#nicowriting

[notnicodrawingstuff]

50 year old trans man thought he went through menopause until he's suddenly giving birth on his bedroom floor. It can't be possible can it? But it is. He's crying out for help and gripping whatever is near him as he tries to push. His baby's head is stuck in his narrow hips.

[necroixe]

Js realized I never posted this guy but I have ocs other than Nico I swear lmaoo

This is Noah, formerly known as Micah Vance before he got fucked over by slender man as they all do and ws hit with a healthy dose of cloud strife style retrograde amnesia + identity theft.

Full character file and details under the cut! Be warned– it’s LONG:

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‘ ‘ did you say something, what’d you say?... ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ was that your voice, or was that me? ‘ ‘

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N A M E

Noah Rivers

A L I A S

The ghost

A G E

22

G E N D E R

Male, he/him

S E X

Male

Noah is a human operator proxy.

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"I've never been fucking scared of you," He snapped, and Noah grabbed his jaw.

"I've always hated that."

"What?"

"How often you lie through your fucking teeth."

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A P P E A R A N C E

The most notable thing about Noah is his mask. It's drawn over crudely with charcoal, smudged all over, black around the eyes, the nose, the mouth. But the features are visible. The nose is sharp and angular, and the lips are drawn in a thin line. He wears it so often it's more like his face than his actual face. The only time he takes it off is when he's asleep, and sometimes not even then. His actual face, the one under the mask, has a scar that drags from above his right eyebrow down across his nose to his left jawline. His face is slim, angular, edges hazy against a monochromatic color scheme. The structure of his face is proportionate but it’s usually frowning, brows furrowed, mouth cut into a scowl. His features look like they were cut from alabaster or marble. Would’ve been pretty, maybe, in another universe. His eyes should've been black, but one of them is blinded, grayed over, and the other seems perpetually suited for low light. They are upturned, half lidded at a default and followed by bags, lines, and dark circles. They look bruised or dusky in color. He's bad with bright lights. He has black hair, cut choppy and messy, like he did it himself. His skin is so pale it's almost a sort of gray, the kind that suggests he doesn't see sun often. Lips chapped and dry, always cracked and bleeding, same with his hands, long black nails he likes painting for a reason he can't fully explain. They make his already slender fingers appear longer than they are. Almost clawlike. Noah is thin. He's tall, taller than he remembers, standing at 5’11”. He's built like an alley cat, all sinew and muscle, sharp shoulders, sharp bones. Scars all over his body. Some are new, from fights, other's he's had before he can remember in odd, purposeful places.

V O I C E

Baritone

Rough, and unused. When speaking his voice is barely above a whisper. He’s one of those people with a voice so low you have to lean in to listen. There’s an edge to his tone, a slight southern drawl. Sometimes the things he says sound more like they’re coming from a machine than a person. His voice is muffled when it’s under the mask, he compensates by being slightly louder.

S C E N T

His scent isn’t something that’s easy to pinpoint. It’s almost sterile, but not hospital sterile. He kind of smells like the woods.

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‘ ‘ how many times did i tell you

before it finally got through? ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ you lose. ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ you lose. ‘ ‘

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C O M B A T

Noah has heightened strength and speed, but he’s still human. A human that ignores the capabilities of his own body, but human nonetheless. He’s a skilled fighter, can hold his own against nearly anyone when weapons aren’t involved. He doesn’t like knives. Helpless with them, helpless against them. Noah is a firearms sort of guy. Always has a gun on him, either a pistol, or when he’s hunting he has a rifle. He’s interesting during fights. A textbook masochist. Pain doesn’t elicit the same reaction from him as it would for most other people. At best, he’ll ignore it, at worst, he’s drunk on it.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

Noah doesn’t remember much about his life before meeting the operator, if anything. There are glimpses of a history that doesn’t feel like his in the back of his mind, or when he’s half asleep, or when his brain turns off and he isn’t really thinking. Those are his favorite moments. Where he can pretend he isn’t himself. He’s a murderer. He’s quiet, and secretive, and temperamental. What might’ve at one point been a charming persona, dulled and narrowed itself down to a chassis unrecognizable to people who knew him when he was younger. He’s quick to anger. Restless when things are calm, and when he feels alright. He’s never actively antagonistic, but he doesn’t like other people, and his skin itches for instability. He can never hold down a relationship. Of any kind, platonic, romantic. Always ends up ruining it somehow. And he likes it that way. He doesn’t even know why he’s so angry, he just is. His internal world is indecipherable, even to him. He’s constantly mixing things up, getting things wrong, getting distracted, forgetting things. Which is strange, because in the abstract he’s intelligent. There are moments where it seems like he’s lucid, and he’s calm, easy going, likable, even. He has a dry sense of humor that on boys like him feel more charismatic than it actually is. But the neuroticism always comes back eventually. He isn’t Noah without the neuroticism. Maybe he isn’t Noah at all.

B A C K S T O R Y

He isn't. He grew up as a boy named Micah. A different person, honestly. Relatively normal, all things considered. Had parents, friends, a boyfriend, people that cared about him. A trajectory that should’ve been normal. He would’ve graduated highschool, gone to college, him and his boyfriend would break up and he’d marry a girl, or they wouldn’t and they’d end up together only to divorce later, or something. He thought domestic bliss was a stupid concept. Would give anything for it now.

