#so you get this oop

[cod-thoughts]

Day 23 of 31 days of COD

Words: 2.2k

Relationships: Team as family, NikPrice, PriceNik, Ghost & Price

Tags: Slice of life, comfort, soft Nik, soft Price.

Nikolai, still half-asleep, his voice a lazy slur, muttered, “Mishka…” The word slipped out, familiar and affectionate, and it lingered in the air like a gentle whisper. Soap blinked, sitting up straighter in his chair. Gaz’s mouth opened slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. Even Ghost paused, the soft scrape of metal against stone coming to a halt. Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

The rec room was quiet, a rare stillness settling over the base after the long op. Most of the team sat around one of the larger tables, nursing cups of tea or coffee, relishing the peace after days in the field. The sound of boots scraping against concrete, the occasional clink of a mug, and the hum of the overhead lights were the only sounds filling the air.

Soap leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes twinkling with mischief. He tapped his boot against the floor, clearly thinking up something, the cogs in his mind already turning. “Alright, boys,” he said, breaking the silence. “Got a question for you lot.”

Gaz, sitting across from him, looked up, raising an eyebrow. “What now, Soap?”

Soap smirked, tilting his head toward the far corner where Price stood, leaning against the counter, sipping a mug of tea. “Captain’s callsign. ‘The Bear.’ You ever wonder why?”

Gaz followed Soap’s gaze, looking at Price with mild curiosity. “You’re still on about that?”

“Aye, it’s a mystery!” Soap grinned. “Never got the story behind it. Big bloke like that, you’d think it’s got somethin’ to do with him tearing up an entire battalion single-handed.”

Price, ever the calm figure in their chaotic world, merely glanced over at them, unimpressed. He didn’t offer a comment, just raised an eyebrow before going back to his tea. Soap, not discouraged in the least, continued.

“Maybe he fought a bear once,” Soap mused, his grin widening. “Bare hands, too. Get it?”

Gaz snorted, shaking his head. “More likely he growls like one when you wake him up too early.”

Ghost, sitting slightly apart from the others, barely glanced up from the knife he was methodically sharpening. His mask obscured his expression, but his eyes flicked toward Price before returning to the blade. “Doesn’t matter what it’s for. Leave it alone.”

Soap, naturally, ignored that. “Come on, Ghost, you can’t tell me you’re not curious!”

“Not really,” Ghost replied in his usual flat tone, though there was a knowing edge to it that Soap completely missed.

Gaz, playing along with Soap’s game, leaned back in his chair. “Maybe it’s somethin’ simple. He’s gruff, keeps to himself. Like a bear in the winter—hibernating.”

“Or maybe,” Soap said, voice lowering as if he were about to unveil some great truth, “it’s somethin’ embarrassing.”

Before Soap could launch into another theory, the door to the mess hall creaked open. Nikolai stepped in, his movements slow and unhurried, like a man who had spent far too long awake and on his feet. His dark hair was slightly dishevelled, his eyes heavy with fatigue, but there was a comfort in the way he carried himself—as if he’d found his way back to the one place he could let his guard down.

Price, still standing by the counter, set his mug down and glanced over at Nikolai with that barely perceptible softening in his eyes. It was so quick, so subtle, that only someone paying close attention—like Ghost—might have noticed it.

Nikolai didn’t acknowledge the rest of the team as he walked over to Price. His steps were steady but had that unmistakable heaviness of a man half-asleep on his feet. Soap, Gaz, and Ghost watched in silence as Nikolai approached Price like it was second nature, his hands slipping around Price’s waist as he rested his forehead against the back of Price’s neck.

It wasn’t unusual for Nikolai to be close to Price; they’d been allies and friends for years, always sharing a mutual respect. But this… this was different. There was something deeply intimate in the gesture, something that didn’t belong in the usually guarded world of military protocol.

Nikolai murmured something in Russian, too soft for anyone but Price to hear. It didn’t seem to matter, though, as the meaning was clear in the way Price’s shoulders relaxed, the way he leaned back slightly into Nikolai’s hold. It was a rare moment of vulnerability, and the room, once filled with the low hum of conversation, went dead silent.

Price let out a soft chuckle—low, rumbling, completely out of character for the captain the team was used to seeing. Soap and Gaz exchanged glances, eyebrows raised, and Ghost, though still focused on his blade, was clearly aware of what was unfolding.

And then it happened.

Nikolai, still half-asleep, his voice a lazy slur, muttered, “Mishka…” The word slipped out, familiar and affectionate, and it lingered in the air like a gentle whisper.

