They could cluck over your adorable poses and captions. What they couldn't entertain themselves with, however, were the pictures that nearly made him shoot off a bullet in surprise at the first glance.

These pictures were scandalous. Bold. The sheer sensuality and confidence behind each laminated paper had him stubbing out his cigarette to rush for the nearest semblance of privacy. He'd gone immediately stiff at your nude body presenting itself in ways that you knew he loved. Every single position was his favorite; and you knew that because what you and he had done together before he left for the field had left him an addict for your touch.

He'd trained himself like a damned mutt. Whenever he'd remember those secret photos tucked into his breastpocket, he'd sport wood. Laughable, really, and thank God for the thick overcoats everyone was given. And thank the clueless grunts besides mind-reading Liebgott from noticing how there was a lot more bite to his smiles, and how strained his eyes were when he'd grin at some joke that unfortunately was no longer that funny.

The men could get relief at bars and hotels with all of their skirt-chasing, but Chuck just needed his damned hand and those photos. The problem was, there was always someone milling about everywhere he went. Well, he could always rent a hotel room alone, but all the moans and groans coming from the walls were just not a good time. There was no way he wanted to hear what Heffron sounded like when he was getting off again. And Shifty had the pace of a goddamned rabbit—

He was frustrated. There was a permanent crick in his shoulders. The few times he was able to handle himself, they were always in some blown-out part of a building or some random hole he'd sneak away to. He'd have to rush himself, which he hated. God forbid someone like Don Malarkey found him and he'd be labelled the Beat-off Blondie Bandit for the rest of his life.

Could Charles Grant be spared one goddamned moment alone without anyone interrupting?

George Luz x Reader

Mr. Goofy was no longer Mr. Goofy. What happened for Luz of all people to tell Webster to can it? Even Randleman was shocked at how George chewed on his cigarette and stalked off into one of the rooms of the bombed out villa they secured. Looked like the jokes ran out in Belgium after the last battle they had.

Well, it wasn't so much of the battle that had George absentmindedly flicking his lighter on and off in silence. It wasn't the lack of Hershey's either. What had him sulking had nothing to do Lieutenant Speirs' sharp orders for the men to prepare for another bout of fire.

He was going to bust. Straight up. Blast off into space. He hadn't come for over three weeks, and he was fucking losing it. He swore he was going insane.

He swore he was going bonkers from not having your hand stroking him. Swore he'd tear a bastard a new one if he didn't have you saucily clamped around him. The hell was a man going to do without a mouth sucking the soul outta him?

But he listened. He kept his promise. Because he was a "good boy." You told him that, and there was no way he'd have you disappointed and not call him that again. You told him that he wasn't to get himself off the whole time he was gone. No edging, either. No looking at magazines or flirting with any skirts. If Georgie Boy behaved and was good, you'd give him the grandest of all rewards.

He'd been so curious, so full of confidence. Of course a man freshly awake from the craziest sex would agree to anything. You could've asked for the White House, and he'd lead a lone assault to capture the property completely sober. Yes, he'd be good. Yes, he'd listen. Of course he wouldn't touch his dick or toe the line when it came to propriety at the bars. He'd be the goodest boy ever.

Yeah, shit obviously didn't fly the way he wanted it to. He was constructing his pitiful eulogy everyday. Herein lies George Luz Sr. He died of a stroke due to a blood clot in his terminally hard cockadoodledoo. The pathetically loyal mutt could've wacked off in the john because who the fuck could've known, but he kept the cock ring on. He is preceded in death by his grandpa—

You said you'd be there at the next field hospital location; they'd nabbed you to go help set up the next one. Lip stated that since they'd wrapped up this current area, going to the next rally point was due soon, and Luz was over the fucking moon. Fucking finally. Holy shit, how the hell did monks do this? There was no way they weren't jerking their gherkin when no one was looking.

For all that was said, there was nothing about you exercising restraint, and knowing you, it was kept that way intentionally. You might give him a grand reward, but your sweet Georgie Boy hoped you could handle his grand punishment.