The operator in his hometown was a story you told to kids. They called him the thin man. Micah and his friends would play in the woods on the outskirts of Haven, hunt for bird eggs, mark fake trails, the woods were sparse enough to not really worry about getting lost or losing each other, you could walk in any direction and reach a clearing in half an hour, or so, until you reached the deepwood, but no one went in there. Not even him. Haven was famous for having people go into that part of the woods and never come out. They said it’s because it was so disorienting, that you could walk in without even realizing it, and before you know it all the branches look the same and you can’t see a path. But when he was nineteen he went in. And he met the reason why no one ever really left those woods.

The concept of a proxy was weird to him. Someone that worked for an invisible force of nature you couldn’t see, but you could feel, and Micah felt him in the form of thick static at the back of his neck. Then again, he was drugged the entire time. It might’ve been that. The man who’d kidnapped him was named Noah. He was older, had a limp, a face he covered up by some sort of mask. Micah couldn’t remember. But he remembered his hands. They were unstable, shook constantly, leathery skin, or maybe gloves. Felt like fire. He remembered the way they’d palpitate when he took a blade, dragged it down his face, or somewhere else on his body. And this man, Micah would think to himself in a sedated haze, would use those hands to kill him. There was no universe where he got out of here in one piece.

The brain does fascinating things under extreme trauma. Noah would’ve made a brilliant psychiatrist in the 50s, because he’d triggered an artificial disassociation in Micah that helped him survive the ordeal at all. Mind over matter, he’d think, over, and over, and over, mind over matter. If he liked how much it hurt it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d make himself like it. If he missed home, his boyfriend’s stupid face so much he wanted to die, he’d tell himself he didn’t miss any of it at all. Where was he now? They’d gotten into a fight the last time he remembered, he wasn’t looking for him, wouldn’t save him, it was a waste of energy he didn’t have the luxury to sacrifice. The sedative helped. He didn’t know what it was. Some sort of depressant. His mind reeled, ran, sludged, brain into liquid. He wondered if Noah did this to everyone. Whatever that static was, it never shut up. A constant, ear grating buzz. Red noise. He’d get sick, Noah would laugh at him. He hated Noah. Hated Noah’s voice, his shaking hands, the smug sort of way he’d talk to him like he’d already won, like he’d already killed him. And he really should’ve. Noah was arrogant. Didn’t think he needed a gun for him, even though he had dozens lining the wall of his basement, an arsenal. And he didn’t. It wouldn’t have been difficult to kill someone locked to a chair and half awake. He was just an idiot. Let Micah slip out, let him kill him. His death was anticlimactic. A face pumped full of lead, features torn asunder. But the static was too loud all of a sudden, and he was nauseous, and his vision dimmed.

The amnesia paired itself with some delusion disorder, courtesy of the operator, he’d realize. He didn’t recognize his face, or his body, a perpetual state of psychosis, of dysphoria. Noah was the strongest thing in his mind. The last thing he really remembered. Maybe that’s why he latched onto the name. The memory of him. Or a voice he didn’t recognize told him it was him, that it was the only thing he made sense. This was Noah’s cabin, he recognized it, recognized the rooms, the temperature, the basement, the bloody, empty spot on the floor where something should’ve been. And then Noah’s cabin turned into his cabin. Noah’s mind turned into his mind. Some things scared him. He didn’t understand why his hands didn’t shake anymore, why he couldn’t stand to see his own face. But he clings to anything familiar. The thin man is familiar. He does what it tells him to.

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“you had no right to kill him.”

A voice said, from nowhere and everywhere all at once, register so alien and low it made his heart flatten to the pit of his stomach.

“a life for a life. your kind values equivocal exchange, no?”

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[nicorellis]

May 2, 2023, Getting Back to my ‘Why’

I missed going to events. I missed having my creative juices unleashed out there. I missed telling stories. I missed meeting people with the same interests. 

Glad that I am now back to being a Content Creator. More than anything, it’s also a way for me to inspire young people who have big dreams; that in everything that I post, they will be inspired to tell their stories as well. 

It’s always nice to get back to my “why”, it keeps me going. It keeps me humbled. 

[niconicotastic]

Let’s start with a fic. I love Baby Doll, but I am far more interested in the woman she is rather than the child she acts like. So I explore that in all my writing of her. I even played her for a time on tumblr. I miss it, honestly. 

“Baby don't wanna, noooooooo NOOOOO....” The tiny innocent child-like voice of one Mary Dahl AKA Baby Doll disturbed the silent halls of Arkham Asylum as she was carried to her cell kicking and screaming. It was a chilling sound heard in the halls of such a place. The attendants weren't even sure what to make of it.

“You sure about this, Jerry? She sounds just like a little girl.” Roger scratched the back of his head in confusion. He had two little girls, both sounded and looked almost like this one and they were dragging this one to a cell; it just felt wrong and left him with an ache in the pit of his stomach.

“Yeah, don't worry; she's like in her 30's. Remember that show? She was the kid. Did that till she was 20 or so. It's pretty creepy. Got the shortest end of the stick compared to any of them I think.” Jerry was trying to be gentle with the child-like actress, but it was hard not to just let her go considering her size. Her Arkham uniform didn't even fit, not at all. They had found a shirt that fit; even then it was still baggy on her slender shoulders.

