G.I Incorrect Quotes#91 Boyfriend Vs Boy-friend

I swear having an endo flare up and fibro flare up at the same time is a bitch. I wanna die from the pain.

Petitions - UK Government and Parliament

Petition: Do not stop transgender people from receiving care in mainstream hospital wards

The previous government proposed changes to the NHS constitution which would mean transgender hospital patients in England may not be treate

Well fucks? Get to it!

Imagine you are a photographer for a well known news company, nbc, cbc, bbc, otherwise. You were handpicked to go into a war zone by your manager, to photograph and journal an ongoing conflict in urzikstan. Nervousness abound, you get on that damn plane anyway despite desperate pleas to find someone else, someone with more experience. hell, youve not done anything impressive in your career yet. how're you supposed to survive an active warzone?

this question rattles in your head the whole plane ride, through the shuddering turbulence, the security checkpoints and busy streets. Some deal was struck with people high up, and you are to embed with a group led by Commander Farah Karim and the SAS 141.

The old heads at the office, the ones to document Iraq and Afghanistan back in the day, told you to bring three things;

caffeine pills, cigarettes and Kevlar.

❗️Reblogs get a fat kiss on the mouth ❗️

This isn’t the 141s first encounter with media, and instantly they can tell you are green as new spring. Nervous glances and body language, you still jump at the sound of gunfire and artillery. You even cover your ears when Helicopters fly low overhead and cough at the dust ups. Vest just a smidge too big, your helmet just a bit askew and gripping on that big old camera of yours like someone’s gonna try and take it away from you. You’re cute, they think. you're definitely going to die out here, they think. how the hell are you the reporter that's gonna be embedding with them? When you first meet to shake hands and exchange names, the biggest one looms over you.

“Stay out of our way and you wont get shot”

The CIA woman, Laswell has little to say outside of the regular talking points and media trained bullshit. You’ll report it anyway. You’re grateful to her for allowing your news agency this opportunity, thus, you the opportunity, not that being here doesn't scare you to death. You sense she does have your back though, when the grunts get rowdy she keeps them off your case with stern talking to’s. Part of you is feeling like your watching generation kill unfold in real life, complete with all the unsavouriness. you sneak some pics, and take some notes. As the platoon mobilizes, the rumble of old Humvee's and APCs accompanied by the chemical stench of burning gasoline, she hands you a wooden box. You shake it, hearing it rattle. She cringes at that a bit, and you understand why when you open it. cigars? “Use these only in special occasions” she says, with a secret smile. She only allows a rather plain photo of her in front of the canvas flap of a tent you aren't allowed into.

Farah is a fascinating woman, steadfast and straightforward, she lives for the freedom of her people. Always with her people too, her right hand with one leg at least. A sharp focus, true, deep running determination. A tried and true leader. She lets you take a photo of her and her right hand at golden hour. With the man standing guard in the background, she leans against a Humvee in the foreground, the burning cherry of the cigarette between her lips reflecting in her eyes like fire, Kalashnikov propped up on her hip. She lets you fire it too, as the evening goes on. Your shoulder is bruised for the next five days. She finds great humour in this.

You only get initials from the SAS men. You were warned they would be highly secretive, not like the grunts who love to talk. you don’t even get names, just ranks and nicknames, even the nicknames are pushing your luck. They laugh at you when you jump at every blast, genuine glee as they gladly take the cigarettes you have on hand as peace offerings and relax as if the bombs were simply no biggie. To them, they probably weren’t. Just another Tuesday. "how the hell did you end up out here? don't seem up to it" the one with the mohawk asks, leaning back as if he were in a beach chair at a warm, sunny resort. the way the smoke floated up through the air in the sunshine made it almost seem like he was. "i think my managers are trying to off me or something man" you exhale, voice shaky as more heavy gunfire makes you jump.

Before it all happened, just when they got the orders they were to head straight into a city held by the enemy, it surprised you a bit when the one Sargent seemed almost angry that your vest didn’t fit properly. he demanded tape to make it fit better. Applied it his damn self too, taping the vest up gruffly and patting it to make sure there was no spaces between the vest and your body. Now they lead you around the war zone by the scruff of your Kevlar, its like leap frog. one is manhandling you behind cover as you do your job taking pictures of the bombs and guns and bodies, before another directs you a whole different way. you cant help but feel glad for it though. the guidance through this new world is welcome. in a way, you relate to dante in that moment, these men, your virgil. lead me to the centre of hell itself, you think, snapping a picture of them riding the lightning of combat as if they never knew anything but. you imagine they will.