David Webster x Reader

He didn't get it. He didn't get why you didn't see eye-to-eye with him. To him, sex was just an itch he had to scratch; something purely physical he had to "take care of" before it got too burdensome and clouded his judgement. He still cared deeply for you, and you only. So what if he wrote down the prices of all of the ladies at the brothels he had? Was it so wrong for a man to do a cost basis or price analyses on his purchases?

So, no ladies offering themselves for free, either, you said. None of that going off, doing his thing, but sparing your reputation. Sex wasn't just physical for you. You wanted your relationship to be "real", and this was your "real."

"I'm not settling for anything less, Web. I...I want to love and be loved genuinely by a man who loves me deeply in return. I want—"

"But what's love got to do with it?" he idiotically asked, and you had to idiotically explain yourself that sex wasn't just a basal craving to take care of for you. But then again, in retrospect, this was no jest. This was no coy game of chess. He was "real", and you realized that whatever you and David Webster had, this was his first time with something you considered readily understood by the masses.

This was his first time agreeing to all of your conditions, and in a blown-out foxhole, he pondered over a dying cigarette. He could go without sex for a while, but every unmet aspect of his appetite was in full force. It had been a long while without your body eagerly taking him in, and the urge to kill the coil building up in his gut occupied his mind more so than the primal need to see dead bodies stacked at the other end of his barrel.

The way you clung to him, clawed desperately at his back, as he drove into you over and over again. The crescendo of your voice, how you called for "Web" over and over and over again. He could see the imprints of his hands on your skin and your glossy eyes. Over and over and over and over again. Again and again and again. Cigarettes. Coffee. Blood and guts and foxholes and dirt and day after day, night after night. Rutting into his own hand until he shot nothing but blanks but never satiating that grandiose hunger that kept him awake in the dark.

Liebgott sardonically told him that he'd buy him a lady; maybe that'd "get the stick outta his ass" the way he took the bit and was more prone to entertain a fistfight. "What's love got to do with it?" didn't fly, however. So he abstained. He abstained while the other joes went and got filthy with their own needs, and he sat in damp mud with a cheap bottle of booze and his own ass, his book of choice unread and ignored. To fuck his own hand or to not fuck his own hand? Aye, now that was the rub. Except, he couldn't bare to do anymore rubbing, and no fucking, and lacked mental fortitude to subdue the lust settling into the hard lines of his jaw.

So he wrote. If he couldn't read worth a damn, he'd write. So he wrote and wrote and wrote the most sinful things he'd ever written. Surprised him, really, the creative genius he apparently had; God help him if leadership or one of those German officers found out what debauchery he created on paper. Would he be burned at the stake or shot immediately? Who knew. What he did know was how ink told tales of how he took you, where he took you, how long he took you. How you pushed him down and took him, fast and hard, slow and deep, rocking into him while you carved your pretty nails down his heaving belly. Not a single drop of his spend going to waste.

He wrote and wrote and wrote, and he gave no fucks about sending his depravities back to you. He knew his officers read every single dirty thing he wanted to do to you in his letters; he didn't give a shit when Captain Winters kept on leveling uncomfortable gazes at him or the knowing stares from Captain Nixon. They knew what he wanted, and all he wanted was to fucking bust, but he couldn't have that reality here in this blown-up foxhole, could he? If he had to suffer, than everyone had to suffer.

Hope the brass enjoyed his Harvard education during mail inspection. Hope you enjoyed his last episode he penned you. The Kama Sutra was one of his favorite literary works, and he expressed in full detail which positions piqued his interest. Did you also know he liked to draw? And how creative he could be when it came to your body? Well, now you knew. Now, you knew.

Don Malarkey x Reader

"The Don! My man, you still pent up—"

"Bill, you open that goddamned mouth, you're not gonna be able to close your gob for two weeks straight."

"O-Okay, Man. Wow. Looks like nothing's changed. All right, Buddy. I'll keep you in my prayers. Relax."

Everyone knew to keep their traps shut, but Guarnere really never minded any warnings; he ran towards them, just like how he ran back to antagonize a very frustrated Donald George Malarkey, who was apparently more prone to eating his cigarette than smoking it from how aggressively he chewed on the stick. All Don wanted was to be left alone to nurse his shitty beer and smoke in peace.

All he wanted was to see you. All neatened up. Or shabby. He didn't give a shit. He wanted to see you, but you weren't here at the bar, and he was burning.