“Baby wanna go hooommmee, helppp meeee...” She stared at Roger; he seemed softer hearted than Jerry, her eyes betraying her age, darkly lined and crystal blue. Roger turned away from her pleading gaze and put his key card into the cell door to open it for Jerry.

“Yeah...I guess so.” Roger wasn't sure how he felt at all now, but his stomach still hurt

“Come on,” Jerry settled the now docile doll into her cell; she seemed to have stopped trying and resorted to crying softly on her bed. “I'll get you some coffee. She'll be fine in there.” And the men walked away leaving the small woman to ponder her fate.

And ponder she did. She was in the asylum for a reason she figured. But why? Hadn't she just been giving people what they wanted from her? Hadn't she just turned into what they had wanted? A child that never seemed to grow any older. Who was always perfect and sweet and pleading, cloyingly so. She sat up on her little cot bed looking around the dank and depressing room, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of a small, well-manicured hand. Her curls had lost their bounce and spring without maintenance and she figured eventually her manicured nails would go by the wayside as well.

Why couldn't things just work out the way they were supposed to? She had been wrong, there was no doubt about that now, but then her taste in men had often been questionable. Not that any of them had ever reciprocated, ever. Croc could have been different, he was; he had used her, used her brain because he didn't have one.

The little thing lay back on her bed, staring up at the empty pitch black of the ceiling. When that proved too unsettling she rolled onto her side, curling into the blanket and clutching at the pillow. The dark had always scared her, it was empty and it made the loneliness that much harder to swallow.

Loneliness was something she should have been used to by now. She had always been alone; she couldn't recall happy memories of childhood unless you counted the TV show. She didn't anymore; it was a bad memory, rotten to the core. It had certainly never helped her. Her parents had left her to agents and nannies; it was easier to deal with her when she wasn't around. She had no idea where they even were now; no doubt living on her broken fame, they knew her when she wasn't crazy; probably writing a book about what it was like raising her, regardless of the fact they had nothing to do with it from the time she was 10 until finally she wasn't their responsibility anymore; until she flopped.

Even flopping she had done on her own. Everything in her life was a single person activity. She had acted alone, she had planned and plotted alone and now...now she was in her cell, alone. Mary wondered if maybe a psychiatrist could cure loneliness, make it not so hard to bear, but she supposed that was a bit much to hope for.

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

The Side Character

Summary: Bel-Imperia spends the evening with her friends. Or, a smattering of Early Modern characters meet up for drinks.

Word count: 1,353 AO3 link

Includes characters from: Hamlet, The Spanish Tragedy, The Merchant of Venice, and Doctor Faustus.

Note: Initially, I wrote this for my Early Modern English Literature class, and found it again going through my stuff. You don't necessarily have to have read the plays to understand what's going on, it just adds more context. It's more a commentary on the role of women in early modern literature.

Rain spattered the concrete with a heavy thrumming, soaking the hem of Bel-Imperia’s trench coat and the edges of the hood she’d thrown up over her auburn hair. Neon lights reflected off the oil-slick streets, and exhaust permeated the air.

The bar was only three blocks from her house and calling a cab seemed like a waste of money, even with the weather what it was. The crowds that usually shoved their way down to subway stations and across crosswalks had thinned somewhat in the cold wetness. Bel-Imperia could almost imagine she was alone. No ghosts. No blood spattered knives.

Just her and the pigeons.

She arrived at The Side Character far faster than she’d hoped. Her nose wrinkled at the face of the establishment, all peeling paint and greasy windows. Reaching out, Bel-Imperia grasped the rusted handle and tugged. The door’s loose hinges whined and wedged into the door frame, jamming it shut. The metal of the handle squealed and pulled free from the deteriorating screws. She stumbled back off the front step, looking at the rust-covered thing in her hand in exasperation.

She knocked and waited.

Before long, someone pressed their face to the warped glass set in the top half of the door and a smile broke over their face. It was Ophelia.

Bel-Imperia gave a half-hearted wave, feeling a bit too much like a wet dog waiting to be let inside.

Ophelia rammed her shoulder into the door and it popped open, hanging from the doorframe like a loose tooth.

“Hey, Bel! Glad you could finally make it,” she said, stepping aside and letting her enter. “Portia and Bassanio are already here,” she added in a hushed tone. Bel-Imperia shared her wary look for just a moment. They were fighting again, then. Not that she was particularly surprised. It was probably about that whole ring fiasco again.

The Side Character was as run down inside as out—creaky wood floors lacquered with spilled alcohol and the occasional vomit stain. Amber hanging lights swayed whenever the upstairs tenants plodded around. A small stage made of plywood and boxes crouched in the corner, supporting a glossy-eyed Helen of Troy at the microphone, crooning some nameless love song no one was really listening to. She recognized a few faces, but Ophelia tugged her out of the doorway before she could name them.

She led Bel-Imperia between the scattered tables to the corner-booth where Portia and Bassanio sat, pointedly not talking to each other. Ophelia scooted next to him and Bel-Imperia resigned to sit next to Portia. The woman was prickly on a good day and had already looked over her soaked outfit with a disgusted sniff.

“Um, hey Bel,” Bassanio said, closing a fist around the napkin he’d reduced to pulp with his fidgeting. “You look cold.”

“Why don’t you offer her your jacket?” Portia snipped.

Bassanio set his jaw. “We walked from the cab to the bar. You were outside for all of ten seconds.”