Does anything really prepare you for the smell of war? Is it covered in their training? Chemicals, fire and copper. Stench of bodies left to rot, dissolve in dark fluids under the hot sun. shit. ammonia. dust. Followed by the hours of driving, driving, driving. Sitting, sitting, sitting. Thinking. They don’t let you look at the bodies you pass on the roads too long, yanking you back from the windows. The SAS guys talk to you in exchange for their nicotine hits, over brown pouches of food. trivial shit, stories and banter mostly. In the low light of the evening, the skies dusky pink over the mountains, you scribble in your little journal, leaning against the metal door of the humvee. the first thing you write? MRE's suck.

Sargent G, “Gaz”, is strikingly handsome. You can’t help but let that be your first thought, after he yanks you behind cover and knocks you off balance. “Stay out of sight” he hisses. “Yes. Sorry” that was your first meeting. You meet again just minutes later, ducking together behind a concrete median. The dust in the air is making you sneeze, and he pats your back wordlessly. That’s when you hear more shots, and the sickening sound of a ceramic plate cracking, a man hollering in pain. Gaz wastes no time yelling for suppressing fire, running out into the open to drag this fallen… you can’t even call him a man, just a boy really, to safety. You tail him, photographing the fireman’s carry he sustains the whole way out of the hot zone. He does politely ask to see the photos you took once the man is being cared for by the corpsmen, his moans ebbing now with painkillers to ease him. Hours later and covered in dirt, exhausted, panting, downing water by the bottle he hand picks his favorite. “This one?” You ask, pointing to the screen on your camera. “Yeah. That one’s mint” he smiles brightly. A photo of him clouded in dust, the hot sun beating down as he carries his fellow to safety. Around him, you can see where bullets strike the dirt. The other soldiers blood seeps into his own uniform.

Sargent M, “soap”, the Scot, is the most chatty but that’s a low fucking bar to clear. you imagine he was once an extrovert and liken him to a buzzing fly, hovering with the constant request of bumming a cig. At one point during a particularly stressful, moonless night where the constant artillery fire rocks your core until you can’t stop trembling, you give up and just hand him a whole pack. he does grin at that. "bought yer-self a friend now, aye?" You lie prone, just feet apart in the arid grass, mere inches of micro terrain to protect you, and he whispers in the dark. You write by the low light of the distant fires, scribbling chicken scratch to keep up. Some call it soft balling, you call it finding the heart beating under the plate carrier. His gravelly Scottish lilt carries through the chill, you can see his breath as he talks. A man with no family ties back home and barely concealed anger at the treatment of the enemy to the civilians of urzikstan. Your blood boiled too, seeing the carnage, but it wasn’t your job to be angry, merely to witness. It wasn’t your job to criticize, make moral stances or suggestions. Your bosses probably sent you out here to be a propagandist anyway, the ethics of embedding a journalist have been in question since the early aughts. it was hard to say nothing, do nothing, but your job was to keep your fucking mouth shut and document. Document you did. Descriptions of true atrocities float into the dark and onto the page, your mind conjuring the images. A glimpse into the abyss. You take a picture of him there, lying on his side in the sand. These men don’t smile for photos, but he gives a thumbs up, your arm extended into the picture as you light his next cig of the night. Maybe you’d get one to smile for your camera someday.

