#just something small

[timethehobo]

It’s him… 💚

[xlmibby]

maybe caleb was right...

...or at least you think so to yourself while scrolling through the social media and something heavy starts to weigh on your chest.

it's not that the happiness of other people makes you sad and jealous. you like knowing that your friends are having a nice time. you enjoy helping them out and talking to them about exciting events they had a chance to experience.

it's just... sometimes it hurts; because you've never experienced something like that. that kind of happiness. the one that looks so out of reach, almost as if you're just staring through the window and watching everyone life their best life while you're just there. stuck.

after all, you can't possibly undo the past wounds that still hurt. uyou can't get rich in the blink of an eye and be liked by literally everyone. you can't change the place of your birth, and neither can't you choose not to be–

"i think something very not nice is going on in the head of a very pretty pipsqueak."

caleb's voice breaks through the dark thoughts that has been clouding your brain. then, in the blink of an eye, you feel him - warm and big, and steady - pressing against your back. his arms loop around your waist with a practiced ease before you feel his lips pressing soft kiss onto the nape of your neck. it tickles.

you squirm a little but caleb doesn't let you out of his grasp. you call him 'greedy' under your breath only to feel him press even closer into you. a shiver runs down your spine, your heartbeat a tad too fast in your chest.

for a moment silence lingers between the two of you, heavy with the words you should say to him but can't.

still, you don't want to try and pretend to be stronger than you are anymore. not in front of caleb. not when you know that he'll always stay right here, by your side, and love you no matter how bad the storm inside your mind might be.

a heavy sigh escapes your mouth before you settle further against his chest. his skin is warm and smells a bit like cinnamon.

even though you've spend your whole afternoon in your bedroom, only now - in caleb's arms - you feel truly at home.

"...need me to teach someone a lesson?"

it sounds like half-hearted threat; but you know caleb better than that. so you bonk his head and call him a big dummy, only to hear him laugh right after.

you're a bigger dummy, you think as you press yourself into caleb's arms - your cheek pressed against his chest and your hands clutched on the fabric of his shirt. it's okay, though. as long as caleb will hold you and laugh in the way that lights up your whole sky, maybe life isn't that bad.

[thefireemblemfuturechildern]

memes for some of my ships

[foolshcme]

Another lonely Christmas, huh?

[awkward-fink]

Warning: Pregnancy

Operation Pickle Run

The clock on your nightstand glowed 02:13 when the craving struck. Not a gentle, maybe-I’ll-ignore-it craving. Not the soft rolling feeling of a soft, fluffy want for later. No—this was a must-have-it-now mission for fried pickles and strawberry milk.

You tried to ignore it. You even flipped the pillow to the cool side. But your stomach had already filed the paperwork and was ready to raise the flag. There would be no peace until the objective was secured.

With a sigh, you reached for your phone. Two names sat at the top of your messages, both adorned with a green point: Gaz and Roach. You typed the only word necessary.

Pickles.

It took less than thirty seconds for your screen to light up.

Gaz: On our way. Stay hydrated. Roach: ETA 15. No hostiles.

You hadn’t even specified fried pickles, but somehow you knew they’d figure it out. This was not the first time, nor would it be the last time you would bother those two late in the night.

The knock came twelve minutes later. Gaz slipped inside first, grinning and already in full “mission brief” mode despite the hoodie and sweatpants. “Alright, Commander Cravings,” he said, saluting with a reusable grocery bag. “Target acquired and secured.”

Roach followed silently, setting a second bag on the counter. He gave you a small wave before pulling out containers like a magician: fried pickles, extra dipping sauce, strawberry milk, and—because of course—two different brands of ice cream “in case morale requires escalation.”

You stared at the haul. “This is… excessive.”

Gaz dropped onto the couch beside you, careful of the blanket-wrapped bump. “Excessive is our specialty. Besides, the captain would have our hides if we failed the mission.”

Roach nodded solemnly, sliding a plate toward you while Gaz arranged one of the pickles more to his liking, taking up the talk for both of them. “Price texted me: Do not return without snacks. His words.”