You weren't here to tease his ears with your voice, like you ghosted your fingertips across his cheek. You weren't here in town. You weren't there at the fountain. You weren't there shopping for groceries, a time where he could smoothly steal a kiss or two behind the baker's stall.

And then you were there to smile at him ever so sweetly. Play with his hair, the shiny pins on his uniform, milking the desperation out of his propriety when he asked you if he could buy you a drink. Of course, you'd say yes. Of course, you'd let him hold you close, swing you around on that merry dance floor when the boys were able to get time off. Grin at him. Call him your cute Donnie. Make that hushed, delicious purr that drove him crazy when he dipped you low.

And when the two of you were alone, and he was kissing you and devouring the column of your throat, you'd let him. Yes. You in his lap, on that couch, kissing and touching and your ass grinding down on him, grabbing onto the lapels of his army greens. Yes. Finally. Months on end, and you'd teased him like the Cheshire cat. But months on end was worth it for this particular now, and if you kept on gyrating on him like that, say your prayers for your clothes at how fast he was divesting them from you—

Save your prayers for him, because after one last definitive grind, you got up for no good reason, gave him a chaste kiss, and walked out the door like nothing happened. You had him dumbfounded at how he just sat there in shock before realizing that this game of cat and mouse was still in progress.

You weren't the villain if he was a most willing participant, however. He loved the chase as much as you did, no matter how frustrated the end result turned out to be. He loved the mischievous sparkle in your eyes as you accidentally ground up on him in the crowded bar and your masterful escape attempts and how he pursued hotly at your heels and the way you just knew how to play that hungry dog in him eager for the hunt and—

And, and, and! And was how he was sitting there hungrily alone that night, watching the partygoers sate their own needs while he waited for you with baited breath. Waiting and watching, always for the flitter of your hair and clothing. Waiting for his devious mouse to poke its head out for a cat that'd do anything to be devoured.

•John and Gale have been married since 2014. they have an adopted daughter named Louisa but they call her Lou. She’s their entire world, Johns got her convinced to become a pilot someday. When Lou gets to go to work Gale if he has a meeting, she’ll spend the entire time looking at books about planes. She knows where all of them in the library are located.

•Gales favorite mental image is of John and Lou sitting on the floor of the library. Book in John’s lap, Lou next to him peering over. John’s telling Lou about all the different kinds of military aviation devices there is.

•John, although thousands of miles from Americas dairyland. Will not forget his Wisconsin dad mannerisms. Him and Lieb stand in the driveway together and drink and talk multiple times a week. John’s usually grilling something, they have the garage fridge that’s stocked full of bud light and diet come. (And some juice pouches for the girls.). He still has his midwestern accent, “you tell ya folks I says hi.” “bAg.” “Go packers and fuck da bears.” Gale is cringing everytime the accent comes out and plays. Gale ALSO hates the Midwest goodbyes, John’s a life long pro at them.

• “John let’s go you’ve said bye four times now.”

• “Wait a minute! Chick is fetching me his mom’s bread recipe!”

•This is how John gets his call sign Badger.

•He tells them that his call sign should just be Bucky. But Curt and the other guys have other thoughts. So, they start calling him Badger, well like, Bucky Badger. The states mascot. So, it stuck.

•Curt was John’s wingman until during their third tour Curt crashed. He lost his leg, lost his other best friend and back seater Dicky. Curt lore to come later!

•Web and Lieb have their daughter, Thalia through surrogacy from one of Joes sisters. Thalia is a lot like Lieb, hot headed, doesn’t think before she does, and has that Liebgott sass. She’s gotten herself into trouble a few time, as we know now, using that attitude. But she does carry some Webster in her, other than her Carmel curls just like Webs, she also loved books, She really likes writing stories in her journal.

•When Thalia was younger Lieb broke out his old guitar and tuned it. He would play and sing for her all the time. It would calm her down and he would sing her to sleep sometimes. Although he’d never admit that he sings.

•Curt and Lieb go to the same veterans support group at the VA together. Curt’s quickly became Thalias uncle too. Everyone loves Uncle Curt and his cool stories.