You meet the lieutenant in the morning. You don’t get an initial. Sargent M tells you his nickname is “ghost”. The first thing he says to you is that if you try to take a picture of him, he will destroy your camera himself. You heed the warning and keep him out of your shots, much to your disappointment. Guys a fucking tank. He’s massive. He wears all black, now spattered brownish from dirt. He’s the only one who won’t accept your cigarette peace offerings. And the mask. No one will ever believe you, a guy running around a war zone in a fucking skull mask. he would be a fucking fantastic subject. But, you stay out of his way, and do your job. then there was a skirmish. hiding from the heavy gunfire in a fucking gravel ditch, the sustained stress over the last few weeks was eating you alive. Worse, your photos and notes today were turning out shit because of the tremors in your hands, throwing gas onto the stress wildfire consuming you whole. Your stress is making the others stressed, their stress is making yours worse, and you know its your fault which makes it all the more awful. caught in a Feedback loop. “Little army humour?” for a second, you blank. was he talking to you? too lost in your own head to notice he was right next to you. “Huh?” you breathe, barely the sound of bullets hitting the humvees, making you flinch. he hardly moves. “what do you call a soldier that survived mustard gas and pepper spray?” you raise an eyebrow. "a seasoned veteran" “that... was fuckin awful” you say, so why do you laugh anyway? why do you feel a bit better? "do you get used to it?" "used to what?" You pause, thinking a bit. "I know you get used to the chaos, clearly" you gesture vaguely at him. "but when?" he shrugs. "when you need to." you decide to respect his wishes not to be photographed.

The captain, you heard his call sign was bravo 6 on their radios that you probably weren't technically supposed to be listening to. Guys interesting. Has a developed a Pavlovian response to your presence, in which, he always ends up politely but gruffly asking for a cigar. Doesn’t do the caffeine pills like the sargents, drinks actual coffee. it tastes like a spurt of runny shit but its at least got a 90% chance of being actual coffee. This was about all you knew about the guy for a while because man dodged questions like matrix bullets. He was just as bad as Laswell. either stern silence or a media trained script recital. One time you bitterly joked that he could have been an actor in another life, he just hummed in the way that he always did. There is one thing you could get out of him though. A topic of conversation struck up as you jostled around in the back of the Humvee a few days back, bumping sweaty elbows with the smelly Sargent soap, ironic. “Who brought the Metallica CD?” You had questioned, more out of boredom than anything else. Listening to Nothing Else Matters play over the shitty, tinny, borderline antique and deeply abused radio felt like a disservice not only to the song but to music as an artform. There was a shine in his eye as he looked back at you from his seat in the front. That was your ticket in. That was weeks ago.

“I can’t answer that” he rumbles, breathing out smoke in the front seat. You pause between sips of your water. Still not answering all your questions, You’d gotten scant much out of him outside of trivial shit. He liked Metallica, and his favorite song was ONE. His favourite Gatorade was “the blue one”. which blue one? "the blue one". He did talk your ear off about the intricacies of cigars one morning over his absolute war crime to the taste buds coffee, but you were half in the bag from sleep deprivation alone and barely registered anything other than the fact that he was very much into the words he was saying. well, you understood why Mrs Laswell gave you those now. Creature comforts. They must be friends. You blow a raspberry, before slapping your thighs restlessly. You were running out of time, they had orders to head straight into a hot zone, casevac helicopters had been flying over all day. you needed distraction from the anxiety chewing up your gut. “Alright. I have a real heavy hitter now. Answer honestly” you leaned in, mustering the most serious face you could. He simply hummed.

“What are your thoughts on the snare drum in st anger?” You leaned back in victory as he finally cracked a smirk, you could see it in the way his beard quirked up. “To answer your question.” He says, after a breath to shove that smile back down. “I don’t think about the snare drum in st anger. Try my best to pretend that album never happened” You hum, acting as if you just asked a real hard ball question and taking fake notes, just scribbling. “Would you say it sounds more like hitting a trash can with a metal pipe, or a child getting nailed in the face with a PVC dodgeball?” The broken sound of a buried laugh signaled your victory, and you snapped your pic before he could strangle it back down. capturing the crinkle around his eyes, some teeth in the grin. he coughed and waved you away. “No, please, get rid of that one.” He pleaded. nah, you figured.

there was still time to snap some more, you think, taking a shaky breath.

Gaz: I mean, small animals are way more vicious. It’s because their anger has less space to be bottled up in.

Price: That’s ridiculous. Give me one example of this.

Soap: Terriers.

König: wasps.

Ghost: R/n.

R/n: *glares* (Flips them off.)

Help me! Smells are triggering me to wretch like a cat, noise and all. I wanna gag every time I smell meat. (This is just me being weird, not pregnant. lol)

You have no excuse to be silent about the genocide in Palestine.