Soap blinked, sitting up straighter in his chair. Gaz’s mouth opened slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. Even Ghost paused, the soft scrape of metal against stone coming to a halt.

“Mishka?” Soap echoed, incredulous. His eyes flicked between Price and Nikolai, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Did he just—?”

Before Soap could finish, Ghost cut him off, his tone even. “Means ‘Little Bear’ in Russian.”

Gaz’s head snapped toward Ghost. “You knew?”

Ghost shrugged, sliding the knife back into its sheath. “Not hard to figure out.”

Soap looked between Ghost and Price, trying to process what had just happened. “So… ‘The Bear’—that’s why?”

Price, still standing there with Nikolai comfortably wrapped around him, sighed softly. “Aye, that’s why,” he muttered, his voice resigned but amused. “It’s just an old nickname.”

“Mishka…” Soap repeated, grinning wider by the second. “This whole time, your callsign was ‘cause Nik calls you Little Bear?”

Price’s lips twitched into a smile, one that was more affectionate than anything else. He glanced over his shoulder at Nikolai, who was still resting against him, seemingly oblivious to the conversation unfolding around them. “It’s from years ago,” Price explained, though his tone was softer now, less defensive. “Back when things were… different. We’ve been together longer than most of you have been soldiers.”

Nikolai, finally registering the fact that the room had gone quiet and all eyes were on him, lifted his head slightly. His half-lidded eyes took in the scene before him, his tired brain slowly catching up to what had happened. He blinked, realisation dawning.

“Ah…” he mumbled, clearly too tired to feel any real embarrassment. “I… did not mean to let that slip.”

Soap’s laughter was loud and immediate, the sound echoing through the mess hall. “Oh, mate, this is brilliant! You, the legendary Captain Price, our fearless leader—‘Mishka’.”

Gaz, though clearly amused, was more subtle about it, shaking his head with a grin. “Well, it certainly explains ‘The Bear,’ doesn’t it?”

Price rolled his eyes, though there was no hiding the fondness in his expression as he looked at Nikolai. “You lot better not make a big deal out of this.”

“Oh, it’s a huge deal,” Soap replied, grinning from ear to ear. “Mishka! You’re never gonna hear the end of this one, Captain.”

Ghost, sitting back in his chair, observed the scene silently, his eyes barely visible behind his mask. Unlike Soap and Gaz, there was no surprise in his posture, no sudden shock at the revelation. Instead, there was an air of quiet understanding, as if he’d known for a long time but had simply chosen not to say anything.

He continued to sharpen his knife with steady precision, his gaze lingering on Price and Nikolai for a moment longer than usual. It wasn’t curiosity or judgement in his eyes—just a quiet acceptance, the kind that came from years of knowing someone without needing to pry into their personal life.

Price caught Ghost’s gaze from across the room, and for a brief second, something passed between them. A silent conversation, wordless but understood. Ghost, always observant, had likely pieced it together long before this moment. And now that the secret was out, he wasn’t about to make a fuss over it.

Soap, still grinning like he’d uncovered the greatest joke of the century, opened his mouth for another jab, but Ghost cut him off with a simple, “That’s enough, Johnny.”

The way he said it left no room for argument, and Soap, though clearly disappointed to be cut short, just raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, but the grin stayed plastered on his face.

Gaz chuckled softly, shaking his head at the entire scene as he leaned back in his chair, the initial surprise wearing off. There was a comfortable shift in the air now—no awkwardness, no lingering questions. Just the usual banter and camaraderie.

Ghost leaned back in his seat, his knife forgotten for the moment. “It’s none of our business,” he said in a low voice, though there was a strange warmth to his words. “You two do what you need to.”

Price’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, something grateful in the look he sent Ghost’s way. He knew Ghost wasn’t the type to pry, but the unspoken acknowledgment meant something. Ghost had always been a man of few words, but when he spoke, it held weight.

As the room settled back into a relaxed rhythm, Soap and Gaz quietly snickering to themselves, Price gave a final, resigned chuckle. “Well,” he muttered, his voice light with amusement as Nikolai shifted against him, “there’s no point hiding it now, is there?”

Soap, still unable to resist despite Ghost's warning, leaned back with an exaggerated sigh. “Can’t believe I never clocked it. Should’ve known it’d be somethin’ soft.”

Gaz chuckled, crossing his arms. “Soft? The man’s still a bear, mate. Little or not, he’ll tear you apart if you push it too far.”

