#OCK2

[artdecosupernova-writing]

OC Kiss Week Day 6: Secret

WIP: Darkspace Portent Pairing: 👀 Timeline: sometime in M33 CW: none Rating: T Words: 1,054

***

Thoeala leaned against the railing overlooking one of the iconic Atrium Lakes in the more upper-crust district of the Consortium Node. The massive atrium had been lit up with artificial daylight as it was late in the common morning, and she people-watched, eyes drawn to a couple of families meeting together for a picnic on the synthetic, real-feel grass lining the water. Humans, silhou, and a venevan, it appeared at first glance.

"Is that something you would ever want?"

She shook her head, the corner of her mouth turning up at the sound of the voice approaching her shoulder. "That'd be inadvisable at best."

"That's not what I asked."

She turned her head to address Scot face-to-face. "Why? Are you trying to put a baby in me?"

The only sign of having been at all affected by that comment was a curious tilt of the head, though his eyes never left the family on the grass. He placed his hands on the railing. "I think that would require a lot of science not even the most talented and reputable of biologists could attain."

Thoeala gave him a once-over, pulling her long, dark hair over one shoulder. "Why do you ask?"

Scot finally met her eyes, and within his was an emotion she either couldn't recognize or hadn't been practiced properly. "No reason." He mimicked her pose, tilting forward to perch his arms on the railing as well. "…Before we move along, I do have a final question."

"What's my prize if I get it right?"

"Player's choice." Scot observed the picnicking families with closer attention. "…Why is this a relationship you're willing to pursue?"

Thoeala glanced down at her fingernails. Manicured, medium length, currently unpainted despite having been fond of the concept of decorating them for the last twenty years. "What, just because one of your many partners happened to be the dad of my wife?"

"And the…unique friendship I have with your fathers…"

"Oh, Skies," Thoeala rolled her eyes. "Please. All's fair in the pursuit of education."

"It seems to bother you enough that you choose to keep us a secret from them."

After a pause, Thoeala nodded. "Papa would likely not take it too well. It's a cultural thing. Humans, I mean. Besides…you and I haven't even kissed yet, if you're into that kind of thing. See? I don't even know if you are into that kind of thing."

Scot looked at her again. "I've kissed plenty in my time as an independent individual."

"But is it your thing?"

One of the silhou children on the grass shrieked with glee, taking off in a sprint away from a pair of human children wielding bubble wands that sprayed solution everywhere as they shook them.

"I suppose it depends on the partner," Scot answered at length.

"No wonder you and Daddy get along so well," Thoeala laughed. She stopped abruptly, though, at the expression on Scot's face, and she felt a flutter in her chest at the sweetness of his smile. "Can I…I mean, can we…?"

"I didn't think it was something you would have wanted to do."

"I'm not sure. Obehlians show affection a little differently." She turned her body to face him and took in his features, incredibly human save for the thin seams in the high points of his face that occasionally low-strobed pale purple. "���It doesn't have to be our thing. I just…I thought it'd be something to try."

Scot stood straight and turned as well. "I don't mind."

Without putting any further thought into it than was necessary, Thoeala tilted her head up, meeting him in a sweet, gentle kiss, and she was surprised to find that his lips were soft, velvety…warm. She didn't know why she was surprised by the warmth.

The only other human she'd ever kissed romantically was her wife, but there was no physical difference. Scot seemed more chaste—not shy—and he carefully placed his hands on her waist to pull her closer, waiting a moment between each movement to give her plenty of time to change her mind.

Something itched at her brain as she allowed him to put more meaning behind their kiss, and it took holding a hand to the side of his face to realize what it was.

"Wait," she muttered, jerking back. Her voice cracked with the suddenness of the word, and she cleared her throat.

Scot's seams lit up again, solid. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No…" Frowning, Thoeala brushed a thumb over Scot's jaw. She placed another hand on his cheek, quickly moved it up to his temple, placed her fingers on exact points of his head, seeking.

"You can't feel anything, can you?"

Thoeala looked into his eyes, holding a lock of his light hair between her slender fingers.

Scot smiled patiently. "Orthrive'poliea can pick up a faint mental signature. He says it's not as strong as it would be for an organic being, but it's there. If we take what we know about him into consideration, I suppose it's not that much of a shocking revelation."

"How do you feel about it?"

"I've never really given it much thought. It's not necessarily important for me that others view me as human…as I only agreed to be uploaded into a humanoid body for convenience."

"So you don't mind that I can't connect with you on the same level that my fathers can connect with each other? It's not a problem for me, I can adjust. I just…wanted to get your thoughts."

Scot looked at the families on the grass again. His stare lingered on the adults, the silhou and venevan, the humans, all sitting and talking, leaning against each other, showing outward affection in their own ways. "If I can be candid, I think being able to touch someone I care about is the best gift. After being without it for as long as I was…I don't need anything more."

"Okay." Thoeala smiled and wrapped her arms around his midriff. "Okay. So…shall we make this…real, I guess?"

Scot peered down at her. "Inform Warren?"

"Oh, hell no."

Shrugging, Scot let slip a small grin. "I've been known to keep a secret."