"When I get my hands on you after chow tonight, Brat," he whispered against your cheek with full gravel, "that's going to be the last time you go crying to Dick." "Captain Winters, Captain Nixon is bullying me again, Sir." "Why, you little—" There you went. You could torture him endlessly, antagonize his soul down to his bones, and nothing would be done. When you went off running to Dick, you could be absolved of anything and everything, and Dick knew that, and you knew that, and he knew that. A purposeful look of ignorance tinged with coyness in the bare flash of a hidden grin could only leave him riled, undue in injustice, left without sanctioned action. You knew what you were doing. He knew what you were playing at when you peered at him behind the leaning form of his friend. That dastardly smile. What could a man and officer do but watch in silence? You knew what you were doing with that Vat 69 bottle. When you leered at him, lips wrapping around the rim, he damned near lost his mind when you took them down to the base of the neck. Sucked and licked and laved at the glass until it turned hot, and Lewis was sure what was happening in his fatigues was even hotter than that stupid bottle. Come. Here. Now. It was evident in his eyes, in the harsh set of his mouth. Too bad it only made you grin even wider and enjoy torturing him while hiding behind your CO. With a flighty tip of your head, you blew a raspberry at him before deepthroating that bottle again like it was the best dick of your life. By the time a strong hand clamped onto your arm, the sound of a heavy chair thudding, Captain Winters demanding where his peer was taking you, you had won. Invariably. You won. Of course. Now, if you could just survive whatever he was planning on doing to you...

Do not press this man too much. Call him languid. Call him lazy. Call him a lion downed and unwilling to get up from the longest nap. A man had his moments of idleness, but a man also had his moments of achieving satiation, in which he was willing to go that extra mile to get what he wanted. And what Lewis Nixon wanted was you split on his cock, begging for your life as he railed you into next week. Because that whole week, he had idled, but had warned you not to press your luck, yet teasing him was your ultimate ambrosia. Just realize that his ambrosia was your spit swapping with his, fucking nasty on your CO's desk, stolen chocolate bonbons and good whiskey blending into the kiss. The type of filth that had you limping and turn real silent for several days in shock at what that man could do when he was pent up enough. Turned you real docile. It was clear Captain Nixon was not a proper gentleman before meeting you, and he clearly was not a gentleman when he had you in his bed.

Humoring you was the source of the frustration, yet he chased. Because, albeit he'd grit his teeth when self-restraint was demanded of him, the chase was addictive. It lured him. He was never one to humor, always expecting results, no bullshit, no games, yet he'd carry on like some idiotic detective in a two-penny novel. You'd hide, and he'd find. Hide-and-seek was already wearing at his patience, but he played your game. Never mind that you were awfully good at this game, and it'd been over an hour of him scouring the base for your whereabouts. He'd found clue after clue, letter after letter, and even though he wouldn't call it quits, he was still awfully close to stalling. That was, until your final clue was your underwear, smelling very strongly of the place he wanted to taste the most, and when he inhaled, the chase was due to end at that moment. He was dialed in. Focused. It took no more than five minutes for him to find you, and when he did, his eyes weren't just dark from being Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Did you know he fucked like a piston when you had your nails digging into his ass?

Harry Welsh x Reader

Cheerful Harry. Tough, a bloody good soldier and officer, and one of the best in the company. Could skin, gut, and shoot a man with a smile the size of the U.S.A. Loyal, hardworking, sharp as a tack when things had to be done, optimistic, and an advisor that was never wrong. He never was one to turn down a challenge or ever surrender. Except in these cases. The enlisted sort-of knew. The officers knew, but propriety was expected of officers, unless you were Lewis Nixon, who, at this time, was on the edge of the last precipice to hell. The man was devoted. Devoted and pent up, obviously, and not getting his way, or was satisfied enough. There was a gleam in his eye that sparked of danger, and it was enough to not have Captain Lewis start another war with his sarcasm, and not worth the effort of combatting hellfire, according to Lieutenant Speirs. Lay low. Keep heads down, and pretend nothing was amiss. Pretend that there wasn't a hard crick in his jaw, and how when he smiled, it wasn't a smile full of good cheer. It was that one a shark, warning everyone to steer clear of him while he fought for his soul. Good Lord. What the hell have you done to get him this frustrated?