“You still could have offered.”

“I’m fine, Bassanio. Thanks,” Bel-Imperia said, shucking off her wet coat and placing it between her and Portia.

Polonius approached the table, a pad of paper in his hand.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ophelia groaned, burying her face in her hands.

“Greetings, random customers,” he said, wiggling his graying eyebrows. He looked to Ophelia and feigned surprise. “Daughter! What are you doing here?”

“Wishing I was dead already. Let the waiters do their jobs, Dad.”

“A father should relish the opportunity to serve his daughter and her friends. Such are the wild, wanton days of youth, right? That reminds me, Portia, I’ve something to say about you and Bassanio here—”

“Dad! Are you serious?”

“You’d do well to give this man your ear more than your mouth. Don’t be too hasty in turning your heart away, my dear.”

Portia bristled. “Excuse me?”

Bassanio began shredding another napkin.

“We’d like the Cajun fries, Dad. Okay? Can you do that?” Ophelia pleaded. Bel-Imperia glanced at Portia and, despite her dislike for the woman, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of empathy. She’d had old men tell her how to love properly too many times to count.

“I’m just giving some valuable advice, but fine,” Polonius said, then turned to Bassanio. “You tell me if Hamlet shows up, son. I don’t want him anywhere near my daughter.”

“We get it!” Ophelia cried, shoving her father away with an arm. “Sorry, guys,” she muttered, massaging her temples when he was finally gone.

“As if Hamlet would be caught dead in here,” Portia scoffed, picking at the paint on the table.

Ophelia lifted her face off the table, somewhat hopeful. “Do you guys want to go to The Heroes’ Tavern instead? Let’s go. Coming to my dad’s bar was a mistake.”

Bassanio looked up, panicked. Antonio worked there and had yet to find out that he’d gotten back together with Portia after their fling. Bel-Imperia shifted. “I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“Yeah,” Bassanio muttered.

“Everyone knows The Heroes’ Tavern isn’t exactly female-friendly,” Bel-Imperia continued in a low voice. “We’re better off staying here.”

Ophelia looked around, realizing no one was on her side. “What? They don’t—I mean there isn’t anything stating that, is there?”

“Might as well,” Portia said.

Ophelia pouted. “Well, what about Helen? She’s been in there tons of times, I’m sure she could—”

“No,” Bel-Imperia said, and the table went silent. She’d spoken too harshly again, but she knew that the only reason Helen got inside was because Faustus liked her just a bit too much.

Portia fidgeted and changed the subject. “Me and Nerissa had to cross-dress just to get through the door.”

“You what?” Ophelia snorted.

Bel-Imperia forced a smile, also wishing the subject would change. “How’d they catch you?”

“Nerissa curtsied to the bartender.”

Laughter erupted across the table, and Bel-Imperia noticed Bassanio’s shoulders relax. Across the bar, Helen finished a song, met with a drone of chatter and laughter rather than applause. The woman readjusted the microphone with a slender hand, cuffed by a purple and gold band. She met Bel-Imperia’s gaze for a split second, and a ghost of a smile passed over her face at the laughter emanating from her table, but it disappeared instantly and she started the next song.

“Move over,” a voice hissed in her ear and snapped Bel-Imperia out of her thoughts. It was Wagner.

“Come on,” he said desperately. “I can’t handle the Disaster Duo and their never-ending stream of bad jokes.”

Bel-Imperia slid over. “Who, Robin and Rafe? I think they’re charming.”

Wagner slapped the table, the purple and gold cuff around his wrist jingling. “They want me to join their little comedy routine. No one takes me seriously around here.”

Portia cocked an eyebrow. “You’re a magician who performs party tricks.”

“I’m a sorcerer,” Wagner said, expression darkening.

“I’ve heard it both ways,” Portia said lightly, shrugging.

Bel-Imperia inspected the cuff on Wagner’s wrist. The letters CM were embossed on it in twirling capitals. The same as Helen, and Robin, and Rafe. All of Marlowe’s underlings wore them. The mark of entertainers and comedians, not to be confused with side characters, least of all heroes and protagonists. In the case of Marlowe’s men, however, no one envied his protagonist.

No one envied Kyd’s either, but at least he didn’t brand Bel-Imperia and the rest of her troupe with their status. She’d even managed to get into The Heroes’ Tavern once, but only because Hieronimo offered to sneak her in.

Reynaldo passed their table in a waiter’s uniform, dropping a plastic platter of Cajun fries between them all absently.

Bassanio sat up, hold a sagging fry up like a champagne glass. “Who needs those protagonists, anyway?” he said, then motioned for the rest to follow his lead. They all selected a fry.

“What’s a tavern without a woman?” he declared as someone would a wedding toast. Ophelia giggled as everyone tapped their fries together like fancy glasses.

A pretty successful one, by the looks of it, Bel-Imperia thought, making sure to keep the comment to herself.

[haggendazs-dispersion]

The Darkness Within (Moxiety)

Ship: PattonxVirgil (Moxiety)

AU: None

Warnings: Spoilers for “Dealing with Intrusive Thoughts”

Requested By: No One

Plot: Prompt #2: “Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry.”

~♧◇♡♤~♧◇♡♤~♧◇♡♤~

Thomas sighed as Roman sank out, shaking his head lightly at the creative sides dramatics. He glanced over to see Virgil still standing there, seeming upset. “Virgil? You okay buddy?”