Thoeala pulled him down to her again, pressing a marginally less chaste kiss to his lips until the families on the grass had long ago moved along.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

OC Kiss Week Day 5: Night

WIP: Darkspace Portent series Pairing: Thrive x Warren Timeline: Honestly? No idea. CW: none? Rating: T Words: 1,136

***

Warren sat down on the edge of the cliff next to Thrive, resting his feet on top of the stairs carved into the rock face leading down to the beach. The chilled Tournaltis breeze ruffled through their hair, and Warren hugged himself to ward off the initial intensity of the nightly temperature drop.

"How is it that we almost always find ourselves alone during Skywaste concerts?"

Thrive looked at him, amused. "I've often wondered the same thing. There may be something subliminally aphrodisiacal about their music."

"Oh, shit, comin' in hot with the big, sexy words." Warren sighed, his breath escaping in a fog that carried itself away into the deep ink of the sky. "You doing okay?"

"I am." Thrive turned his attention back to the desert lights surfing against the wind over the shore, their glowing reflections causing glitter on the choppy ocean. Skywaste's music from the stage farther inland behind him and Warren echoed across the void, braided with the sounds of their enthusiastic audience. "I'm enjoying myself, but I needed space."

"I get it. Am I intruding?"

Thrive smiled warmly at him. "Never, th'saiya. I do worry that you're anxious about being so close to the edge of the cliff, however."

Warren shook his head. "It's terrifying, but…honestly, I never feel safer than when I'm with you."

Thrive watched him for a few seconds, then reached over to push some of Warren's hair away from his forehead, finishing the gesture with a sweep of his knuckle across his cheekbone.

Warren slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I ever tell you how much I love you?"

"Not a single moment of your life."

"Yeah?" Warren tipped his head back. "That's cool. Why start now?"

Thrive's smile turned mischievous.

"I will say, though," Warren continued, "that they just started playing our song. And I think I'm feeling some type of way about it."

"Does this feeling call for an abrupt departure from the festivities? I seem to recall that being the course of events the first time we heard this song."

Warren shifted so he sat closer to Thrive and delighted in the body heat radiating off of him. "I'd settle for an abridged version."

"Would you?"

"I think if I put in a lot of effort, I can suffer just once the indignity of having to make out with you, you son of a bitch."

"Romantic." Thrive leaned into him, and the contentment in his face could've lit the entire beach with its brilliance. "If you don't mind, however…I'd like to keep things light. While I'm delighted to spend time with you, I also don't want to step away from this. The air is fresh and there's something very pensive about the Sky tonight."

"Hey." Warren grinned at him. "Hearing that you're feeling good is like a fucking drug, man. I'd love to just sit out here with you."

Thrive grasped Warren's hand and pulled it toward himself, interlocking their fingers together as he cast his gaze out to the ocean, where three moons peeked out from the hidden horizon.

"…How light is 'light,' though?"

"There it is," Thrive muttered.

Warren laughed. "I'm sorry. I'm just messing, we don't have to do anything, I swear."

To his pleasant surprise, Thrive moved even closer and tilted his face up with a knuckle under the chin. "I am insanely, tragically in love with you."

"Mm." Butterflies thrashed about in Warren's stomach, as they almost always did in moments like this with no one but Thrive. "Write your own material."

"Why would I do that when your words were succinct and very relatable?"

Thrive finally closed the distance between them, sinking the tips of his fingers into the back of Warren's neck to draw him as close as he physically could. Warren contented in sitting halfway across Thrive's lap for the duration of several songs, blissfully engaged in syncing their minds and running his hands over his chest and shoulders. He coiled his arms around him, so engrossed in Thrive's lips and the warm home of their connection that he would, on occasion, forget they were technically in complete view of everyone for no other hazard than possibly carrying on exactly like that until the sun rose.

By the time either of them had the wherewithal to surface for breathable air, the concert was still in full swing. As Warren crested his amorous fog, he seemed to just then realize with a start that he and Thrive were, in fact, two separate entities.

"Whoa," Warren exhaled.

"Whoa indeed," Thrive murmured, and he regarded Warren with so much affection it almost physically hurt.

After humming and pressing a prolonged kiss to the corner of Thrive's mouth, Warren drooped into his arms. Breathed on his throat, brushed his lips over his pulse point.

"I appreciate your restraint," Thrive said sincerely.

"It's the hardest thing I think I've ever done…pretty literally, as you'll notice." Warren winced. "Sometimes I think I wanna, like…crawl under your skin and live with a Thrive suit on for a while."

Thrive was silent for a beat. "What?"

Warren, overcome with sudden giggles, pulled back to inspect Thrive's bewildered face. "I don't know. I'm a little punchy—that was really fucking weird. I never said that."

"Perhaps bed is a good idea after all for the purpose of sleep."

"Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe I'm allergic to your happiness. God." Warren combed his hand through Thrive's hair. "You're so beautiful. How did I get so lucky?"

"As flattered as I am, this body is not mine."

"So you keep telling me." Warren cocked his head. "Here's the kicker, though—your natural form is just as beautiful. At least…it is to me."

A rapid flash of melancholy appeared on Thrive's face before he masked it with another albeit genuine smile. "Perhaps I'm the lucky one."

"It's definitely me, but I'm not here to argue the point. You're right about one thing, and that's the fact that I need to sleep off whatever alien high I'm on right now. If you wanna stay here, that's great."