Price raised an eyebrow at the two of them, though his eyes held more amusement than threat. “You’re walkin’ a fine line, Sergeant,” he said to Soap, his voice carrying that familiar commanding weight, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward into a rare smile.

Nikolai, still leaning into Price, let out a soft huff of laughter, the sound low and full of affection. “Johnathan has always been my Mishka,” he murmured, eyes still half-closed with exhaustion but comfortable, safe, like this was the only place in the world he needed to be. “I did not realise you were all so curious about that.”

“We weren’t,” Ghost said, his voice quiet but carrying that same air of authority. “Well, some of us weren’t.” His masked gaze flicked over to Soap, who wisely clamped his mouth shut, though his grin remained.

Nikolai chuckled again, finally pulling away from Price just enough to stretch, though he stayed close. The years of camaraderie, loyalty, and love between the two were unmistakable now that it was out in the open. There was a calmness in the air—almost like the unspoken secret had been a weight lifted from their shoulders.

Ghost stood up from his seat, slipping his knife into his belt. “You two get some rest. We’ve got a briefing in the morning.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was an unspoken understanding in his words, a gentle nudge to let them know the conversation was over, and life would carry on as it always had.

Price nodded, grateful for the easy return to normalcy. “Mmm. You’re right.”

Price shook his head, already knowing the teasing would continue for days, but he didn’t mind. This was his team, after all—his family. And they’d earned the right to their jokes. “Get out of here before I start assigning extra PT,” he grumbled, though there was no real bite behind the threat.

Soap and Gaz exchanged looks, clearly amused, but they both stood and started to head for the door, their playful banter continuing as they went.

As they left, Ghost lingered for just a moment longer, casting one last glance at Price and Nikolai. There was no judgment in his look, just quiet understanding. He gave the faintest of nods, a silent acknowledgment of what he knew but had never spoken of.

With that, Ghost turned and followed the others out, leaving Price and Nikolai alone in the now-quiet mess hall.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, Nikolai leaned back into Price, his arms draped loosely around his shoulders, pressing a tired kiss to his cheek. Price, with a soft sigh, wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him closer.

“It’s alright, you know,” Price murmured after a beat of silence. “Don’t have to hide anymore. At least not around them”

Nikolai smiled against his shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper. “According to your kostochka we did not hide as well as we thought.”

Price chuckled, a deep, warm sound, and squeezed his arms around Nikolai gently. “No, I s’pose not. Better not let him hear you call him that though, he’d have my head”

They stood like that for a long moment, the quiet of the base wrapping around them like a blanket. There was no rush to move, no need to explain anything. The world outside could wait, just for a little while longer.

Finally, Nikolai let out a soft breath, his voice laced with contentment. “Come on, Mishka. Let us get some rest. Long day tomorrow.”

Price gave a slow nod, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Nikolai’s head before pulling back. “Aye. You’re right, Nik.”

And with that, they turned, leaving the mess hall behind and heading towards their quarters, side by side, with the weight of secrecy finally lifted and the knowledge that, whatever came next, they’d face it together.

[vanilla-extracter]

some ahnk moporkian bullshit (mostly moist and the truth)

[wileycap]

I think we in the A:TLA fandom have missed the absolute potential of the fact that Ozai Firelord is canonically a fucking idiot. I mean the dude's straight up stupid. And I want to be very clear that this isn't a plot hole, this isn't a flaw in the show, this is a fantastic and super realistic element that honestly enhances my enjoyment of it! Dictators are often stupid and breed a culture of cronyism-over-competence. Any similarities with real world leaders, dead or alive, are coincidental yet inevitable.

What do I mean?

Well, let's take the Drill. When faced with the problem of Big Wall, Ozai's Fire Nation comes up with Big Drill. One singular Big Drill. Which, as anyone except an idiot could have predicted, immediately breaks down and accomplishes nothing. And if the Fire Nation had made it past the wall, then they would have been fighting through a narrow opening against people who can hurl long distance rocks! Which, if your face or body is vulnerable to high velocity rocks, is a bad thing for you and also for the battle.

Not to mention the resource cost of that thing! It's so insanely gigantic, it must have cost the Fire Nation the equivalent of trillions. For ONE drill. Not ten smaller drills. Just ONE drill. (Fanfic fuel: how much did Ba Sing Se profit off of stripping that drill for parts? Did they reverse engineer it? Did Long Feng keep that for himself?)

