "Out with it." "Well…it looks like we could have some in-laws in the future." Thrive turned to him, displacing him long enough to grace him with a deep look of concern and confusion. "Who?"

rose (Aurora)—

Warren moved over to the bathroom and pulled the door open a little, peeking inside to make sure Thrive was okay, and once he caught sight of him, he wasn't quite sure okay was the right word...but he did lose his breath for a minute. Thrive was practically boneless, arms draped over the edge of the tub, and his head rested against the back, eyes half shut and amber light twinkling within them like the dying coals of a fire. His wet hair slicked back, knees drawn to compensate for the sheer length of his legs, his entire frame a painful amalgamation of tense and fully relaxed. "Thrive…?" Warren said in a small voice. Thrive's chest rose with an inhale and his gaze shifted to Warren. The water barely rippled with that movement. They remained in further silence until the base of Thrive's expression shifted, brows drawn tight and eyes becoming despondent. Warren stepped into the bathroom, sliding the door shut behind him, and he pulled his shirt off over his head. Looked at Thrive again to make sure he wasn't overstepping. Thrive hadn't looked away. Warren tossed his shirt to the side, shed the rest of his clothes, and stepped into the bath between Thrive's ankles, making a point not to let the absolute frigid water deter him from his job. He sank in all the way, the water level rising until it reached the rim. "C'mere." Thrive pulled himself up to Warren, touching his face with a ginger hand, and the swirling glow of his eyes only seemed to intensify upon cupping his jaw. He slid his arms around Warren, who shifted to be more accessible, and Warren held him for ages, the relief of his heat from the cold and the emptiness pooling in his chest. After enough time had passed that the water no longer felt as cold, Thrive gently pressed his lips to Warren's. His hands found his waist, holding on with a tight grip, like everything would crumble again if he let him go, and Warren wound his fingers through Thrive's hair to ground himself.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

haha sike I'm gonna do it

you ever get an idea about the plot where... even you are like "wait. no, that's... that's too far." ?????

[artdecosupernova-writing]

you ever get an idea about the plot where... even you are like "wait. no, that's... that's too far." ?????

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Find the Word Game XXXIII

tagged by: @oh-no-another-idea!! my words: pocket, gesture, afford, dread, gift tagging: @space-writes, @drippingmoon, @druidx, open tag! open tag! your words: spin, crime, city, roof, peel, great

pocket (Aurora)—

He glanced upward, and a light peppering of snow started to fall from the sky.

Warren caught a flake on the knuckle of his thumb and showed it to Guetry, who slid his hands into his pockets again. Sussa gently blew the flake away and watched it fall.

Without much ceremony, Thrive descended the dune and continued forward, traversing a few of them before he came to a halt atop one taller than the last. He made a slow turn, eyes running over everything he could see, and when he stopped he faced the shuttle, raised a hand toward Sussa, and pointed to her.

"Yell."

Following absolutely no hesitation, taking no time to think about it, Sussa inhaled and let loose the most ear-shattering, primal yell she could. Her fists balled at her sides, eyes filling with tears of relief, she yelled as loud as her voice would allow her to in Thrive's direction. The sound was full of grief, of betrayal, of the entire weight of silhou sorrow. She was a different person within that scream; she was a lost people, a scared mother, a grieving child, a love unrequited.

gesture (Eternal)—

Guetry came at them, nose buried in his messaging device. "Alright, I shot a text to Alec; she's still working on the Ganymede which just came back from a mission yesterday. I can request the ship, but it's gonna have to—"

He looked up, caught sight of Mercury, and recoiled as if struck. Warren watched Mercury's expression soften while Guetry's eyes took on a peculiar faraway quality like a million memories had flashed before him just by looking at his face.

"Guetry," Warren said cautiously. "I'd introduce you to Mercury…but I have the feeling you already know him."

"You could say that," Guetry said coyly, sliding his comm into the breast pocket of his long coat. "Been a hot minute, Adam. Started to think you'd gotten eaten by a graha. Judging by the facial deco, though"—Guetry gestured to his own face, alluding to the gnarly scar Mercury sported—"you don't look much like you weren't."

Mercury's laugh was not subtle, and he threw his arms open, eagerly accepting the equally enthusiastic hug from Guetry. "Damn, it's been a quiet time without you, Sympa…!"

Warren stepped aside as the hug quickly became something a little more than friendly. Guetry gripped Mercury's shoulder and Mercury rubbed his back in an affectionate circle. When they pulled away, they held each others' gazes for a moment and Guetry briefly tapped the side of Mercury's face with a palm.

"Did my boys rope you into this clusterfuck, too?" Guetry asked warmly.

"Yeah." Mercury smiled again, big and dimpled. "Guess they did."

afford (Meridian)—

"You mean it was that easy?" Thoeala said, mocking a stunned expression. "All he had to do was be literally anyone else and things could get done around this kingdom?"

"Thoeala'laris, this matter does not concern you."

"With no respect whatsoever, Delegate Sinkship," Thoeala wrapped her hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, "it concerns me greatly. I've fought on battlefields carrying less hostility than what you're slinging at Orthrive'poliea for the crime of wanting to help those who were displaced in Ashva."

The corners of Sinkship's mouth turned down as she tilted her head. "You seem to be under the impression that since he is king and your father, you have the right to speak to me however you please. I assure you that's not the case."

Thoeala's dark eyes flashed with ire. "I'm under the impression that I spent several decades of my life cleaning up messes you made, simultaneously standing by while you bulldozed him out of doing what you dropped a crown on his head for doing when you didn't have the means or the power to do it yourselves!”

Rytha bristled. "You ungrateful little—!"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence, Delegate," Warren warned, leveling him with a dark stare. "She's also my daughter and I won't be as diplomatic as she's being right now about tearing you a new asshole."