"Would you mind if I rested with you?"

Warren recoiled in offense and rattled off a response in a tone that sounded as if he were reading blandly from a script. "No, Thrive. You're not welcome anywhere near me. Ew no, stinky boy."

Thrive laughed, rolling his eyes. "Sarcasm unneeded, but I see my error."

"Sarcasm unneeded, says you. C'mon. Can't get up to sleepy morning shenanigans if we don't go to sleep first."

Thrive watched him stand and move toward the capital house, and Warren basked in the ethereal glow of his smile. "A fair point."

They retired for the night with their arms around each other and the muffled soundtrack of the concert permeating the walls of Warren's room.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

OC Kiss Week Day 4: Safe

WIP: Darkspace Portent Pairing: Scotty x Guetry Timeline: …???? CW: none Rating: T Words: 1,756

Additional Note: If you really wanna get fucked up, the accompanying music piece to this is “Rising Morning” by Christian Gray

***

"Hey, Scotty. Rise and shine."

Normally the routine of waking was instant, a few seconds of pulling himself out of sleep mode. Now, coming into consciousness took a bit longer, a groggy wakefulness that shuddered through his entire chassis and made him hyper-aware of the fact that he had been asleep. Prone on a flat surface of some sort, harsh lights shining in his face, people in various armor carrying weapons hurrying around beyond the void.

…Someone just called him Scotty.

"You had us sweating there for a minute." A face moved in closer, smiling, clear blue eyes sparkling and making it very noticeable that they weren't wearing a helmet. "You good? Do you remember taking a bullet to the chest like a major badass?"

Scot blinked and he felt his brow scrunch, moving to force himself into an inclined position. He adjusted his lenses, dampened the brightness of the light in his eyes enough to make out the rest of the face. He caught a few days of beard growth and deep sable hair pushed back, a few strands of it falling into his face, a tattoo covering the entire right side of his neck, disappearing into the shoulder of his heavy armor.

But Scot knew what was there. He'd seen it many times. As a reflection in the mirror, sure, but he knew every angle of every shape down to the most precise decimal point. He knew what the scars under those tattoos looked like, where they were thickest, and how long it took for that skin to heal.

"Guetry…"

"Don't do that again." Guetry gripped the upper part of Scot's arm, and though he kept up the warm grin, his eyes conveyed worry and affection. "We appreciate all the work you do out in the field but I don't wanna have to write a eulogy for an android. Oh—okay…" He paused as Scot snaked his arms around him, his demeanor easing, returning the tight embrace with surprise and acceptance. "Okay. I've got you."

Scot held him, passed a hand over his hair. Soft, silky, warm from being under a helmet for so long. He pressed his palm to Guetry's cheek, committed to memory the feel of stubble against his synthetic skin. He traced his fingers down to the neck portion of the tattoo, registering the raised scar tissue beneath it.

Guetry pulled back, patient, and held his hand away from him. "I can sense something's out of whack right now," he said. "And I'm not revoking permission to feel me up, but I'm gonna have to put a pin in it for just a little bit. Just a little while. Don't know if you remember, but we're kinda in the middle of a thing here."

Scot only then realized they were in an open shuttle, facing what appeared to be a camp, soldiers and operatives rushing in every direction past the door. The rest of Guetry's team waited outside, stocking up on supplies and ammo, getting directions from their commanders, occasionally glancing into the shuttle for an update. Mercury offered a sheepish wave, which Scot reciprocated in hopes of putting him at ease.

"I have to go back out there," Guetry said, reaching to the floor for his helmet. "I want you to stay here this time. They need to get that bullet out of your chest cavity and I don't want anything making that task impossible or pointless. Clear?"

"Guetry," Scot said quickly, grabbing his wrist. "Please."

With wide eyes, Guetry glanced from his wrist to Scot's face. Instead of wrenching himself free or even making a joke to dismiss him, he placed a hand against Scot's cheek. "Hey. It's alright. We're just support for the fliers right now—nothing's going to happen. I'll be back. That's a promise. I'm coming back to you."

Hesitating, Scot released his wrist, watching as he placed his helmet over his head. He couldn't explain his panic, the unbridled fear coursing through his circuitry, or why he couldn't tell if any of this was real or a convincing simulation. He'd never experienced this level of emotion in the time he'd been a functioning intelligence.

Having been faced with the increasing likelihood at that moment, only one thing appeared to be worse than losing Guetry, and that was the idea of losing Guetry again.

Guetry squeezed his hand before hopping out of the shuttle. Someone, previously unseen, came up from behind to put him into sleep mode once more.

—

He heard cheers and hollers before he could see anything. Scot opened his eyes as a technician relayed his status to a group passing the shuttle's open door. Mercury, Guetry, and a woman Scot didn't recognize all removed their helmets, wide smiles and bright faces at the news.

Guetry cast a glance into the shuttle, tucking the helmet under an arm. "Thanks," he told the technician. "I'd throw a fit if anything happened to my guy."

"You'll throw a fit if there aren't enough cheesy snacks," Mercury teased, moving with the others out of sight. "You'll throw a fit if you wake up a minute before time. You'll throw a fit if—"

"I'll throw a fit if you don't go away."