"Son, you need a woman," Colonel Sink suddenly interrupted, looking Harry dead in the eye above the clasp of his hands. "Go take early leave and get your ass to Paris. I'm sure a paratrooper like you would have no issue getting laid. "Do it for everyone's sake, Welsh. You're dismissed, and don't you dare come back here without fucking out whatever the hell's gotten into you." The words reverberated in his head, but comedy was drained out of him days ago. Whiskey and beer and champagne were no better than water, and he'd gotten into way more drunken fistfights and losses of his temper than ever. Dick couldn't protect his track record anymore, and his behavior was reported all the way up to Colonel Sink. "That obvious, huh?" Yeah. It was obvious. His superior knew. Everyone seemed to know. Happy Harry was no longer Happy Harry. Instead, he'd morphed into Hyperirritable Harry, as dubbed by Lewis. The shit irked him, but that just seemed to prove that sonofabitch right. He really was irritable in the most hyper of ways, and he'd counted fourteen days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes since you weren't kissing him in his lap. Gone on some recon assignment to aid the civilian rebels. Said you'd be back soon, but word had come back that you were delayed by a surprise front put up by the German forces. You'd be back within two days. But it was ten days, seven hours, and twelve minutes too long for his desperate self. He didn't need random fucking women, damn it. He needed you. Needed you to jump into his arms and tell him that you were all right. Needed you to tell him to pleasure you, because that was his pleasure, to give more than what you demanded. Tell him that he was hitting it right in all the places you wanted him in. That he was eating that ass right, slinging that dick right, dirty talking in your ears so wrong that you didn't know what the hell was right as you pulled on his dog tags. Needed you on his face, calling him all the cute nicknames you gave him, and telling him he was doing such a good job. Needed. Wanted. Begged for. But could only dream of as he sat stiffly on his bunk and looked at the empty flask in his hands. He wasn't a cheater, and he sure as hell wasn't a whiner, so all he could do was wait and stew in his frustration. Whacking off was an even worse solution to his problems. He traced the photograph of you tucked into pocket of his coat and sat in silence.

You liked playing with him, and he let you do whatever you wanted. You didn't even have to ask. When you twirled his hair and rubbed his chest, especially in his lap, using a tone of voice reserved only for him, he could only grin like a fool and agree to whatever you wanted. The issue was, well, as stated, you liked playing with him. You liked to play with the buttons of his fly, twirl a feather you nicked out of a duster over his belly, and amuse yourself with another random part of his body while you ignored where he needed you the most. Fun for you, not so fun for him, fighting to rip out of his fatigues and bury his face so far up your ass, he'd be a permanent seat for you, all satisfaction on his end. And he'd do all that with that infamous Harry Francis Welsh grin. But in these moments, his smile was strained. Heat crept under his collar, blushing his skin under your touch. Delicious. You precious Harry. Lieutenant in the 101st, proud paratrooper, and a damned good shot. A man's man. Self-restraint, whispers for mercy, and hands clutching the armrest of his chair. All for you.