Virgil snaps out of his thoughts, “huh? Oh, uh, yeah. I-I just... I’m a little,” he waves his hand a bit, “disappointed in myself. I thought that I would be able to protect you from them.”

“The dark sides?” Thomas is confused, he thought all of this had been resolved.

“The others,” he insists, “I- I thought. I thought I know how to handle them.”

Ah, he’s just worried. “Oh, I think we’re all trying to figure them out for now. It’ll take some time to figure everything out.” 

“Yeah, but I should know better,” the anxious side insists.

Now Thomas is more confused. “It’s that kind of unfair? Why should you be held to a different standard than any other side?”

There’s a pause. “Because I was one of them.”

Oh.

They stare at each other for a second before Virgil shrugs as if saying ‘what can you do?’ Then he’s gone, and Thomas feels even more lost.

~♧◇♡♤~

Patton was surprised to see Virgil standing in the living room when he returned from the kitchen with a snack. “Virgil?” The other side didn’t move. It seemed like he hadn’t even heard Patton.

He set down the tiny stack of cookie on the coffee table and moved closer to Virgil. “You okay ——?”

When Patton’s hand made contact with his shoulder, his head snapped up to look at the fatherly side. “Oh no! Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry.”

“He hates me Patton.”

“Who hates you Virge?” He didn’t answer and Patton just sighed sadly and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay, it’s all gonna be okay. Just breathe for me, okay?”

The anxious side shook his head, “it’s not okay Pat! He hates me now!”

“No one hates you Virgil. I promise, no one hates you.”

Virgil pulled away from the hug, “no, I told him and now he hates me!”

“Okay, we need to calm down okay? Let’s just breathe together, okay?” The other side nodded and let Patton leading him through his breathing exercise. After a while, he finally seemed calm enough to have a conversation, but he was definitely far from okay. “Can you tell me what’s going on now?”

“I- he-“

“Take your time, it’s okay.”

Virgil nodded. “I know. I just... I told Thomas I used to be... one of them...” He sighed as Patton held his hands. “You’ve seen how he reacts to the others. And he’s only met Deceit and Remus! And now I’ve told him that I was one of them and he’s gonna hate me.”

“Oh, Virgie. He doesn’t hate you, I promise. He’s probably confused, maybe surprised or shocked, but he doesn’t hate you. You’ve worked so hard and come such a long way since then.” He pulled the others hands to his lips and gave his knuckles a soft kiss; pulling a soft smiled out of Virgil. “Plus, as you said, you used to be one of them! You’re not anymore, and that’s more important than the fact that you were to begin with.”

“Are you sure?”

Patton grinned, “I’m his heart! I would hope I know how Thomas feels! And if we need to, we can ask Logan what he thinks.”

“No, I believe you.” He smiled softly, “thank you for reassuring me Pat.”

Patton giggled as he kissed both his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, and then his lips. “Always Virgie! I love you.”

“Love you too.”

~♧◇♡♤~♧◇♡♤~♧◇♡♤~

Tag List:  @the-incredible-sulk @a-little-bit-of-ace

[nico-in-space]

The Return

Hey, all!

Realized it’s been a while since I updated my writing tag, so here’s this fanfic I wrote after watching s5 of vld. It’s not polished, but I think it has its own charm. :)

You can catch me at Starlight_64 on AO3 :)

Read it at AO3 here, or continue below the cut...

“Hey, it’s Keithy boy!” Lance called out, face brightening from across the room. Pidge and Hunk paused whatever they were doing on their laptops and looked up.

“Keith!” Pidge called, setting aside her laptop and racing towards him with speed intimidating for someone of her stature. She collided with Keith’s stomach, causing him to involuntarily let out an ‘oof.’ Hesitantly, he returned the hug.

“Hey Keith, what’s up?” Hunk asked, getting up more calmly to greet Keith. Lance followed him. “How’s the Blade been? Business as usual, right?”

“Yeah, just about,” Keith responded, accepting Hunk into what is now apparently the Group Hug.

“You’re rarely here on break, though. Did something happen?” Lance asked, patting Keith on the shoulder.

“Well…”

It takes Keith a while to explain, and by then the rest of the Voltron team had entered the main room. Keith had already talked to them about this earlier though, through the Com. Ever since he found his mom, ever since Allura and the White Lion forged their bond…

Well, to put it shortly, Keith decided to return to Voltron. Not really a big deal, but it sure looked like a big deal by the expressions on Pidge, Hunk, and Lance’s faces.

“No way?!” Lance squawked, once he finished.

“That’s awesome, Keith. It’s great to have you back.” Hunk smiled warmly, and Keith felt himself returning it.

“There’s so much to show you; to tell you…” Pidge began.

“We should throw a party!” Lance exclaimed.

“What? That’s not really-” Keith, a known hater of parties, started to protest.

“No, no, just a chill thing. It’d just be the Voltron crew, yanno? Watch movies, play video games, eat awesome food that Hunk makes…”

“Hey, why do I suddenly have to cook? Why can’t you guys cook too?” Hunk said deplorably.

“Maybe Hunk could teach you how to cook! Hopefully, it could make an improvement…” Lance smirked, alluding to one time, just once that Keith tried to cook and ended up creating a poisonous substance that ended up putting him in the cryopod. Only once!