Rytha shoved himself away from the call, swearing up a storm in a regional Morrite language.

Sinkship sighed and folded her fingers over the table. "You are burning bridges none of you can afford to burn, I hope you're aware."

"And you're pouring the goddamn gasoline," Thoeala retorted.

dread (Meridian)—

"That gives us enough time to gather the evac teams again," Warren said once Atoa was out of earshot. "With all the mishegoss they're giving us about the qrihk, I'm dreading the conversation about the venevans."

"We're holding them on Oun and Rem," Thrive said. "If we need to make space on Lio, we will."

"They're not gonna like that."

Thrive turned to look at Warren over his shoulder, a surprisingly mischievous, lopsided grin adding a degree of youth to his face that once seemed impossible to reach again. "Fuck 'em."

Warren blinked from the floor, the words smacking into his chest like the broad side of a closed fist, and within the succeeding pause he forgot to exhale. "What?" he blurted within the space between a high-pitched whine and a breathless plea. He coughed, embarrassed, pressing a hand to his own chest. "I'm so sorry...I went to a dark place there for a second..."

 "I've seen that place before," Thrive said, moving to follow Atoa out of the office. "It's got a box under the bed containing my leather harness and a velvet rope, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Warren sighed into the screens of the devices on his lap. "The dark part was that I was wearing them instead of you."

He heard Thrive's poorly stifled laugh from the middle of the hall.

gift favor (Meridian)—

"I'm curious about how [Thrive] would perform with someone like me."

This caught Warren's attention. He slow-blinked at Scot, unable to form a thought at first because he was so taken aback by what he'd said. "Excuse me?"

Scot peered through the window and narrowed his eyes. "It may not even be possible. As you said, he relies on the arousal of others to feel it himself. I'm merely curious about what it would be like for him to touch me. Or, more to the point, I wonder what it would be like for him if an inorganic being serviced him with his consent."

Warren frowned, though he realized within the breadth of the expanding silence between them that the frown didn't come from offense or even indignation. It was born from the incredible discovery that the thought of Scot, an undeniably attractive human android he trusted more than most human humans, doing sexual favors for Thrive for the sake of science, was a whiplash of a turn-on he had the option to explore should all parties be on board when the situation wasn't so dire.

"Uh," he said, then cleared his throat of the lump that had lodged inside of it. The confusion of being stressed over Thrive's disappearance, coupled with the absolute brass balls it took to voice that thought, coupled with the excitement of the unbelievable opportunity that just presented itself were all enough to give him a headache. "Yeah. I mean...we could probably…" He shifted where he sat, shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. "We could...set that up, if you...if you're serious."

Scot gave him a curious look. "Really?"

"Probably ask again much, much later, but…" Warren shrugged. "I'm cool if he's cool."

"Interesting." Scot seemed virtually unaffected. "You think he would say yes?"

"For scientific curiosity? Very likely."

[artdecosupernova-writing]

me, changing major plot points in the latter half of the series to have the most devastating impact at the end:

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Partners III

In 1969, war is a current constant, and Gilmore and Murray are threatening to come back together and dare to help get the world's minds off of it. The crescendo of their personal and working relationship with one another begins now, with various obstacles both bringing them together and pulling them apart—fear, devastation, hardship, and worry crossing with a semblance of feeling whole and full of purpose once again. And with the possibility of taking the rebooted act overseas, a lifetime goal of Reagan's falls closer and closer toward them, and the springs coil tighter and tighter...

Protagonists

Reagan Gilmore • 48 • August 15th, 1921 • Ireland

Reagan's finding it easier not to care about what others think about him—what they think about him and Ben, more specifically. The gap between them emotionally and spiritually—already so thin to begin with—gets even thinner. Rattling developments take a massive toll on him, and he leans heavily on Ben for that special brand of support only his closest friend can provide.

Ben Murray • 44 • February 27th, 1925 • New Jersey

Ben, now a father to six children—and outnumbered with only one son to his name—is an entertainment titan as much as his partner is, with just about as many accolades. His gradual ease in his position in life makes it easier to professionally reunite on a more permanent basis with Reagan. His marriage is straining under the weight of his feelings for Reagan, and he has to navigate that as well as the turmoil his oldest daughter endures while he's on tour.

• • •

Reagan clumsily pressed his lips to Ben's cheek, and they were curled into the grin of a man who had no idea how to read his own brainwaves. The scent of alcohol wafted off of him and invaded Ben's senses. Only Reagan Murphy Gilmore could twist that particular stench into something not totally repugnant. "Nah," he murmured against Ben's cheek, tilting back to see him better, for what it was worth. "You're the best best friend in the world. Stop beatin' yourself up, baby. I feel better already." Ben let out a careful breath through rounded lips, and his eyes darted all around Reagan's suite, landing on the signs of housekeeping having swept through while they were out. He eventually shifted his gaze to Reagan again, and with a degree of unease, he noticed the egregious lack of his previous worry and anxiety, replaced with false confidence and bravado. "You won't in the morning. I can promise that." "Shh, shh." Reagan went still suddenly, his hand reaching up to sort of grip Ben on the jaw, and he peered into his eyes with the concentration of a scientist on the verge of a discovery. "...Feel like I done this before," he whispered. The heat of both his stare and his words made Ben's mouth dry. He swallowed thickly as a thumb grazed over his cheek. "You'd just turned twenty-one." "Right, right." Reagan went quiet again, his eyes passing over Ben's face in cryptic scrutiny. "...Odd night."