Bill Guarnere x Reader

"Aight, think the jig is up, gents. I'll be goin' now." "Okay, tough guy, listen: How 'bout you leave good ol' Bill alone, huh? Not my night right now. Just tryna drink." "That's sergeant to you, Private." "Listen here, fucker: You wanna talk your shit, then talk your shit in the corner. You wanna take it to the tree-line, we can go do that, but you need to know that you're gonna get fucked up. I ain't braggin'. I ain't lyin. You're gonna get fucked up. That's the truth of it. So how 'bout you don't press me further and leave me alone, okay?" "Johnny, handle this for me because, uh, I'm 'bout to lose my shit if i stay. I'm 'bout to lose my shit, yeah." You heard his words. Everyone did. The first few times he got in the crabbiest mood like this, some still dared to press his buttons. Some whittling down to Malark, because Malark was...well, Malark. Then you had Web, but Web was akin to an awkward turtle swimming in circles and never bothering to comprehend nuance. Luz was always a lost cause. Heffron tried once, and he figured it wasn't worth it to egg on his sergeant any further. The others didn't really want to test out the wild in the name Wild Bill, so thankfully he could get lost in his cups and mope like a sick mutt. Oh, well, though. He deserved that. Stay strong. Another argument, and you'd put him in the doghouse while you fled to go seek solace with the docs. Whatever! He'd made you mad with his Bill Guarnere-ness. That devious cad! Or was he so oblivious about his charms that he was none the wiser on those women chasing him down! You would not give in. He could be outraged and sulk in his pride for all you cared. You were going to win the argument, because once again, you were right, and he was wrong. Yeah. It was just that... When he'd say "Baby" with the full timbre of his voice, with a serious face accented by the swagger and confidence from being a parachute infantryman, it was hard to resist. Sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed, with open arms inviting you to come bury yourself in his chest. Fight over, angry words forgotten, just him and his hold on you, telling you that everything was going to be okay, even through the worst of the fights. Anything and everything you threw at him, he'd never faltered. And of course, somehow, that ended up with you screaming his name as he piped you down while he spoke languid filth into your ears. Clinging onto his back for mercy, making you be the agreeable one now as he was the one to ask questions as you clamped down on his cock. Sorry was him not looking too sorry with all the devious work he was doing to you. "Love you, Baby. I fuckin' love you. I love the fuck outta you and your ass, you know that, right?" All that audacity, making your ego preen and your stupid heart swell, and then you'd melt again because he'd have an arm over your shoulder, snuggling you into his chest after he wrecked your guts. Smoking a cigarette with a lazy grin while ignoring how one of his newer wounds just opened up, you getting mad again because he was being an idiot and didn't tell you, and him waving it away to then propose some date idea that you'd accept— Snap out of it! You had to stay strong! You were not going to give in to his wicked charm and that arrogance! You were not going to give in! You were completely immune to his dick! Completely immune. In fact, you could protest that dick forever if he was going to get on your nerves! He could be frustrated forever, because you were not going to be swayed this time!

"Awwww, Baby. Baby, won't you please come here? Lemme make it all better for you."

"You know I love you."

Holy shit. That was all you could think of. It was different this time. Very different. As usual, you fell for it again, and there he went with those hands, trying to "make it up to you" as he fed you exactly what you wanted to hear with his front grinding up against your ass. And you friggin' fell for it! Again, you stupid, forgetful idiot! He was pent up, and the manner in which he fucked you was proof enough of his mounting frustration, even though he cooed sweet nothings and said that he'd take care of everything. You felt stretched out, in, sideways, topsy turvy, like you were molding clay subject to the whims of a very vexed artist. Gave in when he put his arms around you, leaning his face against your own from behind, a kiss on your nape sealing your fate. "Now, listen here, Baby," he languidly said, stubbing his cigarette out on the ashtray on the nightstand as he gathered you closer. You instinctively craned your face up to look at him and felt immediately apprehensive through the haze of satisfaction you weren't yet willing to admit. "I got this hotel to ourselves the whole night, and I did that so I could show you how sorry I am. "I only said sorry once. And I think—" Oh, no, you knew where this was going. "—I'm not done showing you just how sorry I am. "Let me say sorry to you all night long. Because believe me: I've been feeling very, very sorry for the last several days." Yeah, you were screwed, quite literally and figuratively.

Don Hoobler x Reader

"Hoob, that serious, huh? If this shit wasn't you'd have scared the draws off your victim, day one," Rader nonchalantly stated, tossing a spare Hershey's bar at Howell. "Buddy, that's how I know you're fucking crazy. Sporting wood over a body being able to kill a man and being a hell of a shot? Yeah. That's our crazyass Hoobler, for sure." Howell seemed to not want to be left out of the assessment, either. "You're fucking pitching a tent right now as we speak, ain't ya?" There was no denial. There was mirth in his wide eyes, adoration, bloodlust still hot from the last firefight they had in the woods, and want. Pure, unadulterated want as he stared at you reassembling your cleaned Luger. You and a Luger? Man's fucking wet dream, right there. He was already breathing hot and heavy when he found that you had years of firearms experience under your belt, but then he'd seen you shoot those Germans square right in between the eyes, even earning Shifty's respect. When you showed up with an oberstleutnant's Luger, he swore he came in his damned pants. He needed you now. Holy fucking shit. His face hurt from how wide his grin was seeing you handle your shit like this, but when you then pulled out a Walther P38— "Hoob—Hoob! Buddy! Ay, ay, ay! Get your ass back here—" Yeah, there was no fucking way he was going to wait for his Jr. to go back to sleep. He immediately made a beeline towards you, dodging curious officers and his dear friend's calls, even as his own sergeant, as he focused on you and you only. He'd already been showing you his interest towards you, if it was obvious enough that he never trolled you, only tried to make you laugh genuinely; because pranks were for dumb grunts and annoying privates, and he'd reserve being an impish menace towards those joes. Never you. Never ever you. Were fatigues thick enough to cover a very obvious erection?