“Lance,” Keith began; but was interrupted by the door to the lounge opening.

Keith’s mom, Krolia, took in the slightly chaotic scene before her: her son and a young man his age, face to face, arguing. A young woman very small in stature still clinging to Keith’s arm. A tall man dressed in yellow, rolling his eyes and smiling fondly. Keith’s friend Shiro sitting with the Princess Allura and her Guide, Coran; and the Emperor Lotor leaned against a wall, watching the paladins with guarded amusement.

This here, this was Keith’s family. And Krolia was so glad he had found one.

Keith glanced in her direction, and his eyes lit up.

“Hey, guys, remember how I mentioned I found my mom,”

“You what?!?” ------- Once everyone had been introduced, plans for a Voltron party had begun. Allura and Lotor gracefully backed out from the event, citing official business. Probably more lessons from Allura for Lotor about Altean culture, which Keith had learned were a common thing these days.

First everyone, at the request of Hunk, prepared snacks together. Though there were limited ingredients, the highlight was Krolia teaching Keith how to cook a traditional Galran dish, which Keith couldn’t remember the name of, but it looked a lot like Nachos and tasted good. Mostly it was his mom cooking, and Keith watching carefully, but he counted it as a bonding moment between them.

Keith and his mom were beginning to get closer as time went on. He still had some issues with her for abandoning him, but he had begun to set those aside so that he could become friends with her. So that he could learn how to be a son of a loving mother. It was tough, but they were working through it together. Step by step.

Once they had cooked their hearts out, the party moved to the main room, where Coran had set up the screen. As they had a limited selection of movies, the choice became Coran’s, who chose a comedy movie. The comedy almost translated, and Keith found himself chuckling a few times.

Movie after movie, and soon everyone had either left or was asleep. Keith’s mom had left after the second movie because she was tired; Coran had left at the same time as well.

Hunk was dozing in a pile of pillows, and Shiro slept upright in a dining hall chair, head drooped slightly to the side. Matt and Pidge were knocked out against each other on the couch. Matt was snoring loud enough to wake up Keith, who soon realized his predicament.

Earlier Lance and he had gotten into a bit of a tiff over the pillows and the blankets, ergo; the pillow pile which Hunk was blissfully asleep on. But they had come to an agreement and had constructed a small blanket fort together. Which they fell asleep together in.

And, thanks to Keith’s wonderful luck, Lance was, of course, a cuddler in his sleep. So he had attached himself to Keith’s back with an iron grip, hands comfortably wrapped around Keith’s waist.

Keith could feel his hot breath, ghosting against his ear. His body shifted in his sleep, and Keith felt every millimeter of it. Dammit. Damn Lance, and damn his stupid crush on the guy!

Keith sighed, resigned to his fate.

...Lance was so warm. His arms were nice and toned, and Keith could feel their strength as they wrapped around his middle. His hands met at Keith’s waist.

‘Dammit, Keith,’ he said to himself, ‘just go back to sleep.’

…

…….They really were nice hands. Long fingers, with nicely manicured nails. Keith felt the irresistible urge to touch them.

Warmth and solidity. Keith hesitantly brushed his own hand over Lance’s joined hands. Heart racing, he gripped them, held them close to his body.

Lance shifted again, and Keith felt his ears burn.

“Mmm Keith,” Lance mumbled, and Keith jumped, his flight or fight reflex kicking in a bit. It’s okay, he probably talks in his sleep, right?

“Keith,” he heard, with more conviction.

He hesitated to answer.

“Keith, I know you’re awake.”

Why wasn’t Lance jumping away, stammering excuses? For that matter, why wasn’t Keith?

Well, at least for himself, Keith knew why. At risk to himself, he wanted Lance’s embrace. Even for a little while longer.

“Hey,” Lance said, poking Keith’s cheek. “Whoa, you’re warm. Are you blushing?”

“...Shut up.”

“Then shut me up.”

At this, Keith turned to look at Lance. Those were fighting words.

But upon looking at Lance’s face, Keith wondered: were those kissing words? Lance’s eyes looked so tender. And Keith thought it was his eyes playing a trick on him - but was Lance blushing too?

“I’ve missed you.”

Lance coughed.

“We missed you, I mean. But... I missed you. A lot, okay? You...I thought before you left we had some kind of, I think, but I don’t know maybe I was just imagining…”

“Lance.”

“Yeah? Oh, okay.” Keith shifted so that he was facing Lance, and Lance adjusted his grip. Both of them holding onto each other, almost in disbelief that this was happening.

“I missed you too,” Keith admitted, looking Lance plain in the eyes.

“Oh,” Lance mumbled, blinking a few times.

For a heated moment, all they could do was look into each other’s eyes.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Wh-”

Keith shot forward, remembering every kissing scene he had ever watched, and tried to emulate that motion. It kind of worked. Lance was awkward and close-mouthed, and Keith was kind of kissing his upper lip. Lance giggled, which was a reaction that seemed involuntary, but Keith still retreated, offended.

“Lance.”

“I know, I know, I just. Wow, we. We sure kissed, didn’t we?”

“No shit.”

“I know! I’m sorry, I was just surprised, that was my first… just let me,” and Lance put a gentle, sweaty hand on Keith’s jaw and leaned in.