• • •

"Fuck, Reagan," Ben hissed, eyes shining with unshed tears as has become signature to him. "Fuck, Reagan!" "Come inside," Reagan whispered with brand-new urgency, chest burning with his own breathlessness. "Come sit. It's okay. It's all okay." He escorted Ben into the suite, lowered him down onto the couch, kneeled beside him. He squeezed his knee with a hand still shaking but left it at that. Ben dropped his head. "I'm fucked. It's over. I might as well brace for the fucking divorce papers now..." "Hey." Reagan quickly cupped his jaw and angled his face to look him in the eye. "You with me? It's okay. It's all okay. You're drunk. Things got a little out of hand. That's nothing new. But you stopped it, and it's done. Okay? What happened here doesn't have to leave this room. It doesn't even have to leave our memories." "I love you," Ben said pathetically. "I...I love you so much." "I know, Benny. I love you, too." Reagan smiled, a thick curtain over his heartbreak. He didn't expect reality to hit so soon and with so much force. "It's gonna be okay."

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Partners II

The year is 1960. Tragedy separates Ben and Reagan literally and figuratively, likely for good. On top of coping with their professional split, they now have to cope with the ever-hovering idea that they may no longer have each other to lean against when they need to, which sends both of them spiraling into their personal brands of hellish nightmares. And with over 5,000 miles between them indefinitely for the first time in 30 years, those spirals become almost impossible to grind to a halt.

Protagonists

Reagan Gilmore • 39 • August 15th, 1921 • Ireland

Reagan went on to become an internationally beloved performer and actor with a few Academy Award nominations under his belt. He's doing his level best to be the best single dad to his two kids that he can, and though he's always considered Ben to be a covert co-parent, he can't help but let his own guilt and insecurities overshadow him. Being pulled back to Ireland for an undetermined amount of time wreaks havoc on his mental state, unleashing a reckless and irresponsible component of his personality that previously went undiscovered.

Ben Murray • 35 • February 27th, 1925 • New Jersey

Ben has become an accomplished singer/songwriter in his own right, composing a few scores for films—some of which Reagan was a star—as well as topping several music charts and earning gold records in the infancy of the certification. His life with Faye and their daughter seems pristine on the surface, but he's not quite sure he wants to keep it that way. The deep-rooted emotional tribulations he'd carried with him his whole life reveals itself to be poisonous, eating away at his mental stability and his physical health simultaneously.

• • •

"You destroyed me that night, you know." Ben cast despondent eyes across the shoreline, the salt of the breeze rustling through his hair. The looming void of night and the pliant sand swallowing their feet foreshadowed their immediate futures. "I had no god damn idea what I was gonna do without you. I was terrified." A knot manifested in Reagan's chest that he couldn't shake. "What, exactly, could equal that?" He observed the fissure between Ben's brows. "What could I possibly say that would be as devastating, if not more, as tellin' you we had to dissolve our partnership?" "I don't even know." "Would it be that we can't be together anymore? After all this time?" Reagan meant to sound casual but the words made him bite a bit more than he expected. "After all we've been through? You know better than that." "It's what you're doin'. It's exactly what you're doin'." Ben finally turned to him. "By packing your shit and movin' all the way across the Atlantic, it's what you're doin'." The knot in Reagan's chest ballooned painfully into a leaky bubble of frustration he could no longer ignore. "Do you think this is easy for me? I can't take my kids, Ben. My dad has never met his grandkids and he probably never will. I can't take you. It's killin' me that I gotta leave you behind, but that's just the way it's gonna have to be, isn't it? You'll be here with your family and Faye's family and...you get to be here with my family, for fuck's sake. You're not gonna be alone this time; I am!" It dawned over Ben's face in slow motion. The swell of his throat bobbed and he dropped his gaze to the sand, unspeaking for several moments, allowing the miles of crashing waves to do the talking. The familiar reddening around his eyes betrayed his despair.

• • •

"You are possibly the most touched clown known to man," Mickey grumbled in his face. "Where is your manager and why is he allowing this caterwauling to continue?" "I don't have a manager," Ben said, breathless from nerves. "I've never needed one." Mickey's expression was hard and unforgiving unlike anything seen from him before. "You've always needed one. You needed one when you had one, as I can't fathom the meaning of letting you flounder on your own while your supposed better half sits pretty on his Hollywood throne." His gun found its way out of his shoulder holster, and a glint of the ceiling light bouncing off the gold metal and mother of pearl handle spoke words he chose not to speak himself. He pressed the tip of the weapon into Ben's shoulder. "Get out there and do your job, right now." "What the fuck, Mickey?!" Ben shoved the barrel away from him with the hand not currently pinned behind his back. "Put that away!" "You're the first man to ever say that to me. Do you feel special?" "I hate you so much. I hope you know that I hate you with all the rage I got left in me." "How ever will I live without your approval?" Mickey snapped. Though he spared a furtive peek at the gun first, Ben grit his teeth and turned a resolute glare onto him. "You wouldn't shoot me. You've protected me and Reagan for ten years, and you're not stupid enough to undo all of that by killing me. And even if you only catch an arm or a leg, I still wouldn't be able to perform." Mickey jammed the tip of the gun into the underside of Ben's jaw, sending a shock of pain through his throat and under his tongue. "Just how much are you willing to gamble in your own favor, Stick?" Mickey murmured, a perilous gleam overcoming his widened eyes.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

Partners

Reagan Gilmore and Ben Murray are desperate to take their music and comedy act—aptly called Gilmore and Murray—to the big leagues. In New York City, the year 1950 to be more specific, when and where you can’t swing a baseball bat without hitting someone demanding a duo act with talent, that doesn’t seem to be too hard. The tricky part, however, is rising to the top of the heap when you’re indebted to a particularly notorious crime syndicate.

Protagonists

Reagan Gilmore • 29 • August 15th, 1921 • Ireland

Reagan moved to a small town in New Jersey with his parents at age 9 and met Ben the same day. Some would say it was love at first sight, as the two have been inseparable ever since. At age 13, Reagan’s parents moved back to Ireland and he stayed behind since he couldn’t bear the thought of being so far away from Ben. He’s got incredibly good looks in spades and the charisma to back it up, which he’s learned to use to his and Ben’s advantage. He can have as big a heart as he wants but he’s deeply flawed and he’s tried to quell it for decades.