"That, too." Mercury laughed and popped out of sight around the side of the shuttle.

Guetry looked properly at Scot, now. Relieved, tired, covered head to toe in a layer of sweat from the fight, perfectly framed within the doorway of the shuttle, but happy. "Ready to go, my dear?"

Scot climbed out of the shuttle after making sure he wasn't attached to anything. The technician attending to him had gotten stuck into something else, not paying either of them any mind anymore.

And then there he stood, in front of Guetry, who was taller than he'd imagined he'd be. Taller than the chassis. Small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from smiling, well-groomed eyebrows, pointed chin, thin frame. Hair not as neat as it'd been before. Cheeks flush with color, still somewhat out of breath, but eyes bright and looking at Scot as if he was the only thing that mattered in the whole of the entire universe.

"What's going on with you," Guetry asked softly.

"I've had…a rough experience."

"I'll bet. Wanna tell me about it?"

"No." Scot tilted his head. "…I think I would rather kiss you, instead, if I may."

With a new, cheeky edge to his grin, Guetry made a show of sneaking a peek around the camp, where not a single other soul cared about what was happening between them. "Ooh, here? In the middle of a battlefield? I dunno. People might throw things at me and call me a delinquent. Which I am and have been most of my life, but…I get the weird feeling it'll hurt more coming from other vets."

"Guetry, I love you." Scot's jaw tightened and he felt as if he were going to sink into the planet's crust at any moment. "I didn't know it was possible, and I don't think it ever will be again. And I wanted to tell you in case I never have this chance in the future."

All traces of humor left Guetry's expression. He reached up to ghost a thumb over Scot's cheek. "God, Scotty, I love you, too. So fucking much." A single heartbeat's worth of a gaze, and he cupped his face and pulled him close, pressing their lips together.

Scot buried his fingers into Guetry's hair, and he heard the sound of the helmet falling to the ground before a pair of arms wrapped around him, slid up his back, taking care not to ram a piece of armor into his chassis. Scot's system warmed, coolant working overtime to prevent him from overloading, and he wanted to disappear into his arms until the end of time.

Guetry nipped gingerly at Scot's mouth, stroked the side of his face, braced him against his chest. Allowing space between them proved to be a difficult endeavor. "I don't know what's going on with you," he murmured, running his fingers over Scot's features, "but if you need me to tell you every second of every damn day from this one forward, I will. I love you more than I've loved anything or anyone else. Do you understand me?"

Scot's face twisted in anguish. "Yes."

"I will always love you. Until the day I die. And when that happens, you pick up your pieces and keep going."

"I don't want to function without you."

"You don't have a choice." Guetry took his chin, and Scot wasn't so sure that he didn't know, in some way, what was going on. "You keep going. You hear me?"

Scot peered up into his face. With all the strength he could conjure, he nodded. The inside of his chest stuttered.

"Your purpose is you. It's the greatest one you'll ever have." Guetry held him tight enough to break. "It's the greatest one I've ever had. Thank you for keeping me breathing on my own for as long as you could."

Sudden darkness. An open door.

Scot stood still, waiting.

This wasn't a shuttle. It wasn't even a planet. A ship, with the name Setae'togun painted on the side in large, white letters, streaming through space. Guetry was gone.

Warren Cougar stepped into the doorway. His brows drawn, mouth a tight line. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Scot clocked the wetness rolling down his own cheek and turned his face away from the door. He blinked at the bulkhead. "…I didn't know I could cry."

"I didn't think it'd ever happen." Warren swallowed. "But Christ, I'm so sorry I was wrong. We can take you to NodeSource if you wanna squash that ability as soon as possible."

"No." Scot let more tears flow, observing the pattern they made when they fell to the floor of his quarters. "I couldn't tell you why, but no."

"I might have an idea as to why." Warren sniffed. "Want me to get out of here?"

"He was your best friend."

Warren nodded, clearing his throat against the onslaught that threatened to bowl him over. "…I fucking miss him, man."

"Human fragility is a devastation." Scot reached out a hand, and Warren took it. "I mourn the millennia of pain it's caused each and every one of you…though I'm grateful to have known you."

Warren held his hand, and they remained in one another's company, reliving better times until they felt the incomprehensible weight lift off their chests.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

OC Kiss Week Day 1: Greeting

WIP: Darkspace Portent series Pairing: I’m…not sure how to answer this. Timeline: Between M31 and M33 CW: heavy kissing Rating: T idk lol Words: 1,456

***

Warren stared, flabbergasted, at Commander Sig Libra sitting on the other side of Thrive down the bar. They poised their bottle of sparkling water at their grinning lips, watching Thrive's reaction though they'd just addressed Warren not a moment ago.

"You want me to what?" Warren exclaimed, the register of his voice practically soaring above the casual commotion of the establishment.

Sig tipped the neck of their water toward Thrive. "Provided he gives consent."

Thrive turned his head to Warren, an indecipherable expression curtaining his true feelings on the matter. "I do. Though I feel the need to point out that Guetry harbors a particular attachment to Warren that may be cruelly exacerbated by this."

Warren scooted his glass of bourbon aside to jab a finger onto the bar top. "Uh, excuse me…Thrive gets a consent check over me? I'm the one you dared to kiss Guetry as soon as he got here."