Keith met him there. This time, the kissing was better. Lance’s mouth was warm, and his lips were a little chapped. Keith felt every millimeter of them on his own. Keith was content to stay in the same position, but then Lance started kind of moving his mouth, which felt really good, so Keith did it too. After that, Keith stopped thinking so hard. Just felt their bodies intertwine, felt the solid flesh of Lance’s back with his hands, and let himself go for the ride.

That is, until one of them moaned.

They separated with a loud smack, both blushing furiously.

They made eye contact, and Keith wasn’t sure, but one of them started laughing, and then it turned into a full-on giggle fest, which they tried to keep quiet, so they wouldn’t wake up the others.

“Holy shit, that was,” Lance interrupted himself with a snort, which only increased the hilarity of the situation between them.

Keith laughed. “Yep. Wow.”

After the giggles subsided, Keith and Lance contented themselves with snuggling up next to each other. To think this would have happened so quickly… Keith was elated. He rubbed Lance’s back, and Lance sighed, leaning into the touch.

“Does this make us boyfriends?” Lance asked, hopefully.

“Sure,” Keith responded; and pecked Lance’s chin.

“Oh! ...nice,” Lance mumbled.

Keith smiled, feeling himself drifting off. “Night,” he said, but Lance was already asleep.

Keith slept better than he ever had that night.

[klanceficatalogue]

hello! im looking for some fake dating/ secret relationship fics, preferably complete and +10k??tysm im so glad ur back :)))

Hiya anon! We’re glad to be here! Enjoy these fake dating and secret relationship fics! I always get so much second hand anxiety from these lol - Jen

All I Want for Christmas is a (Fake) Boyfriend by SearchingForMercury (6/6 | 26,294 | Teen and Up)

A while ago, in a fit of anger, Keith told his mom he had a boyfriend. Did he actually have a boyfriend? No. Did he care? Also no. At least, not until his mom, months later, tells him to bring his supposed boyfriend over for the holidays. Not wanting to admit he doesn't have one, Keith asks around for someone to play the role and who agrees to play the part? The annoying guy from his Lit class.

More Than Rivals by NicoWrites (16/16 | 29,091 | Teen and Up)

“I'm afraid the Fruschonites, that is, the inhabitants of last planet we joined forces with, are relatively famous for their gossiping. You two may have to keep up this lovers act of yours, for political reasons. It seems to have earned Voltron some popularity, at the very least.”

It took a moment to sink in. “Wait, the whole universe thinks we're dating. The whole universe thinks we're-!”

Keith cut me off. “And who's fault is that?!”

Or: the fake dating fic nobody asked for.

fake, not fate by Silverine (1/1 | 13,825 | Teen and Up)

“Uhm… hi honey,” says Lance tentatively, wondering who the hell is behind that mask and just how much will he wish to be dead after this.But then the person speaks and his whole world turns upside down.“…Hi.” A male voice. And an unmistakable one too, even though he hasn’t heard that voice in a while.“You…” Lance says, but he stops his own mouth from ruining everything. Because, holy quiznak, that’s Keith.He's marrying Keith. Lance messes up during a mission and crashes into a sacred place. The problem? He can't leave without dying, unless his soulmate comes and marries him in a... questionable ceremony. Oh well, he just has to fake a relationship with any of his friends and get over with it, right?...Right?

[snowbaz-fanfiction-library]

Pining Masterlist (13)

Internal Monolouge by 3amFanfic

Baz and Simon's thoughts throughout the day. (Also occasionally Penny's)

Lit Match and Gasoline by carrybits

“One day we’ll end in flames, and I’ll be the one with the lit match and gasoline.”

Lost by simonspeaks

baz is pining

The End Of The World, Or Maybe Just The Night... by NicoWrites

It's the end of eighth year, and Baz's self control has worn right out. It's now or never, you gay ass idiot.

Watford Cove by bazypitchandsimonsnow

Baz Pitch only cares about smoking, skipping school, and riding his motorcycle. That is, until he meets a beautiful new kid who is bright everywhere Baz is dark. But a lot of things stand between them. Can they find a way together? Or will it make them fall apart?

[peachplumpear2004]

hey y'all my writing blog is @nicowrites if u wanna check that out

[notnicodrawingstuff]

Heavily pregnant guy decides to let his body do all the work when he goes into labor. He doesn't bother pushing, taking his clothes off or anything. He just goes about his day, occasionally stopping to feel his baby coming down inside of him. Eventually, he gives birth wherever he is and finally pushes out his first baby. He tried to relax in hopes of saving energy to push out the other twin. Little does he know, it's gonna be way harder than the first.

[notnicodrawingstuff]

Don't mind me, just dropping pregnant Kenji Sato.

[notnicodrawingstuff]

Imagining a young man laying on his belly, pressing into the floor as a head rushes down inside of him. His drenched vagina spreading out to make room for his child. He squishes his stomach as flat as he can, hoping to force the baby out more quickly. A huge gush sprays from him as the head pops out into a full crown, filling him up completely.

[notnicodrawingstuff]

pls don't get mad at me, Tumblr.

Trying to improve my art.

[notnicodrawingstuff]

Kai from "Money Shot" in labor with his second kid. The poll for this story is on @writing-nico vote on how he should give birth!