And you might be thinking, fairly, that it was War Minister Qin who came up with the drill and you'd be right, but it's Ozai who's approving all this shit. Instead of doing the reasonable thing and asking Qin if he et the whole edible, or even the in-character thing of burning him to death, Ozai just goes... big drill. Makes sense. We should have the biggest drill, because we are the biggest nation. Drill, baby, drill. sorry

It's not the first time, either! He also approves Zhao's invasion of the North Pole, apparently just because Zhao is good at kissing ass and hates Zuko? I couldn't tell you what merits Zhao has. We do not see him lead a single successful mission. The closest he comes is Pohuai, and even then its the Yuyan archers who do most of the work. (My longstanding headcanon is that the reason we don't see the Yuyan archers again is because Zhao blamed the whole thing on them and they were disbanded. This is great fic fuel for displaced Yuyan archers just, wandering around, being elite.)

He approved a massive naval invasion of the North Pole, surrounded by and made of water and ice, inhabited by people who bend water. A nation that was, by its own choice, completely out of the war.

Every time we see Ozai doing something, it's something stupid. Like disfiguring and banishing his firstborn child in a culture that has primogeniture. And then (once he's done pissing away a massive fleet of ships) he does the logical thing and sends his only other heir to bring his first heir back - even though his first heir would have been willing to return with a simple invitation. Like he could have sent a letter saying "dear son come home miss u pick up 200 000 tons of steel qin wants 2 build a drill lol", and Zuko would have come. (Okay, he did have a valid reason for having Zuko escorted, since he thought Iroh was a traitor, but there's absolutely NO reason to risk Azula. Why not send Combustion Man? It's the luckiest stroke of luck ever that Azula is 100 times more competent than her dad.)

Of course, a dictator(-wannabe) sending his daughter on high-level diplomatic missions is pure fiction. Nobody would do that.

The best part of this is that it's entirely realistic and in-character. I could absolutely imagine Ozai purging all of his competent admirals and generals, and then promoting brownnoses like Zhao and crackpots like Qin, because they promised him glorious destinies and secret knowledge of Big Drill.

I also really, really want a scene of Zuko and Azula realizing that their father is a fucking idiot.

I would also like to note that all this stupid shit happens after Iroh leaves with Zuko. So, here's a headcanon: the only reason the Fire Nation didn't immediately implode when Ozai took the throne and purged everyone is because of Iroh. Iroh leaving with Zuko doomed Ozai. It's also a nice little drop of complexity in Iroh's character - he knew he was single-handedly keeping the Fire Nation afloat, yet he only left when Zuko did. Did he plan for Zuko to take the throne from the start? What was his plan before Aang showed up? Did he not intervene in the Agni Kai because he was afraid, or because he knew that Ozai was making a huge mistake and didn't want to interrupt? Give me chessmaster Iroh please.

[starcurtain]

Teyvat's "Most Down Bad" Award Goes to Alhaitham for a Second Year Running

Seeing everyone making fun of Alhaitham for his "stalkerish" tendencies in this event is funny, because I feel like a lot of people missed that "Be literally everywhere Kaveh is" has been Alhaitham's MO from the day Kaveh appeared in the game.

From only grabbing his house keys after Kaveh returned from the desert (he couldn't have had both sets of keys at the end of the Archon Quest unless he went home and got Kaveh's copy) to ditching conversations to get back to his house only after Kaveh came home, to showing up without any warning or explanation in Kaveh's hangout with some ridiculous excuse about hearing his voice through noise-cancelling headphones... Refusing to offer any help in the Temple of Silence story quest other than staying in the library with Kaveh...

Since when does Alhaitham willingly cover anyone else's duties?

But this trend of "Be everywhere Kaveh is" didn't start when they were adults. It was already in place when they were still Akademiya students--and it's a trend that didn't end even when they had their fight.

Even when they weren't speaking, Alhaitham dogged Kaveh's every step through published responses to Kaveh's research articles in academic journals. He insisted on keeping a line of communication between himself and Kaveh open, even if the only way to do that was through very public ideological clashes. Pulling Kaveh's pigtails to get his attention lolol. It's implied that, for at least the few years between their fight and Kaveh moving in, this was the only communication between them--Alhaitham's refusal to allow their connection to entirely fade away. (And the fact that this is revealed in Kaveh's character stories--through his precious journal that records the moments of his life that had the most impact on him--shows just how deeply he values the fact that Alhaitham didn't give up.)