If you can’t reblog the posts about dead Palestinians, at least reblog posts about the history of Palestine.

At least reblog posts showing art made by Palestinians.

At least reblog posts that show fundraisers for Palestinians, e-sims that you can donate, and the arab.org website that helps you donate to Palestine flr free.

At least reblog posts showing Zionist companies that we need to boycott.

That is the absolute least that we can do for Palestine.

The Palestinians are begging for us to use our voice. Some of them don’t even have access to internet, so their suffering goes unnoticed.

Please. Speak up for Palestine.

Mourn the dead, fight like hell for the living.

Free Palestine.

(Winged!reader anon) I'm thinking it's set in a world where physical mutations are more normal but still a bit rare. And even rarer in the military. But then a new recruit comes and 141 is just waiting for a plane or a chopper and suddenly a person drops from the ground lol

Just HCs of 141 dealing with a recruit with wings. Whether they're feather or more bat like wings is up to you, size of them as well 😉

Hopefully this is enough info to go off of

OH NICE.

Ok here it is.

(Winged!reader) x squad 141 (monster hybrid AU)

When you had dropped down from the sky, in front of the line of four, five men in front of you, you had wanted to hide.

It wasn't exactly a secret that people like you existed... But it was definitely uncommon. Your big grey white black wings retracting shyly around you. It was extremely close to falcon wings, which was exactly what you were the closest to. You had also inherited of the exceptional sight of the bird.

"Well! That's interesting!" One of the men said.

"WOAH. THAT'S SO COOL" A Scottish accent added.

You blushed and finally let out a small smile.

It took a few days to get used to the base. The new team was nice. You had learnt their names, Soap, gaz, Konig, ghost and Price. They seemed to be quite alright with your physical appearance.

Konig was always mesmerized. He'd sit close to you, eyes shining in wonder. He'd ask very shyly if he could touch your feathers, happily squealing when you'd agree. He was always really careful with the feathers. He liked to pass his finger tips on the edged, feeling the softness of it. With time, you'd give him each feather that would fall from your wings.

Gaz had been more curious about your sight. He had questionned you for hours, trying to satisfy his curiosity. Sometimes he'd ask you to fly over the base as he'd hide, creating some kind of 'where his waldo' in real life. He'd be amazed each time you'd find him so easily.

Soap just wanted to fly. He'd ask you to try and make him fly. It was hard. He was a bit heavy for you. You usually managed to get him off the floor and enough to fly a few inches from the ground. Eventually he'd be so happy of it you'd feel slightly guilty for not being stronger.

Price would often scold them, telling them to leave you alone. He'd be particularly careful to the way others treated you around the base. It was still rare to see hybrids like you, people were curious, scared or plain disgusted. He'd try to shield you from it as much as possible.

Ghost had also noticed it. The way some recruits would side glance you, or the way they'd whisper under their breath. He had taken upon himself to train you. It wasn't easy, he wasn't used to it, but he adapted very quickly. You had felt particularly close to him, when one night, after a training session, you had both walked out to find a pouring storm outside. Ghost had cursed under his breath, taking a step into the rain, expecting to feel the cold droplets. He was shocked to feel no difference, he had glanced up, a spread out wing shielding him from the rain. He had eyed you, as you were unable to do the same for yourself, he had took off his coat throwing it over your head and walking you back to the baracks.

With time, you had felt at home with the squad. But tile passed and the rest of the base was still weary of you. You felt awful sometimes. The fear in people's eyes... Or the little insults barely audible to no other than you. You sometimes felt horrible, and particularly down.

On a particular bad episode, the boys had grown worried. A little meeting in between soap, gaz, Konig and Ghost took place in one of the common rooms of your quarters.

"do you think they're unhappy? Like a bird in a cage?" Soap had asked.

"i don't think so... She can go out and fly whenever she wants..." Gaz countered.

"maybe snacks..?" Konig asked.

Ghost looked in deep thought, soap trying to get his attention. The man frowned before spilling what's in his mind.

"birds...nest right?" He had let out.

Suddenly little light bulbs had popped over the boys heads. Of course! You missed a nest!

They had hurried up to buy an enormous fluffy bean bag, it barely feet in ghost jeep. Pillows, lots of pillows and blankets to add.