Sig shrugged. "You can say no. I wouldn't worry too much about him, though. After the shock wears off he'll think it's funny."

Eyeing the door of the bar somewhat hesitantly, Warren frowned. "I get the feeling this won't go the way you think it will, Sigmet."

"His instincts have merit," Thrive said to Sig after swallowing the remainder of his rosé. "I think, ultimately, the decision is yours, Warren. If you truly feel that what is intended to be a harmless prank will result in disaster, no one is going to force you into it."

Warren watched a drop of water roll down the outside of Sig's bottle. Part of him wanted to go through with it just to see the look on Guetry's face when he acted like nothing happened after the fact, and that was the part of him that was convinced that Sig had a point. Warren may have been Guetry's best friend, but Sig was a partner, someone who saw every facet and flaw, and there was no reason not to trust them up to that point.

"What would Mercury say?" Warren finally asked.

"He'd be in hysterics," Sig said. "Trust me. I wouldn't suggest any of this if I thought it would hurt Guetry in any way."

"That's true, too." Warren rotated his tumbler between idle fingers and gave Thrive a final peek. "You sure you're okay with this?"

Thrive folded his hands. "I have reservations, but none of them involve the idea of you kissing someone else." He impressed on Warren another cryptic look, and as Sig busied themself with talking to the bartender, a wordless exchange passed that was as loud as anything they could've audibly said to each other.

Warren read it loud and clear. "Right." He downed his bourbon and pushed away from the bar, suddenly needing a restroom. "If he comes in when I'm gone, I'll do it when I get back."

He rolled over the prank in his mind well into washing his hands, during which the bathroom door opened and Guetry popped in, presenting himself with no makeup, just an oversized t-shirt and ripped jeans—unusually downplayed for an outing on the Node.

He gave Warren a playfully shifty glance. "…Cougar."

Warren sighed, opting for paper towels as he didn't trust the sonic drying technology quite yet. "Okay, Christ. I wasn't supposed to see you yet. Sig's got something planned. They insist you'll be okay with it, and I trust them, but I don't know, man. Something's fucky about the whole thing."

"How fucky?"

"They dared me to kiss you as you came up to the bar. Unprompted, full-on make-out. They said you'd find it funny."

Guetry narrowed his eyes. "That's pretty fucky."

"See! The fact that you're not on board with this does not sit well with me at all. Even Thrive was uncomfortable with the whole thing. I could've said no, but like I said, I didn't have a reason to think they'd make things uncomfortable for you on purpose."

"No, look," Guetry aimed a placating hand in Warren's direction. "Sig's great, you know that. They just…they don't get it. If it was anyone else, I would've thought it was funny, but because it's you...this was well-intentioned but poorly thought-out." He passed a hand over his chin. "But…I think there's a way to get them back. I'll just need you and your boy to be cool with it."

—

"He here yet?"

Sig shook their head, working through a serving of mixed appetizers. "Not yet."

Warren resumed his seat, picking a small onion ring from the plate and noting the empty barstool between them. "Where'd Thrive go?"

"He said something about needing to leave for an emergency meeting. But he had a weird look on his face when he checked his comm, like he was being told an inside joke. Love the guy, but he's an enigma."

"Ah, dang it," Warren grumbled. He chewed with a solemn scowl. "It was supposed to be his night off. Ah, well. I don't mind being the third wheel. Guetry should be here soon, yeah?"

Sig's eyes darted over Warren's shoulder. "Actually, he's here now…" They watched, confused, as Guetry slunk stealthily through the crowd and out the front door again. "Where's he going?"

"I dunno." Warren ran his slats card over the reader in the bar top and shoved it back into his pocket. "Should we go after him?"

"Might be a good idea. Last time he acted like that, he blew himself up with his electric whip a couple minutes later."

"Oh. Uh. Yeah, we should go after him."

Warren trailed behind Sig and moved past bystanders to the front, the mild din becoming a barely noticeable murmur when the doors slid shut behind them.

"Where'd he go?" Sig asked, craning their neck to see around each corner leading into a different corridor.

Scratching the back of his neck, Warren threw a noncommittal point in the direction of the door to the maintenance tunnel directly to their left. He cleared his throat. "I dunno…yo, uh, you see that door just close?"

They made it through the door and around the dark bend before Sig slowed to a stop and heaved a world-weary sigh.

Guetry had been pinned to the bulkhead with his chin firmly in Thrive's hand, engaged in a very lascivious, very intense kiss. It was almost enthralling to see—they went at it like they'd been doing so together their whole lives. Thrive pulled out all the stops, all the techniques he'd found Warren appreciated the most, pressing tight against him and nipping at his bottom lip. But when he gripped Guetry's hair and tipped his head back, moving his mouth down to his throat, Guetry caught sight of Sig.

"Oh hey there."

Sig rolled their eyes.

"Okay, Thrive," Warren laughed. "Thanks."

Thrive stepped back and smirked, brushing away a spot of wetness from the corner of Guetry's reddened lips with his thumb before winking at him and moving to stand beside Warren.

"Real cute," Sig said. "Alright, fine, I get the point."

"Do you, dumbass?" Guetry fanned his face and the breathless grin was only half genuine. "Warren's off-limits. Learn it, know it, remember it."