Ben Murray • 25 • February 27th, 1925 • New Jersey

A mama’s boy through and through, Ben has abandonment issues and a heavily codependent relationship with Reagan. Until age 5 it was just him and his mom, Shoshana, against the world, and meeting a little Irish boy new to town chucked a very welcome wrench in that cozy dynamic for the rest of their lives. Something dark brews beneath the complex surface of one Benjy Mertz. He fears being alone, even in his own apartment, and going as much as a week without seeing his best friend is practically equivalent to being imprisoned.

• • •

"Well," Ben said suddenly. "...What if we could work and celebrate Charlotte's birthday at the same time?" Reagan paused in the midst of kneeling to hand Carolyn another wooden car. "What?" Ben swiveled to face him, hands on his hips. "What if we didn't have to miss her birthday after all? We could...have a celebration at the Heron." Reagan and Carolyn exchanged a glance, the concern doubling in her face. "Have a child's birthday party at the Heron?" Reagan pushed himself to his feet. "Have you cracked? Geevo wouldn't allow a child to look at the Heron, and you think he's gonna let one waltz into the house just 'cause we work there?" "All we gotta do is ask, Reggie." Reagan lifted his eyebrows. "Be my guest." A quick jab of fear split through Ben's chest. "Wh—why's it gotta be me?!" "It was your idea. You're the one stupid enough to think you can ask something insulting of the man almost certainly involved in the mob that just so happens to hand us our paychecks after every performance of lascivious smiles and flop sweat." "It's a good idea," Carolyn interjected. "If you could pull it off, it would be better than missing out for six years in a row." Without breaking eye contact with Ben, Reagan released a slow breath, the weight of Carolyn's words once again sinking into his shoulders with the strength of a weighted blanket. He eventually lowered his gaze to the toys in her hands.

• • •

"He pays us," Reagan reminded him through gritted teeth once the door clicked closed behind them. "He lets me live in a house with my family, and lets you live, full stop." "With money that he likely inherited when someone went the way of the executed," Ben hissed, shrugging Reagan off of him. They hurried through the hall to get as far away from the office as possible. "We don't owe him shit! If anything, we're the reason that shit-head rakes in as much as he does every goddamn week!" Reagan shoved him into the wall. "If he hears you mouthin' off like that, I will let him wring your pencil neck, do you hear me? He's got all the right ties to all the wrong people." "Or is that the wrong ties to the right people?" Ben said, rubbing his shoulder as they turned a corner. "With Geevo Jones it doesn't matter. You'd be dead either way and I wouldn't know what to do with myself." "It'd tear you up that much, huh?" Reagan came to a stop and turned to him, picking up on the neediness behind the faux-casual question. "You've been my best friend for twenty years. You think I would've stuck with you that long if I didn't care about someone blowing your brains out?" Ben paused, nose scrunching. "...Didja have to get offensive?" "Yeah." Reagan smiled.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

for those keeping score—I am on day 42 of not having my ~$6000 biologic arthritis medication because the Medicaid office near us is incompetent and our case worker is being fucking lazy about getting our application through.

ETA: yes, the symptoms are back.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

probably the first year I won't finish OC Kiss Week in time since I started participating in 2021 😅

[artdecosupernova-writing]

OC Kiss Week Day 4: Reunion

WIP: Partners Pairing: Ben x Reagan Timeline: 1960, before the events of PII (definitely canon) CW: none Rating: T Words: 1,126

***

"God, you look amazing."

The statement tumbled out of Ben's mouth before he could stop it—nerves and adrenaline and possibly too much coffee combined into a maelstrom of emotions. He plastered a grin on his face as he watched Reagan smooth down the lapels of his suit jacket.

"Yeah?" Reagan smirked at him through the mirror and tightened his narrow tie. "Shouldn't you be in your own dressing room? It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."

"You say that like I wouldn't do exactly what you're tellin' me not to do if you were my bride."

"You have a penchant for defiance," Reagan rumbled. He made sure not a hair on his head was out of place, then checked his pearly white teeth for anything he potentially missed while flossing ten minutes ago. "And the dramatic."

Ben inhaled deeply, a way to ground himself and to keep himself from passing out. "It's been ten years. People are gonna be here, right?"

Reagan tipped his head and pivoted on his heel to look at Ben more directly. "Just our wives, I'm sure," he teased. It was his turn to smile, and boy... his smile always knocked Ben's socks off, no matter how often he saw it. "We're has-beens."

"I would like to reiterate my point about it being ten years," Ben sighed. "And a neat trick I know is that I can change the meaning entirely by adding that, in that context, it's only been ten years."

There was a stretch of silence during which Ben knew just by looking at him that Reagan was savoring being in the same room with him on a professional level for the first time in a decade. There was a glint in his eye, one he'd had since they were kids, one that really, when they got down to it, never fully disappeared.

"You know," Reagan said in a low, sultry murmur that, on the other hand, was only used sparingly when addressing Ben, "Adrian's gonna be mad at us if he finds out we're in the same room before the show. He wanted so badly for our reunion to be an actual reunion."

"When we're in the same vicinity," Ben responded in a matter-of-fact, almost bored drone that expertly hid his abrupt shiver, "you and I may as well be fused together inoperably. He knows that. He's seen that. If anything, he's gonna be pissed because he knows we're in the same room before the show, and he knows we decided to come here in the same car in the first place, and he ain't doin' jack shit to stop it."

Reagan's smile only got wider, if possible. "It's gonna be good. It's gonna be so good."