Another relevant side note: Alhaitham never asked Kaveh to give up his half of their house. Knowing half of it belonged to Kaveh, knowing that Kaveh may one day want to reclaim his part of it, knowing that it was listed as theirs, Alhaitham moved into the house and made zero effort to change its ownership. He was completely fine with living in "his and Kaveh's house." The stories suggest it was only months later (or even longer) that Kaveh even noticed he had the house, and he transferred away ownership of his portion without Alhaitham ever asking him (or even seemingly wanting him) to do so.

Please, let that sink in. Alhaitham actively left his grandmother's (presumably comfortable) house to move into "his and Kaveh's house," with no apparent explanation for why, and after doing so, he made no attempt to change that "his and Kaveh's" label. He moved into the house with no promise that Kaveh wouldn't show up on the doorstep the very next day and move in too. It almost feels like another deliberate provocation--I've moved into our house, are you going to come stop me? LBR, if Alhaitham had had his way, Kaveh would have been living there with him from Day 1...

There's also the fact that Kaveh literally can't write on a single message board anywhere in the entire nation of Sumeru without Alhaitham hunting his messages down and responding to them (which absolutely no one else does, by the way).

"NUH-UH!" "UH-HUH." "NUH-UH!"

Alhaitham's own character stories tell us explicitly that one of Alhaitham's defining character traits is "He is never where you need him to be," yet somehow...

Shot, and chaser:

Any time Kaveh is in the slightest bit of need or danger or just wants Alhaitham near, Alhaitham is "coincidentally" exactly where Kaveh needs him to be, whenever Kaveh needs him to be there.

Alhaitham didn't just "happen" to run into Kaveh in Port Ormos, an entirely different city from where he was supposed to be working. He didn't just "happen" to read the same terrible book as Kaveh when we know he otherwise would not waste a moment of his time on poorly-written literature...

He didn't just "happen" to appear when Kaveh was upset and needed a distraction in the House of Daena during Kaveh's hangout. He didn't just "happen" to be sitting around waiting when Kaveh needed answers after the Archon Quest. He didn't just "happen" to find Kaveh's academic publications and every single message board posting and respond to them at length and in public.

Which is exactly what Kaveh's mother told Kaveh he needed.

What level of down bad is "Abusing your powers as an Akademiya employee to keep tabs on your crush's library loans"? Just asking for a friend.

The only person for whom Alhaitham just "happens" to be available is Kaveh, over and over and over again--because he is very deliberately making himself a constant presence in Kaveh's life.

(Like, out of all things, I think people really underestimate the devs deliberately paralleling the romantic relationship between Kaveh's mother and father with Kaveh and Alhaitham's relationship. If you want to point to one thing that says "These two characters are intentionally queer-coded," it doesn't get any more obvious than this.)

Alhaitham, are you not embarrassed to be this transparent??? 🫣

[chloesimaginationthings]

FNAF movie Vanessa’s thoughts when meeting Abby..

[melioristicbeast]

Thinking 'bout.. Older Sterek and love bites 💭💭

[now available on Redbubble!]

[nibbelraz]

The perks of your younger brother telling you the future is you can try to prevent it!

The downside is he has the weirdest names for the most important parts...

[chiangyorange]

chain faces pt2

forest whimsy (here!!)

w stands for wrangler (here !!)

[starry-bi-sky]

on a completely separate note; shizun luo binghe with a disciple shen yuan who fell into the abyss??? *thinks about LBH canonically stealing SQQ's corpse for 5 years* he'd hallucinate i think. like, like visual and audial hallucinations.

Keeps thinking he's seeing SQQ in the corner of his eyes, or wandering between the trees, amongst a group of disciples. Thinks he hears him calling for him, but its just the wind or another disciple.

Gets Xiu Ya reforged but patently fucking refuses to make a sword mound. Because his disciple Is Not Dead :))) There was No Body. He's Not Dead. And If You keep Insisting That He Is, He's Gonna Skewer You :). He's holding onto Xiu Ya so he can return his most favored disciple's sword when he returns. It's on his hip right next to Zheng Yang where it's supposed to be.

Also this motherfucker?? does not sleep btw. He has the image of SQQ, wide eyed and hysterical and standing at the mouth of the abyss burned into his fucking eyelids. Can't use the dreamscape to escape it either because he keeps trying to save him and either he does and it's an incredibly cruel trick to wake up to, or he doesn't and he gets his heart broken in several different pieces again.

There is no convincing this man that Shen Qingqiu is dead. Absolutely nothing at all. He is buried so deep in denial that moles would be jealous of how deep he is. He keeps making tea for two in the bamboo house only to remember that it's just him. SQQ's fans are hiding everywhere, little reminders of his presence. He goes to wake up SQQ on the mornings he sleeps in-- only to find the room empty.