"Well…okay. If I knew that it really bothered His Majesty so much, I wouldn't have suggested—"

"It doesn't bother him, Commander, it bothers me."

A pause settled in the maintenance tunnel, and Warren watched the comprehension dawn on Sig's face as the levity further fell from Guetry's.

Sig nodded, sheepish. "Needless to say, I apologize," they said, holding their palms together. "I…don't think I fully understood."

"That said," Guetry interjected, "if the obhelian's down to clown at any point—"

"Absolutely fucking not," Warren said.

"Sounded like a 'maybe.'"

As Sig and Guetry moved closer to talk, Warren addressed Thrive, mildly exasperated. "I want to forget this ever happened. And onion rings."

Thrive held out a hand. "I believe I can provide at least one of those services."

"What was that like for you?" Warren asked, curling an arm around Thrive's waist as the other one looped Thrive's arm around his shoulders. They strolled out of the maintenance tunnel and into the artificial sunlight of the Node. "Was it weird?"

"No. Human displays of affection only serve one purpose as far as I'm concerned, and that's making you and you alone feel everything you want to feel from me. Otherwise, they're meaningless."

Warren bit his lip. "What'd you pick up from him?"

Thrive tipped his head as if he wasn't sure he should answer. "…He was definitely more invested in the plan than I."

"I'm sure you didn't need to make physical contact to find that out," Warren snickered.

"Sadly, I didn't."

Warren made a noise of combined disappointment and disgust and they re-entered the bar.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

OC Kiss Week Day 3: Bold

WIP: To Annex the Kid Pairing: Works x uh. well it’s not Russell. Timeline: before Russell joined the gang. guys hold me I’m scared lmao CW: consent’s a bit up in the air for this one Rating: T Words: 1,210

***

At around nine at night, EJ forced air through rounded lips and set a sack full of rabbit and various fowl at Works' feet beside the butcher table, swiping the back of a hand across her forehead. She removed her gloves, shoving them into her satchel before turning a tired stare onto Works.

Works met that stare with nothing short of sympathy. "I see you've both made it in one piece."

"Nearly didn't," she shrugged in Jack's direction, inclining her head as he hauled an entire deer carcass to the table. "Coulda shot this idiot in the face."

"That is a wild accusation to make accountin' for the circumstance," Jack grunted, dropping the deer across the table and whistling for Glauco to attend to his duties as the gang's butcher.

"The circumstances bein' that you just couldn't keep your hands off that bandit camp, you stupid bastard?"

Works' spine went rigid. "What is she talking about?"

Jack waved a dismissive hand once wiping both of them clean of blood using the rag on the table. "I'm not gettin' into it now. We have enough money to get us through another month, not that I'd been hearin' any gratitude about that this whole time."

He headed to the shacks they called home for the time being, and Works stepped aside for a grumpy, tired Glauco to begin the process of preparing the game.

Works only registered the height of his own irritation when EJ gripped his shoulder.

"Hey, it's okay," she said. "Don't worry about it. Nobody got hurt, not even the bandits."

"Did he remember that we're looking after two children? Did an inkling of a thought cross his brutish brain to make sure you weren't followed by a vengeful thief?"

"No, but it crossed mine." EJ pushed Works a little to make sure he was able to focus on her. "Works. Settle down. He did a dumb thing and I know you hate when he does stuff like that, but I handled it."

He took a deep breath, watching Jack shut the door to the shack he shared with EJ. "Those bandits have wanted Jack's head ever since their last altercation."

"I know, Works. I handled it."

Works met her stare again and he outwardly calmed. He could hear the high-pitched giggling of Noya and Cady coming from around the tents, somewhat hidden in the dark of night and the shadows cast by the fire at the center of camp. He let that soothe him enough that he could project levelheadedness to EJ through his expression, though inwardly he felt anything but. "Right."

EJ narrowed her eyes, wary. "You gonna let it go?"

"I'll let it go."

"Alright." She let him go, brushing her palm over the front of his vest to clear it of dust from the air. She patted Glauco on the back and followed the sound of the girls past the fire.

Works made an immediate beeline for the shacks, taking care not to draw too much attention to himself sneaking inside and easing the door shut behind him. He turned to Jack, whose back was to him at the bedroll on the floor as he seemed to have gotten distracted by a book in the middle of preparing to settle down for the night.

"You wouldn't kill a man with his back turned, would ya, McCoy?" Jack asked, voice smooth as silk but just as deadly.

"I didn't come here to kill you," Works snapped. "But I do want to make it clear that your recklessness could get us all killed down the line. Including those young girls. And if something were to happen to them…"

Jack snapped the book shut and swung around to him, a curious smirk pitching a corner of his mouth upward. His suspenders hung loosely at his sides. "Would you kill me then?"

"It's not beyond the realm of my capabilities."

"I believe that." Jack nodded, sincerity in his tone. "No, I do, I believe that. You're very protective of those girls, and we thank you for it. I'm not the smartest man around, y'know. That may be you, actually." He tossed the book onto the bedroll. "But I'd like to think I wouldn't get those girls hurt on purpose."