And good, it was. Gilmore and Murray graced the stage to raucous applause and cheering that nearly deafened them—a sound that wasn't nearly as loud during their individual shows for the last ten years, and certainly not as loud during their first shows as partners.

Ben took his place at the white grand piano center stage. Reagan unmounted the microphone from its stand downstage, maneuvering the cord to bring it back to Ben.

"Mr. Benjy Mertz!" Reagan chuckled over the continuous love from the audience. The stage lights adjusted, spotlights falling on him and Ben, and he caught a glimpse of the red light on the television camera at the back of the house. Millions of people watching this one-time-only event, broadcast throughout the country.

Ben shook his head and played a few, gentle bars of music, attempting to get the audience on the same level. He looked up at Reagan with a personable grin. "Mr. Rían Murphy Gilmore," he drawled into his own microphone. "It's been a long... long time since we've been together, hasn't it?"

"Well, no," Reagan said, casting his attention down to the mic cord at his feet, yanking it and realizing it was taut. He peered into the wing off of stage left. "No, it hasn't, Ben—I dunno how to tell you this, but I was at your house as recently as this morning."

"Oh," Ben said, throwing a comically arrogant smirk into the lens of the camera. "I thought I was hallucinating, but I didn't say anything because I didn't want to cause any problems."

"Someone's holding the microphone hostage," Reagan muttered into the device, reducing his harder pulls to light tugs. "Can... can someone please let the microphone go? It has a family."

After a pause—one of the stagehands loosened the cord—Reagan snickered. The audience once more applauded the fact that he could freely move again, and the first thing he did was lean against the piano, crossing his ankles and sighing.

"The microphone," Reagan said languidly as Ben's gentle chords increased in strength and the cacophony died down, "is shaken, but we think he'll make a full recovery. His family has been notified, and they'll be around to take him home after the show."

It was as if they never separated. They played the classics, their individual songs, and a few covers, and it went so much better than either of them imagined. They cracked jokes, minor things went wrong and they capitalized it... Gilmore and Murray's energy was unmatched by Gilmore and Murray apart and together combined.

At the end of the show, they received a standing ovation. Their first one ever as a duo. Ben felt his heart being swallowed by his own body with his degree of joy, and as he stood on that stage beside his best friend, the first true love of his life, he wept. Nothing overly dramatic, and he couldn't get rid of his visible elation to save his life, but he also couldn't stop those tears from flowing down his face.

Reagan turned his head to look at him as the crowd continued their ovation, and Ben knew what was about to happen seconds before it happened—Reagan gripped the back of his neck and pressed a firm, enthusiastic kiss to his lips. It was brief, and full of pride, and Reagan's eyes glistened with tears that he'd never shed in front of Ben or anyone else.

"I love you," Reagan said, just quietly enough that only Ben could hear him. "I hope you know how much I fucking love you."

Ben nodded, patting Reagan's face with all the affection he could afford to give him in front of the entire country. "I do know, Reggie. I know."

And though it would take a further nine years for them to become professional partners for the second time on a more permanent basis, that would always remain one of their favorite memories... a reunion that they badly needed, badly deserved. And it was so good.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

OC Kiss Week Day 3: Stolen

WIP: Darkspace Portent Pairing: Warren x Thrive Timeline: we'll say before/after book four for shits and giggles (likely not canon unless I say it is in which case I never said this) CW: mature content Rating: M? (to be safe idk lol) Words: 955

***

"I don't know how to tell you this," Warren muttered five seconds after sitting beside Thrive at the table in the kitchen. He hesitated, the open space of the capital house beginning to crush him. "...The shirt is gone."

Thrive raised a finger to his own lips to buy time as he chewed a good-sized chunk of pan-seared steak from an alien mammal. His brows pinched, and he nodded as if either processing Warren's words or enjoying the food—it wasn't immediately clear which.

"...Shirt?" he responded at length, putting that conundrum to rest for good.

Warren folded his hands over the surface of the table. "The... shirt. The shirt. The shirt with the black ringed planet on it?" He looked at Thrive as if he'd suggested they go bowling with the skull of an eliyi. "You wore it for just about two weeks straight, E.T., what the fuck?"

"Ah, yes." Thrive sliced through another portion of the meal he was, as Warren only realized then, eating alone up until that point. "It's gone?"

Narrowing his eyes, Warren let out an all-too-patient exhale through his nose. "I looked everywhere. Picked apart your office, went through every conceivable room in the capital house, even Gouna's office and Corin's lab. I feel like you're not reacting appropriately, here."

"Perhaps I know where it is," Thrive said simply. He reached over for his glass of fruit nectar, the thick apricot-colored beverage shimmering as it was agitated, and imbued Warren with an unbothered look.

"Do you know where it is?"

"No," Thrive said with a soft snort of pomposity before he took a generous gulp of the nectar.

"So why aren't we more concerned about the shirt I so graciously gave you when you had every intention of walking around Earth completely buck-ass naked? The shirt that's become somewhat of your signature and I can no longer think about without thinking about how fucking sexy you look in it?"

Thrive's gaze lifted from the square of colored glass used as a plate, a gaze of dark triumph. He turned to Warren again, that triumph no longer present to such a degree that it could've been imagined. "...Where could it possibly have gone, Warren? The entirety of civilization on Tournaltis is within a mile in every direction of this exact location."

Warren opened his mouth to answer that, then closed it.

"It'll turn up," Thrive assured him, giving his knee a gentle squeeze before focusing on the meat. "Don't stress too much over it."

Warren had no choice but heed him, and he went through the rest of the day as he normally would... but every so often, he'd think about the shirt, attempting to mentally backtrack, to remember when and where he'd last seen it to no avail.

The night crept onto him without his knowledge, and he found himself standing with Plio and Roel in the dark outside Corin's lab as they'd been for the past few hours. He could've missed the nightfall altogether if he let enough distractions overtake him. He bid the other two a goodnight and trudged back to the capital house.