Once they arrived at base they made sure you were out of your room before preparing the 'nest' in a corner. It looked like a little fort, Konig had insisted on adding fairy lights.

When you had walked into your room with price you had blinked a few times, trying to figure out the scenery before you.

"what are you boys doing?" You asked.

"we built a nest for you!" Soap had happily yelled.

"yeah, we made sure it's comfy and cozy" gaz added.

"thought it'd make you feel better..." Ghost mumbled.

You had immediately blushed hiding your face in your hands, wings retracting closer to your body.

Price had burst out laughing, confuse settling on the boys faces.

"what?" Soap asked.

"you built a nest? You guys built a nest? For them?" He had tried to make them understand the situation.

"yes..." Konig had said in a small voice.

"congratulations Y/N... You have now 4 full grown suitors trying to be your mate." He laughed before walking out, the boys gasping as they understood the situation.

After that, they had apologized. You didn't mind, after all you really enjoyed the nest. You often found yourself nest there, reading or listening to music.

When the boys had understood the real situation, they had grown extremely protective of you. Soap had grown jealous of the way you'd shield ghost from the rain or the sun, he'd insist to hide under as well. Eventually you'd end up with three big grown man, shielding themselves under your spread out wings, price scolding them but none moving.

Konig calls you birdie.

Soap calls you feathers.

Gaz teases you calling you 'falcon' 'robin' or 'hawkeye'.

Price calls you his little bird.

Ghost calls you angel, but only when you're both alone.

How does one act when they are called a MILF??? 😂😂 So….where are my kid(s)? I did I adopt someone?😂

✦I have more C.o.D Quotes✦

Gaz: How’s your head? Y/N: Well, I haven’t had any complaints yet. Gaz: …excuse me? Y/N: Oh uh, I think I’ll live-

-- (Somewhere in Greece with a fuck ton of cats) Ghost, watching Price sneeze every five seconds: What a catastrophe. Gaz: No. Y/N: PFFT- Soap: Stop, no, don’t encourage him. Y/N: Ahem! Right, right. Not funny. Ghost: I am purrfectly capable of being funny. Y/N: *struggling* Gaz: Sometimes I wish you didn’t have a mouth.

-- Just a scene of Y/N taking out a bottle of whiskey, unscrewing they cap, then putting one of those lid caps on. (Like the ones you have on those fancy Gatorades) Taking a huge swig and closing the cap on it as Soap watches in amusement, & Price in fear.

-- Ghost: Quit messing with my hand. Soap: Quit messing with my hair! Y/N: Quit being gay. Gaz: PFFFT Y/N: Both problems solved.

-- Y/N, on the comms: You have thirteen seconds before the building fucking explodes you hot topic wannabe- Ghost: … Y/N: And you green gumball son of a bitch. Gaz: Wha-?! Soap: *WHEEZE* Y/N: You have done nothing but ruin my life; I hope you both die.

-- Soap, Gaz, & Y/N: *cackling* Laswell, losing at poker: I miss my wife, Price. Price: *places down cards* Laswell: I miss my wife.

-- Ghost, overstimulated & a lil drunk: AHHHHHH MY BONES Y/N: *frantically getting headphones* Soap, drunk: *wheeze* Gaz: Ah. I know I should’ve- *dies coughing* Soap: *more wheezing*

-- Graves *kicks in door* WHO POSTED MY NUDES ON TWITTER DOT COM?! Y/N: SUCK IT, BITCH BOY!! Alejandro: *aggressively slapping his leg while silently laughing* Rudy: *pointing and laughing* Valeria, in handcuffs: Ha, dumbass.

-- Graves: Bitch, you are gonna get in this car or I’m popping between ya eyes! Valeria: Hey, I know you. I saw your dick on Twitter! Graves: NOOOOOO Y/N: AHAHA!

-- Graves: C’mon Johnn- Y/N: *chucks a rock at Graves’ head* Graves: OW, WHY?! Y/N: NO JOHNNY FOR YOU! He goes by Soap and we respect that! Graves: Ghost calls him that! Y/N: CAUSE GHOST HAS PERMISSION, you EARN the right to Johnny! And I will be damned if anyone else earns the right before me. I been working my ass off to get the Johnny privilege and you will NOT get it for free! Soap, who’s just been standing there the whole time: *leans to Gaz* Have they actually been taking it that seriously? Gaz: Yeah. They’ve also been working real hard to try and get the right to call Captain “John”. Shoulda seen their face when I said they can call me Kyle. Soap: That’s…really sweet, I’ll give’em permission later. Gaz: Why not now? Soap: I wanna see that bastard get chewed out some more.