You laughed and reached for the first pickle. The batter was hot and perfectly crisp, clearly fresh. “You guys drove all the way to Benny’s for these, didn’t you?”

Gaz smirked. “Negative. Roach broke the land-speed record through the drive-thru. I just provided tactical commentary.”

Roach lifted a shoulder in modest shrug, eyes twinkling.

The three of you settled into a comfortable sprawl across the living room: you with your plate of fried perfection, Gaz scrolling through playlists, Roach quietly refilling your strawberry milk before you could ask.

Gaz leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Alright. Rate the mission: successful, or should we plan a secondary strike for churros?”

You took another bite and pretended to think. You even let Roach poach one of the smaller pickles for himself, the sneak. “Mmm. I’d call this a high-value victory.”

Gaz fist-pumped. “Yes! Operation Pickle Run: flawless execution. 100 extra points for us!”

Roach gave a small thumbs-up, then held out a napkin like it was part of the after-action protocol. You chuckled, shaking your head. The point-reward system someone in the group chat had implemented weeks ago was still a mystery to you.

Halfway through the plate, Gaz tilted his head toward the bump under your blanket. “You know,” he said with a grin, “this kid’s already got elite taste. First craving I ever remember was cardboard cereal. Yours? Tactical pickles.”

Roach tapped a finger against the side of the container, then mimed a baby saluting. The silent joke made you snort your precious strawberry milk.

Gaz chuckled and offered a gentle fist bump to your belly. “Respect, little operator. We’ll brief you on field rations later.”

Roach followed with a quiet double tap—his version of a high five.

The food disappeared faster than you’d expected. Roach silently collected the empty containers, moving with the efficient precision of someone used to cleaning gear after a mission. Gaz leaned back, hands behind his head, watching you with an easy smile.

“You good?” he asked softly. The joking tone was gone now, replaced by genuine warmth. “You need anything else? More milk? Another run?”

You shook your head, feeling a sudden wave of sleepiness settle in. “Just… maybe company for a bit.”

Roach paused mid-cleanup, then set the trash aside and returned to the couch without a word. Gaz gave a quiet nod and shifted closer, draping a blanket over your legs.

“Consider it done,” he said. “Perks of having your own personal quick-reaction team.”

Roach offered a small, contented hum—the closest he ever came to words when things were calm.

The room fell into a comfortable silence. Outside, the city hummed in the distance. Inside, Gaz absently traced patterns on the back of your hand while Roach rested a warm palm against the curve of your knee—a silent, steady presence.

Your eyelids grew heavy. The last thing you heard before drifting off was Gaz’s low, amused whisper: “Operation Pickle Run complete. Objective secure. Target asleep. You think we get some more points for this?”

Roach’s soft chuckle followed, the sound of a man quietly proud of a mission well executed.

You woke an hour later to find the living room dark, the dishes washed, and a sticky note on the coffee table written in Roach's messy scrawl:

Morning briefing: hydrate, snack, repeat. —Sergeants G & R

Next to it sat a fresh bottle of strawberry milk and one last pickle, perfectly wrapped—because of course they’d leave you a backup ration.

[chettyspagetti]

Jsut a small doodle

[dutchs-suck-up]

Micah being Micah and stealing Arthur's notebook to peek through it for fun...

Looking through all the drawings and the little notes and writings, rolling his eyes dramatically at anything and everything.

Pausing only when he felt a presence behind him, looming over him. Glancing up to meet Arthur's blue eyes, offering him a grin.

"This your-"

Before he could finish talking Arthur swiped the journal back, pushing him off the chair he had been sat upon at the same time. "Don't touch my stuff, Micah" he growled, storming off.

[las-almas-border-patrol]

Vacation. Holiday. Just some time away from the base. He had not expected something monumental, maybe some dust gathering in his office. What he had not expected, at all, was his workdesk cleared from all paperwork, his writing utensils sorted by his own preference, and the bottle wrapped in thick brown paper on his desk. He smiled as the door clicked shut behind him again.