With a sigh, he entered his pitch-black room next to Thrive's office, closing the door behind him simultaneously with picking up on Thrive's unmistakable scent.

"You're like a little gremlin sometimes," Warren said, dropping onto his bed—silently thanking whatever deity existed that he actually did drop onto the bed rather than the floor. He kicked his boots off. "I swear I'll get used to the darkness one day."

"The shirt was stolen," Thrive said from somewhere near the window.

Warren let his body sag, then he leaned back on his hands. "...Who the fuck would steal a dirty t-shirt riddled with bloodstains and bullet holes? There wasn't even any glitter on the planet anymore."

As soon as the words left his mouth, the curtains hanging in front of the picture window parted, and the light of three moons filtered inside. Thrive stood directly in the beam, finger pressed against the wall panel until the curtain finished opening. The ringed planet T-shirt paired with the oft-forgotten jeans clung to every plane and curve of his powerful torso and thighs, accentuating his muscular arms and shoulders while honoring the outline of his abdomen.

"I would," he murmured. "From you."

Warren's head fell back and he laughed in embarrassment at his immediate and visceral physiological reaction to this. "FUCK!" he shouted.

Thrive moved to Warren and buried his long fingers into his hair. "You're not getting this back," he growled, fisting the milk-chocolate strands to angle his head more efficiently. "Ever."

"Pretty sure that was made abundantly clear the second I saw you wearing it for the first time," Warren breathed.

Thrive crushed their mouths together, his other hand coming up to wrap around the column of Warren's throat, putting tantalizing pressure on the sides. Warren groaned sharply, already running his palms over Thrive's heated skin under the shirt.

"I think not," Thrive purred against Warren's lips. He let go of his hair to displace his wandering hands, then pressed Warren back by his throat, laying him prone across the mattress. He crawled onto the bed, straddling his hips. "Let me show you just how sexy I can look in this shirt, th'saiya."

Warren, his pulse fluttering wildly under Thrive's fingers, hummed in eager approval at what he suspected was the beginning of an incredibly erotic night.

And he was right—toyed with and railed, all with those clothes covering just about every inch of Thrive's lean body except for the important parts. The more Thrive discovered how to use his human form for evil, the more Warren was content to let him fully corrupt him.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

OC Kiss Week Day 2: First

WIP: Partners Pairing: Ben x Reagan Timeline: when the two were kids CW: none Rating: G Words: 3,018 (haha whoa)

***

Recent fans of Reagan Gilmore and Ben Murray would be surprised to find out that Ben kissed Reagan first. But they likely wouldn't be surprised about how drastically it changed their lives forever.

On the morning of February 13th, 1932, Reagan sped on his green Schwinn bike down the main road of the neighborhood he shared with Ben. He was tasked with grabbing cheese, flour, broth, and butter from the grocer, giving the grocer the money from his parents, and bringing the groceries home so he could then spend the rest of that day with Ben without worry. At that point, school had been a necessary evil that took him from his younger friend for several hours a day, and the weekends were precious.

A few minutes later, Reagan steered onto the street with the corner store, some feet away from a gaggle of boys probably a year or two younger than him. He hopped off the bike, kicked down the kickstand, and jogged into the building. After rushing around and almost forgetting the sack of flour—for which his mother Aoife would have promptly yelled at him, as the Gilmores were currently out of bread entirely—he stopped in front of his bike to deposit the groceries into the basket.

"That's a nice bicycle," one of the boys near the front door said to Reagan.

Reagan looked over his shoulder and nodded. "Thanks," he said, his Culchy accent much stronger than it would be in his later life. The group's curiosity seemed to pique at the idea of interacting with an Irish immigrant.

However, when the interaction went no further than that, the other boy shrugged and turned back to his friends. He held out a cap gun for them to ogle and gasp at.

"Whoa!" the smallest boy whispered excitedly. "That's a real doozy!"

"Ain't it hot stuff?" the first boy said proudly. "Got it from Mr. Fiorello. He's got all sorts of things... tin soldiers, planes, you name it." He pretended to shoot the third boy and he brayed with laughter.

Reagan paused as he squeezed the sack of flour into the basket beside the other items stacked somewhat neatly on the opposite side.

"Mr. Fiorello's got model planes?" the boy who got "shot" asked after he stopped laughing. "Any more cap guns?"

"Nah, he's got marble shooters, though," the boy with the cap gun said. "I wanted one of those, but he was askin' too much to trade for it."

"What kinda marbles he got?"

"Didn't see that many. He's got a collection of Lutzes and some banded ones, though."

"He's got Lutzes?!" the smallest boy exclaimed.

Reagan made sure the groceries were secure before walking around to kick up the kickstand and mount the bike once more. He looked up at the other boys as they conversed among themselves for another few seconds.

"What does he want for the Lutzes?" Reagan asked.

The other boys turned to him, and the boy with the cap gun stuck the toy into the waistband of his trousers. "I dunno. He likes rare stuff, though. I heard he traded a pocket watch from the Wild West for a letter from the President!"

Reagan tipped his head and nodded, thinking. "...Where can I find Mr. Fiorello?"

Moments later, Reagan sped even faster back up the road, a plan formulating in his mind as he repeated Mr. Fiorello's address in his head over and over to prevent forgetting. As soon as he got home, he put the groceries away and wrote down the address on a piece of scrap paper, tucking it away under his pillow for safekeeping before riding out to see Ben.

Over the course of the next few days, Reagan gathered all the toys he didn't play with anymore and items he didn't need and set them aside. There wasn't much he could part with... and when rummaging through his box of sentimental things, he realized he couldn't emotionally afford to give away any of them. A very old pocket watch from his late paternal grandfather pierced with a bullet, his father Casey's Claddagh ring he'd planned to give a future love, his mother's old cigarette case that was discontinued by the manufacturer, letters from various cousins and family he didn't speak to even before moving to America.