Works set his jaw, peering up as Jack moved closer, the warmth of the oil lamp offsetting the stoniness of his eyes. When Jack stopped in front of him, using a single finger to push the corner of his handkerchief into the pocket of his vest, Works didn't blink. "It stops now. Jobs need to be calculated and meticulously planned if we're expected to last to the end of the year. Your particular brand of foolishness is a liability I'm not sure I can abide any longer."

Jack balled the front of Works' vest into his large hands and shoved him into the wall hard enough to knock the back of his head against the old wood, gritting his teeth. "Best not to forget where you stand here, McCoy," he hissed.

"If you think you can intimidate me more than buckshot in my side at point-blank range, then by all means, put your back into it," Works spat. "Be the leader you claim to be and put me in my place."

The silence that followed was unexpected. An unrecognizable sentiment flashed through Jack's eyes. He clutched Works' head in his frying pan hands with nearly enough force to crush it and thrust their mouths together.

Works assumed, for a moment, that he was being murdered. He delivered a solid punch to Jack's chest, reset his brain when he realized he was being kissed, and dug his fingers into the soft flesh under Jack's arm.

Jack knocked his hand away and threw an elbow across his shoulders to pin him against the wall. Works stopped fighting and tangled his hand into Jack's dark hair, reciprocating with ferocity he neither anticipated nor fully desired to portray. This wasn't romance and it couldn't even be categorized as lust. The name of the game was dominance, and Works certainly gave as good as he got.

"Jack? You decent?"

Caught off-guard by EJ's voice outside of the door, Jack's head snapped back as Works' fist made quick and sharp impact with the middle of his face. He pretended not to be affected by the small crack of the cartilage in his nose, holding his face with his eyes screwed shut. "…Yeah," he grumbled.

EJ entered the shack and did a double-take at the two of them. "What the hell happened in here? You okay, Jack?"

He broke out into a grin, emphasized by the blood pouring out of his nose. He looked at Works. "Better'n ever, darlin'."

Straightening his vest and smoothing the wrinkles made by Jack's fists, Works nodded. "I'm going to operate as if this night never happened. EJ, good night."

"G'night, Works…"

And operate as if it never happened he did, as did Jack, who was his cheerfully guarded self the next morning. Interacting with Works in a way one could consider normal and unchanged, though it didn't escape the notice of the rest of the Family that Jack would give Works a heavier say in the goings-on than he used to.

[artdecosupernova-writing]

OC Kiss Week Day 2: Excitement

WIP: Partners Pairing: Ben x Reagan, sort of Timeline: 1961 and some change, I think, after Partners II CW: smoking Rating: T Words: 1,549

***

The cigarette hadn't been in Ben's mouth for three seconds before Reagan produced his lighter from the breast pocket of his jacket. The shamrock lighter that meant more than it ever used to, now. The flame hugged the end of the stick, coinciding with the hotel room door falling shut behind them.

"You didn't have to come all the way out here," Ben said as if this was revelatory information. He puffed the cigarette until it was sufficiently lit, then shrugged his own jacket off his shoulders and motioned for Reagan to remove his so he could hang them up together in the closet. "I was comin' home in two days, anyway."

Reagan handed Ben the jacket after replacing the lighter in the pocket and moved his suitcase out of the way of the door, setting it next to the bathroom. "I've got shows here all weekend and I've been booked for a three-week stretch at Caesar's."

"Sunnuvabitch," Ben grumbled, jamming a hanger into the shoulders of Reagan's jacket. "Three whole weeks?! What's the point?"

Reagan thinned his eyes at the tobacco-scented, robin's egg blue carpet and wood-paneled walls. He was briefly transported to a time when they were lucky if they had the privilege to entertain the notion of staying in a destitute motel room for a single night in New York before making the commute back to their house. Ben rarely seemed to outwardly express his understanding of how far they'd come—what he'd had to put up with to get them there—and a pang of annoyance passed through Reagan's chest, disappearing as quickly as it'd appeared as he unfastened his watch.

"Lemme get backstage," Ben said, spiking a mental javelin through Reagan's pensive silence and evaporating the unexpected tension with his lightness. "Even if I can't catch the shows, I'll swing by at, oh, maybe dinner time and hope that you break several legs."

Reagan let slip a genuine laugh and dropped the watch on the desk before sitting on the double bed to pull off his shoes. "Careful—one of those legs is my best feature."

"You fucking monster."

Reagan waggled his eyebrows as Ben crossed to the ringing phone on the other side of the room. "Why, thank you. That's probably Maura, by the way. I was meant to call her when I landed."

"Yeah hello?" Ben cradled the receiver between his shoulder and his head, sinking into the desk chair. He tapped ashes into the darkened square of glass sitting next to the base of the phone. "Uh-huh. Yeah, well what the hell d'you want, Adrian?"

Reagan's brow furrowed. The passing of the phone, as anticipated, never happened. Ben listened to Reagan's manager with growing interest until his face went pale and he shot Reagan a look of a deer on the road, horribly prophesying the next and last four seconds of its life in the path of an oncoming car. A manic glee laid within the whites of his eyes on full display, though, and Reagan's curiosity piqued in earnest.

"Why are you tellin' me this?" Ben asked, his line of vision following Reagan's trajectory to the desk. "I do have a manager, and he—Mickey told you?"

"Do I have to worry about the safety of my manager and dear friend, now?" Reagan asked, perching on the desk and toying with a pen. The question was about forty percent serious.