[hatsbuckets]

He does NOT like to talk about it.

The weeks—months—spent between pain meds and recovery after he came back from the dead.

Barely lucid for the first few weeks, and a hollowed-out man after he finally switched to lower-dose pain meds.

He remembers when they told him he was “lucky to be alive.”

Except Simon Riley has never been lucky.

Luck would’ve given him a home. Luck would’ve given him a father. Luck would’ve given him a face that doesn’t remind him every damn day of the man he loathes. Luck wouldn’t have had him crawling out of his own fucking grave and dragging himself back to life.

Luck would’ve been fantasy.

Simon Riley does not live in a fantasy.

He lives in a body that barely made it back. Knife wounds down his ribs, healing jagged. A shattered radius. Dislocated shoulder. Crushed digits. Stitches up his thigh. Two cracked vertebrae. An eye that still doesn’t always focus right in fluorescent light.

The worst part? The ache in his jaw. Not from injury—though there was that too—but from grinding his teeth night after night, just to keep the screams in.

Price had visited. Simon was never sure if it was real, or if the drugs were still puppeteering his grief into hallucination. He remembers a warm hand on his shoulder. That was real.

He remembers not crying. Only because he’d already run dry.

The anger came later. When the fog lifted. When the pain stopped being an abstract thing and started screaming in every nerve. When he realized he couldn’t tie his boots.

Couldn’t hold a fork.

Couldn’t even sign the discharge forms without his hand seizing up.

He nearly threw a chair at the wall when his pen slipped again. The physical therapist just handed him another sheet of paper. Told him to try again.

Like it was that fucking simple.

But he did. Again and again. Because the fury needed somewhere to go.

And repetition was safer than silence. His body healed, but his hands were the worst.

He started tracing letters. First his name. Then lines from books. Then nothing at all—just letters, shapes, lines.

Somewhere along the way, it got… good. Neat. Sharp. Clean block print, easy to read. And if he really focused, if he took his time—

It became beautiful.

A steady hand in ink. A small act of control in a world that had stolen everything else.

Simon Riley doesn’t like to talk about what it took to come back. He doesn’t talk about the way rage nearly drowned him. Or the way he still checks every lock twice. Or how he sometimes wakes up clutching at fingers that no longer hurt, just to make sure they’re still there.

But the handwriting stays.

On gear manifests. On margin notes. Initials. Coordinates.

Sometimes letters.

He’d written them to Price as practice, as part of the therapy—physical and mental, he now realizes.

He still writes them today. Habitual. Short notes, mostly.

Mostly—always—to Price.

But eventually he slides one under Johnny’s door. He couldn’t tell you what he wrote. Doesn’t remember. Something gentler than he'd have ever said out loud at the time, probably.

And soon after, Kyle gets them too. Appreciation. Praise. Anything Simon can give, even if he might never speak the words into the air.

There exists a note to his family—to his mum and Tommy. It sits at the bottom of his desk drawer, forever sealed.

He does NOT like to talk about it. Those months spent in agony.

He probably won’t ever talk about them now.

But maybe he’ll write something.

a/n: I just think he would have pretty handwriting and I could write a whole essay on why. like wdym this tortured man wouldn't come back and find that this is something he has the max amount of control over (other than when he realizes how much control he has over himself (see: non-existent essay on Simon having the MOST control over himself out of the 141 because discipline, trauma, and dog-motif.)) started at this headcanon post if you care

[andi-o-geyser]

Vax'ildan Vessar I cannot fucking BELIEVE you fumbled Keyleth of the Air Ashari. AGAIN. Do not break up after your first kiss together, better yet after her FIRST EVER KISS you gave her tongue I will KILL YOU

[northstarscowboyhat]

Peepaw Starlo struggles. Autism 2 autism communication struggles.

[narsh-poptarts]

sigh

[lcs-scar]

PLEAS PLEAS PLLEEEEAASSSS

Can you draw some pete content?? 🙌🙌🙏🙏🙏🙇🙇🙇

THAK YOU IF ITS YES

sure!!

[rosemarytrash]

this is so needlessly chaotic but so is act 4 so really if you think about it i'm imbibing the spirit of it all into a lot of gaussian blurring

[madbalalaika]

Commission for @wind-up-nhaama, fem!OC Odette Tavelyen x Gale! I had an absolute blast working on this piece. Thank you once again! ✨

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