He put the box away and gathered his old toys—teddies, a jump rope, and some old jacks he hadn't touched in years as well as a few things he'd brought over from Ireland. He dumped them, stored temporarily in an old pillowcase, into the basket of his bike and rode away from home again.

Cycling past the Mertz house, he slowed upon seeing Ben outside, helping his mother fold laundry from the clothesline.

"Hi, Reggie," Ben said with a big smile as he spotted him over the basket of bedsheets. "You wanna go down to the creek?"

Reagan braked, his hands flexing on the handlebars. "Sure do," he said with a grin. "I have to do something first, so go on ahead without me when you can. I'll catch up."

He caught Shoshana Mertz's eye and winked conspiratorially. She gave a sage nod, understanding then that he was off to get Ben a birthday gift and didn't want to broadcast that.

Ben waved Reagan off and Reagan pedaled away, standing to increase his speed.

Mr. Fiorello lived just outside of the neighborhood, in a Victorian house that dwarfed the others. He was sitting on his porch when Reagan pulled up, rocking in a beautiful antique chair and gazing out at the world beyond his house.

Reagan dismounted the bike and approached cautiously, gripping the pillowcase in a fist. "...Mr. Fiorello?"

"Indeed," he said, his voice much deeper than was expected from a weedy man possibly in his late forties. "Whattaya got for me?"

Reagan held up the pillowcase. "I'd...like to trade for your Lutz marbles, sir, if that's alright."

Mr. Fiorello paused his rocking and leaned forward, scrutinizing Reagan with an intense squint. He eyed him, the pillowcase, and the bike, and took out a pair of spectacles from the pocket of his cardigan. He perched them on the bridge of his nose and gestured for Reagan to come closer. "How old are you, kid?"

"Eleven, sir," Reagan said as he ascended the porch steps.

"What's in the bag?"

"Old toys... some from Ireland."

"Hmm." Mr. Fiorello took the bag from him and opened it to look inside. "...These don't look valuable. There's no novelty."

"I really would like those Lutzes, sir," Reagan said, already starting to get nervous.

Mr. Fiorello peered at Reagan again over the rims of his glasses. "D'you happen to know how coveted Lutzes are these days? They're not a cheap commodity—a luxury. Every kid in the neighborhood wants those Lutzes from me."

Reagan swallowed, standing up a bit straighter. "They don't want them for the reasons I do, sir."

With a tilt of the head, Mr. Fiorello handed the pillowcase back. "...And what reasons would those be, exactly?"

"They'd be a gift. A birthday gift for my best friend. He's turning seven soon." Reagan's gaze dropped down to the pillowcase and his brow pinched. "The last two years I've known him, he's wanted those marbles, but his mum can't afford them, either."

"Look me in the eye when you're speaking to me, boy," Mr. Fiorello said, and though the demand was firm, his tone was sympathetic. When Reagan raised his head again, he nodded. "I'd like to help you out, but those toys and knick-knacks aren't things people would want. I bought the Lutzes myself, saving them for something really special. Dunno what that is, yet, but I got 'em just in case."

Reagan clenched his teeth. "What can I give you for them, sir?"

Mr. Fiorello narrowed his eyes again, calculating. "Something worth more than old toys, I'm afraid."

Reagan's grip on the pillowcase tightened. "...Alright." He turned to walk away from the porch, his own mind running overtime.

In his room after coming in from playing with Ben at the creek, Reagan tossed the pillowcase of toys under his bed and dropped on top of the mattress, his head in his hands. He didn't have money, didn't have much of anything that was of any kind of value that wasn't under strict supervision by his parents. The most expensive thing in the house was the sofa, and there was no way he'd be able to justify trading that, let alone get it out of the house himself or inconspicuously.

He dropped his hands and glanced around the room for anything he didn't think about, and his eyes fell onto the box of sentimental items on top of his dresser. His eyebrows lifted—one of the boys from the grocer mentioned Mr. Fiorello collected rare things such as the letter supposedly from Herbert Hoover that he traded out a pocket watch from the Wild West to acquire. Those had monetary value, certainly, but not on the same playing field.

Emotional value. Mr. Fiorello didn't think those old toys held any emotional value.

Reagan slid off the bed and moved to the dresser, looking into the box. The Claddagh ring, the watch, the cigarette case... he stared at those items for a long time, contemplating, considering.

He took the watch out and inspected it in the light. It was the only thing of his grandfather's that he owned. A relic of the Easter Rising, the bullet hole a souvenir from an English soldier attempting to prevent the revolution. Thomas Gilmore survived, but the watch did not.

It's always meant a lot to him that his granddad chose to give him the watch in person rather than any of his cousins, but only then did he realize that it was the most treasured thing he owned.

And Ben was the most treasured person in his life.

He set his jaw and dropped the watch back into the box. He wouldn't be able to go back to Mr. Fiorello's for another few days.

—

"Easter Rising, 1916," Reagan blurted breathlessly, his bike crashing to the ground as soon as he got off of it. He'd barely even braked before he began the trek up Mr. Fiorello's front porch, where the man himself had currently been tending to flower pots under his windows. "A man named Thomas Gilmore barricades the doors of a friend's shop against English soldiers and the RIC. His friend's wife is with child, and the window for getting out of the firefight is closing very quickly."

Mr. Fiorello stood from one of the pots, turning to Reagan, surprise crossing his face as the eleven-year-old grew closer.

Reagan shoved the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows to combat the heat of exertion—he broke his own speed record to get to that house. "Thomas insists that the couple make their escape while he stays back. It almost takes too long to get them out, and the RIC breaks through the barricade. Thomas attempts to fight them off with his bare hands, but an officer shoots him right in the heart."