-- Y/N, perched on Price’s desk: Captain. Price: *sigh* Y/N: Captain I crave violence.

-- Ghost: Your family line deserves to die with you, only shame it didn’t end before you. Graves: ….I just sat down!

-- Y/N: You’re like…the human incarnation of crumbs in the bed. Graves: Oh c’MON THAT’S REAL MEAN Ghost: It’s true though. Y/N: The kinda crumbs that you keep swiping away but somehow they never leave- Graves: Alright! You know what- Soap: Like getting in bed after going to the beach. Gaz: Sand in the bed, yeah. Feels like that when he talks. Graves: I’M JUST GONNA FUCKIN LEAVE! Y/N: *watches him go* Annnd now the sheets have been changed. Ghost: Clean from filth. Alejandro: You all are so cruel and it’s perhaps the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

-- Gaz: Things Gucci with you? Y/N: It’s Goodwill at best, my guy. Price: I don’t know what this means but I feel like I should be concerned.

-- (Mild NSFW Jokie Time) Gaz: You alright? You been zoned out. Y/N: Hm? Nah I’m good, just having depraved thoughts. Gaz: Depraved, you say? Soap: Oh do tell. Y/N: You just…you ever see someone and think “they have pretty eyes”. And that’s normal. But then the little devil in the back of ya skull goes “yeah they’d look good rolled back”. Or am I just a whore? Gaz: That is depraved. Soap: Got a good point though.

-- Y/N: Ooo! Look! Old pictures of Captain, this one’s dated. You would’ve been…19 in this one. Lemme s-…… Gaz: Lemme see! ….. Price: What? Y/N: …..you were a whore, weren’t you captain? Gaz: That’s the face of an arrogant bastard who fucks regularly. Price: I…might’ve been a bit of a playboy. Y/N: And I would’ve fallen for it you god damn bastard, no ones fACE SHOULD BE THAT NICE!

-- Valeria, painting her nails: I might kill my ex, not the best idea. His new girlfriend’s next- Alejandro: ….. Rudy: ….should I be worried? Alejandro: Move away quietly and pray.

-- Ghost: For the record this is self destructive. Soap, chugging his 5th energy drink in the past hour: For the record, I’m aware of that.

-- MILF!Y/N: Boys. Bed, now. I wanna talk to your captain. Price: No, boys stay. Please stay- Y/N: Go. Price: Stay. The boys: *concern, panic, perhaps a bit of fear* Y/N: Go! Price: Stay! Y/N: You go! Soap: *speed walking* Price: Soap, stay! Y/N: NOW! Gaz: *slowly backing away* Price: Gaz, don’t move! Y/N: YOU GO! Price: SIMON- Ghost: *leaving*

-- Ghost: What was Plan A? Soap: …don’t fuck up. Ghost: And what was Plan B? Gaz: Don’t fuck up Plan A. Ghost: And what did you do? Y/N: …fucked up plan a- Ghost: YOU FUCKED UP PLAN A-

-- Ghost: What’s rule number one? Soap, with dynamite: Party! Ghost: NO! No, not party! No!

-- Graves: How about after this, we get a drink? Y/N: …I would rather gouge out my eyes and blindly navigate a way to turn them into earrings than ever be anywhere alone with you. Soap, grinning: Ooooo brutal! Ghost: Karma.

-- Ghost: Wait…Johnny’s into me? Like…he LIKES me?? Gaz: Oh Si…you poor, sad, dense mother fucker.

-- Ghost: At least nothing of importance was lost. Laswell: …Graves was kidnapped. Ghost: I know. I said what I said. Y/N: Nothing of value was lost but we did shed off some trash! Ghost: Precisely.

-- Ghost: These lights make me wanna pull my eyes out and eat them. Medic!Y/N: *turns lights off in favor of a lamp* …alright, so you’re autistic, good to know.