Ben waved a hand to shut him up, full attention on the phone. "I got a tux. I—I can get a tux. Don't worry about the damn tux anymore, Adrian, it's under control!"

Reagan leaned over him to get closer to the mouthpiece. "I'll take him to my tailor, Age."

"I'm not panicking!" Ben yelped. "Yes, I'll tell him! What do you take me for?!" In direct contrast to his previous attitude, he gently hung up. He drummed his fingers over the receiver, the plastic of which matched in hue with the thick carpet of the hotel room, and nestled his cigarette into a notch on the ashtray.

Cocking his head, Reagan waited for him to channel the calming techniques taught to him by his psychotherapist. "…Despite my deep prayers and shooting star wishes and visits to all the witch doctors in Los Angeles, I can't actually read your mind."

"What kind of tux should I wear to the Grammy Awards?"

The pen in Reagan's hand started a rapid rhythm against the palm of the other one. "I think that depends," he said evenly, a good type of tightness rising in the back of his throat.

Ben locked eyes with him. "What kind of tux should I wear to the Grammy Awards?"

"Were you nominated for a Grammy Award?"

"I was nominated for a Grammy Award."

Reagan cuffed Ben's arm, his pride spilling over. "Ben Murray, Grammy fuckin' nominee!"

"Benjy Mertz, Grammy fuckin' nominee!" Ben howled, leaping out of his chair. "Can you believe these putzes are stupid enough to think I deserve a Grammy Award?! Let alone for album of the goddamn year!"

That pang of annoyance returned, this time in the company of surrogate hurt. Reagan dug deep into his acting talents to keep his smile wide. "Benny…that's my best friend you're talking about."

Ben, however, was too far into the stratosphere to notice the frosty tone, pacing the width and breadth of the entire hotel room and gesticulating wildly. "Not only do I need a tux, I need a tux bad. I can't show up in the same one I'd shown up in the first three times. I've gotta look good. I'm gonna lose, but I'm gonna look good losing, believe you me."

Reagan finally allowed his annoyance to show, frowning up at Ben, who'd somehow made his way in front of him again. "You're getting a Grammy if I have to convince the Academy myself."

To his surprise, Ben grinned. "Relax." He dropped his hands onto Reagan's shoulders and leaned forward. "I got the talent, not the luck."

A blink, as if struck. "If you only knew—"

"Knew what? What do you know that I don't?"

…And he couldn't tell him. Not now. Not ever, if Reagan had anything to say about it. Not a thing of what he'd put himself through, not a word of the only part of his and Ben's shared past that Ben didn't know about. "We've had too much go wrong for you to be sayin' shit like that."

"That include you bein' a cokehead?"

"I could drop you for that."

"Aw." Ben laughed, clapping his pianist hands around Reagan's head and planting a firm kiss on his mouth. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to take it too far, I'm just overexcited."

Reagan nodded, not budging his scowl. "One more for the road."

With the immediacy of someone who'd been conditioned into obliging that request his entire life, Ben kissed him again, slapping the sides of his head for good measure. "You comin' to this shindig?"

"No, I don't think I will." Reagan plucked the cigarette from the ashtray and took a long drag. "Sounds kinda square."

"Yeah, I dunno what I was thinkin'."

"I would've gone anyway, but now I definitely have a reason to be there. Maura'll be there too. We wouldn't miss this, you know that."

Ben turned from the bed. "What if you're nominated, too?"

Reagan tilted his head. "Well…then we're both nominated. And honestly, there's no one I'd rather lose to than you." He shrugged a shoulder. "Maybe Judy."

"You leave that poor woman alone." Ben pointed, forehead an accordion of worry and severity. "I mean it, asshole. Leave Judy alone."

Clearing his throat, Reagan took another drag of the cigarette and grimaced. "Okay."

"Damn it. When?"

"Probably ten years ago. She'd just divorced Vincente, and we'd had a couple of martinis—"

"I'm gonna puke."

"Why are you surprised?" Reagan couldn't stop the smile from crossing his face despite the fact that joy was nowhere near the emotion currently overtaking him. "Ben. It's a done deal. We haven't spoken an unprofessional word to each other since."

There was a pause, and Ben sank into a deep frown. "…You took a year to be with no one but Carolyn."

Reagan maintained eye contact with him, the outside ambience of Las Vegas traffic and quite distant sounds of big band music wafting into the hotel room. "It was a fragile time, if you'll recall."

"Did she know?"

"Yeah."

"Sure." Ben nodded, not as lively as he'd been mere moments ago, as far as his slumped shoulders and still frame were indicating. "That's fine."

"I'm stayin' here tonight."

"They wouldn't let you do that."

"And who's gonna tell 'em?" Reagan lifted his eyebrows. "Adrian'll have my ass, but I might as well have his name tattooed over the left cheek anyhow."

Ben looked at him in mild alarm.

"Alright, c'mon," Reagan said, squashing out the cigarette and standing before Ben could complete a thought. "We're getting a drink to celebrate your big moment."

One drink turned into several, and their celebration carried them onto the streets where they coerced strangers into celebrating with them, running up and down the entire strip, having the time of their lives. They regretted it very much the next morning, but it sure did get the job done.