He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the watch, holding it out for Mr. Fiorello to see.

"...Thomas played dead until the RIC moved on. His friend's wife later has a healthy girl, and ten years later, Thomas gives his youngest grandson the watch that saved his life."

Mr. Fiorello, stunned into brief silence, perched his spectacles on his nose and eyed the watch with a war of emotions, not the least of which was awe at the state of it. He picked it up and turned it over to reveal the bullet hadn't even pierced the metal.

"...I'll be damned," he murmured. He looked at Reagan. "The Lord was on your grandfather's side that day."

"I'm willing to give it up for the Lutzes, sir," Reagan said quickly. "I'm willing to give you that watch for the Lutzes, as many as you think it's worth."

Mr. Fiorello's brow pinched with an unmistakable level of concern. "...You're going to give me an irreplaceable moment in history and an incredibly sentimental piece of your grandfather... for a toy?"

Reagan swallowed thickly and nodded. "Ben deserves those marbles. I'd..." His chest tightened as he pictured his grandfather handing him the watch and regaling him with the incredible story of its damage. "...I'd give up my whole box of sentiments to make Ben happy."

This appeared to floor Mr. Fiorello significantly. He looked over the priceless item in his hand again and the frown creasing his forehead deepened. Then, without another word, he turned to walk into his house.

Reagan's hands shook, and when the door closed part of the way, he squatted on the porch, taking a deep breath and begging his grandfather's spirit for forgiveness, for understanding, for the strength he needed to make this decision.

Mr. Fiorello returned a few minutes later carrying an ornate wooden box, and Reagan sprang back up.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"Rían. Well, Reagan. Reagan Gilmore, sir."

"Reagan." Mr. Fiorello seemed to appraise Reagan for a further moment before holding the box out to him. "Make sure Ben takes good care of these."

With still-shaky hands, Reagan took the box, running his fingers over the beautiful art-deco carvings painted with thin black lines and inset with gold. He opened the box and was met with a few rows of high-end Lutz marbles, nestled in a bed of an emerald green velvet-like fabric—possibly actual velvet. He let out a slow breath, looking between each swirl of color and glitter within the balls of glass.

"There's a neat feature of this box I've always enjoyed," Mr. Fiorello said quietly. "If you pull this tab here... gently, mind... and lift..."

Reagan used one hand to lift the ribbon folded down in the center of the box, and with it came the whole bottom of the box. The marbles stayed in place on the piece he lifted, and underneath was an empty compartment lined with the same velvet...

...And sat in the middle was Thomas' watch.

"...Sir?" Reagan said, his brows furrowed in confusion as he looked up at Mr. Fiorello.

"Don't give away who you are to keep someone happy," Mr. Fiorello said. He tapped the box with a finger. "...This is an incredible sacrifice you were willing to make. But I won't let you make it. I'll give you the marbles because you've given me something far more worth the price than a cherished gift—hope. You've given me hope that the kids of our world will be alright, and you've given me hope that there are categories of love out there in the world that are worth nurturing and cherishing. And if I can be any part of that... I've been well-paid for my wares."

Reagan's eyes sprang with tears, but he bit them back as he carefully replaced the marbles into the box. "Thank you, sir."

Mr. Fiorello winked kindly at him. "Write me to let me know how your young friend enjoyed the marbles."

Still numb with disbelief, Reagan wrapped the box in his cardigan and carefully placed it on the bottom of the basket of his bike. Then, with a desperately grateful wave, he rode off, slowly, easily, pushing his tears away with the back of his hand as he pedaled.

—

On the afternoon of February 27th, Reagan arrived at the Mertz house with the box of marbles, sans watch and sensibly wrapped in newspaper tied with butcher's twine. He ate a delicious lunch of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with Ben and Shoshana, which Ben was thrilled about since it was his favorite.

"Alright, Benjy," Shoshana said once she cleared the plates and milk glasses. "You've been very patient, so it's time to open your gifts now. Then, we'll have cake."

There was a present from her—a pair of shoes Ben had been vying for over the last few months—and a gift that was somewhat of a tradition, symbolically from the deceased father he never met, which was a shiny red model airplane. Ben opened these gifts with mirth and appreciation, giving Shoshana a big hug. He was old enough to start realizing the situation of the economy and the state of his family's finances, so the significance of those gifts did not go unnoticed.

Then, he unwrapped Reagan's gift. His eyes bugged out of his head and his jaw dropped as soon as he opened the box.

"Holy SMOKES!" Ben bellowed. "Are these Lutzes?!"

"Yeah," Reagan said a bit shyly. "I know you'd wanted new marbles, and I figured—"

Ben threw himself at Reagan and planted a very enthusiastic if not brief kiss on his lips. When he pulled back, he was beaming brighter than the sun and lit the whole room with it.

"You're the best friend a boy could ever have!" Ben praised, pulling Reagan into a tight embrace. "Thank you, thank you!"

Reagan, however, was rendered utterly dazed. He raised a numb hand to pat Ben's back, then found himself returning the embrace, all but rocking side to side with him as he rested his chin on his shoulder.

Something was born in that exact moment, something powerful and indestructible. The love he had for Ben solidified in his chest, wrapping around his heart like a fortress of magma, warming his soul from the inside out. The joy his friend showed him just from receiving the most emotionally harrowing gift he'd ever given anyone was enough to level buildings, and Reagan became addicted to how it made him feel. Completely and totally dependent on that feeling.

He'd dedicate his entire life to necessary sacrifices for Ben, to wringing that joy out of him, to making sure Ben knew he was the center of his universe. Even past the unconditional and indescribable love he'd have for his children later on, Ben would be the Earth to his moon and the sun to his Earth.

He knew, the second Ben kissed him, that he would be nothing without him.