-- Ghost: Should I get my reading glasses? Y/N: Oh no no, this isn’t an eye test. It’s a GAY test. Now tell me, *holds up picture of Farah & Graves; Price being 1* Number one, or number two? Ghost: Number one?… Y/N: Interesting. *holds up Farah & Soap, Soap being 2* Okay now number one, or number two? Ghost: *gasp* Y/N: Number two, right? Ghost: Maybe I am gay?

-- Waitress: So, I’ve gotta ask, I’m really curious. 141: ? Waitress: Have any of you ever used like…the military language in bed? Soap: Naaaah. Y/N: No, I don’t- PFFFT, I- *wheeze* I’m sorry I’m imagining it- Gaz: *biting back laughs* Y/N: “You gonna come?” Affirmative. *laughs* Soap: *WHEEZE* Gaz: *cackling* Price: Oh lord- Gaz, snickering: Picking up speed. Y/N: COPY- *Laughter x100* The entire team: *giggling like hyenas* Ghost: Uh, that’s a no. I don’t think we’ve done that.

-- Price: *smiles at Soap & Gaz being stupid* Y/N: I like when you smile. Price: …huh? Y/N: Your smile, I like it. Makes your eyes crinkle up and your beard makes you look like a cuddly bear. You should smile more. Price, internally on the verge of tears: *fond sigh* Get back to drills, soldier. Y/N: Yes sir!

-- Ghost: *minding his fucking business* Y/N: You have pretty eyes. Ghost: *chokes on air* Pardon? Y/N: You have pretty eyes. Ghost: No I-…they’re just brown. Y/N: So? Your eyes don’t have to be blue or green to be pretty. They’re pretty because they’re expressive, and when the sun hits them they look like syrup. I like’em best when we’re all at a bar. They get brighter then. Ghost: Ghost: …stop talking, sergeant. Y/N: Copy that, L.T! <3

-- Gaz: *laughing at something on his phone* Y/N: You have a great laugh. Gaz: Hm? Oh…really? Y/N: Mhm. It’s cute, comes from your chest. I’ve never heard you laugh in anyway that’s not genuine. Really fills the room with joy. Gaz: Dude, you’re gonna make me all soft with words like that. Y/N: All according to plan!

-- Soap: *rambling about something* Y/N: *listening intently* Soap: Then-…ah, I been talkin’ at you this whole time, eh? Should probably quiet down. Y/N: No no, I like your voice! Soap: Eh? Y/N: It’s super energetic and loud, and when you tell a joke or talk about something you love, it’s like you can hear your smile. It’s really fun to listen to. I like when you talk! Soap: *inhale* You’re gonna make me cry- Y/N: I have tissues!

-- König: *fidgeting* Y/N: *takes his hands* You have beautiful hands. König: Wh- Huh?? No they are not. Y/N: They are too! König: Nien, they’re rough and calloused, they break a lot of things… Y/N: They also pet stray cats, make the best coffee on base, and create crotchet works of art. They also mend wounds pretty well. Yeah they fire guns but that doesn’t make them less beautiful. König: *he’s actually crying* …Danke. Y/N: Don’t mention it!

-- Rudy: *rolling his shoulder* Y/N: Anyone ever tell you that you have great shoulders? Rudy: Hm? Oh uh…no, I don’t believe so. Y/N: Well you do! Rudy: Ah, gracias. When I was younger I wanted them to be broader, sometimes now I wish they were more narrow. Can never really be happy with’em, you know? Y/N: Well I think you should be. They’re strong! *gently pats his shoulders* They hold a lot of weight, metaphorically and physically. And even when they’re weighed down, you shoulder it and keep moving. You’re real good at that! I like your shoulders. Rudy, prepared to die for them: …gracias. Y/N: No problem! Now c’mon, the guys are waitin’ for us!

-- Y/N: You have good collarbones. Alejandro: What was that? Y/N: Sorry, I know that’s real specific, but I think your collarbones are pretty. It’s like…the rest of you is bulky and strong, rugged. Then you have these delicate bones. I’m probably being too poetic but it’s like a subtle nod to your gentler side, just, built into your body. Alejandro: …you have a lovely way with words, camarada. Y/N: Thank you! I appreciate that!!

Okay seriously. Reblog if you're OLDER than 11.