Ignore the anatomy, I can't draw from certain angles. 😅

[necroixe]

-̶̢̳͎̳̰̇͝-̸̨̧̳̻̲̯̿̄̇̒̐̓̉̑͛́̎̀͘͝‐̵̢͍̠̗͇̱͆-̸̻̖̥͙̫͔̥̞͚̲̮͌̂̃̾̀̅̾͌̆͝ͅͅ-̷̥͐̽̃-̵̡̘̙̳̹̱̣̎̔̽̒̂͂͊͆̏̀͊̂͆͒̽̅-̵͉̞̻̠̼͉͐̔͒̉̈́-̴̤͎̎͆̅͂̊̓͠͠-̴̰̅́͆̓͠-̵̨̢͎̯̳̫̬͓̲̖̞̜̟͔̐̎̍̀-̶̨͈̪͇͖͚̫̹̬͈͕̐̌̈́̽͋̈́́̒͛͌̄̾̚͜͝-̸͖͙͋́̓̑͒̇̔͋͛̎̆͂͝͠-̷̪̼̪̙͉̜͇͔̠͈͇̹̔̋̈́̀̃̅̐̿͊̚͜͝-̸̢̛͕͖̝̖͓̫̊̄͆̈́͐̽̈̋̑̃̌̋͌͘͝-̵̝̔̎̃̈́̂͋͛͝-̷̡̮͇͍̞̫̳̩͙̦̩̗͙̄̊̉͝͝ͅ-̸̨̤̦̬̘̱̖̤͍̍̅͊͂́̄͆̈́̿͂̔̈́̍͘͜͝͠-̸̧̡̩̠͓̔̓ͅ-̶̛̯̉͐̓͐̍̃͐̋̂́̇̑̕͠-̸̨̖̯̞͓̳̥͈̻͔̠̩͎͕̠̐͒́̏͛͊̓̉̔̀̃͗̑̚͝-̶͍͓̦̝̰̹͆̅̇̀̽̽̋͗͌͠͝-̶̭͚̹̞̤̩̊̏̓̓̆̒ͅ-̵̧̖͇͙̤̬̩͎̟̣͐̉̍͑͐̆̾̄͜-̸̰͓͍̲̙̖̼͓̲̺͖͙̜͖̣̗̍͗͐̂͂̂̓̈͌-̶̡̜̝͚̩̟̼̌͑͆̄͝-̷̢̨͖͙͖͌-̷̡̛̛̣̥̝̤̜̺̥̰͍̫̀͋̄̈́̃͆́̔̚͝ͅ-̴̢̜̜̹̲̜̫̘̇͌͛̌̀͗̒͋̅̊̄͆̕̚͝͝-̴̝͉͈͙̀-̷̧̡̧͉̞̣̮̝̩͚͖̝͎̺̞̰̌̌͜-̴̧͍̱̜͍̬̞́̌̓͝-̷͇̩̺̻̈̔̈́̀͗̌͋̾͗̾̕̕-̵̨̪͓͖̭͖͖̬̎͑͂̔͒͌́̏͆͗͝-̸̙̭͇̣͊ͅ-̷͙͉͍͙̰̮̜̺̠̮̯̱̆̅̑̆́-̶̧̗͔͍̬̲͕̮̟̹̂́̈́́͘-̴̡̡͇͓͉͔͙͎͔̼̺̘͕̼̖͐-̶̨̡̢̱͈̯̝̪̗̫̯̥̲̄̽́̈̽̄͊̊͘͘-̷̺͉̋̾̊̍̓̌̈́͌̍́̃͆͛̈́̑̇-̸̡̭͙̘̣̘̦̼̰̄̎̃̚͝-̸̡̧̛̛̫̗̤͙͈̤̹͙̺̭̝̘̔̾͐̉̈́̓̎͒̓̀̄̋͘͘͠ͅ-̴̪̻̗̯̫̪̩͉̞͆̈͑̃̅̓̇̂-̶̢̥̩͇͎̥͉͖̘̋͐͆͌ͅ-̵̧͍̹̬̻̮̣̭̭̝͉̫̙̭̆͊͊̂̍͂͛͌͘͜-̶̼̖͉̩͎̈̍̀͂͌̊́̀̅̽̈͘͘̚͝-̵͉̦̱̜̤̭̅̊̑̎͌͐̏̈́͊͗͐̀͘̕̕͝-̴̧̨̮̹̣̯̞̣̪̞̪͈̒̏̈́̎̾̚͜-̶̨̣̹͔̩͇̮̳͇͚͈͓̳̎̊͋͊̓́͜͠͝͝͠-̶̪̽̍-̷͕̪̓̿̊̇̽̇̃͠-̸̧̧̛̮̼͙̼͓̼͎̞̪͓̥̰̝̺͂̾͗̎͂̀͗͆̒͜͝-̴̻͆͋̈-̵

✮⋆˙ NIC⦻ ♱ 21 ♱​ any prns ִ ࣪ ⋆

✁ asks + requests . . . . open! ⭑ ◛ 𖤐

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𖤐 major art, physics, and psychology slut

𖤐 i draw a lot!! and i make other things also!! this is mainly a creepypasta art blog, but i also post on my Instagram! don't take my art EVA i'll kill u

𖤐 girls r my fav . idc ab drawing boys don't expect a lot of it here ֶָ֢

𖤐 my friends and i have a creepypasta/slenderverse au!! it's @creepedverse

𖤐 dni - misogynists, terfs, bigots, republicans, chronic onliners, stupid mfs in general yk who you are

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