Everyone liked Hoob. It was hard not to. He was an excellent soldier, optimistic, tough, never backed down or complained, always smiling, and most of all...he was good at killing. Which, as stated prior, was part of being a well respected infantryman. There was a certain mania that was accompanied by having such abilities, and said mania bled into his humor. And it also bled into his affections. Any other man could say you were rotten in the soul for shedding blood and partaking in war, but Donald Brenton Hoobler swore he fell in love deeper and deeper. The better you were at cracking shots and stacking bodies, the more hot under the collar he became. Because hell yes. You understood him. What made a soldier out there in the frontlines a good soldier? What made a grunt a grunt? A renowned member of Easy Company, sporting that Screaming Eagle patch with full confidence? Shit wasn't free. A joe had to be down to do the dirty work willingly, and you weren't shy to see him greet you, uniform covered in blood and gore that weren't his. "I liked what I saw today, Hoob," you lowly whispered, lips hovering above his, clucking your tongue as he expectantly craned his head up for a kiss that you denied. He had to be patient. Didn't Captain Winters say that self-discipline was what separated man from boy? You glossed your fingertips over the crotch of his pants, rubbing dirt and clotted blood away from his cheek. "Never seen someone chop up a Carbine like that, much less a Thompson, and make it work while fighting for his life. "I love a smart man who's good at what he does." Instantly, even through the makeshift gag, he beamed. Never mind that his hands were bound behind him. That was "prime grade lucky underwear" from yours truly shoved into his excited mouth, and he'd practically double-timed his rate of fire and fight when you promised you'd give him your recently worn one as a treat. When all was done and settled, and weekend leave commenced, he'd driven you guys off to the nearby town on a stolen Jeep. He knew how to hotwire cars and take them apart, too. What could this man not do? A life of mischief, running free in the Midwest, and doing all the things good boys didn't do in his little Hillbilly club with Rader and Howell. You rubbed delicately over his erection and he groaned. How exciting it was to see him strain against his restraints and look at you with those trusting eyes. "I'm going to take my time with you, Hoobie, okay?." You fondled him in full this time, licking up a bead of sweat that ran down his temple before it hit bandages covering up his wounded clavicle. He moaned something for further effect in response. "I swear you spent the whole day teasing me on purpose. So this is your punishment. "Don't worry. I'll make it a reward after I had my fun."

You'd kissed all over him, rubbing up and down on his body with a purr, using his closed eyes as a time to fasten the belt around his wrists and headboard. He'd fixed you with a cautious look, snorting as he tipped his head towards you to do your worst. And you did, knowing that your Joseph wasn't the most patient man in the world, and you sure as hell did move slow. Slowly grinding down onto him from up top. Moving your body front to back, chastising him when he attempted to grind up into you.

"You wanna torture me all night, or what?" You lightly raked your nails down groin. "Oh, fuck, that shit's good—"

And then had come Malark's insistent pounding on the door, quickly alerting him that Captain Winters needed everyone as soon as possible. Bastard didn't stick around for an ass-kicking, but he sure got the Toye attitude by the time Joe had made it back to camp. This shit had better be important. He hand't seen you in weeks, and a starved man could only survive on prayers and magazines for so long.

"I wanted to call everyone here because Colonel Sink has graced us with a visit. What a great night for a team-building activity—"

That night, Joe had nearly murdered everyone at the mandatory night of "fun." He'd had a bastard laying on his back flat in less than a second when it came to wrestling. Tug-of-war? Give him a fuckin' break. All his bad attitude had the game ending quickly with some quick pulls where he put his whole body into it. And the race? Nobody realized Joe should've been a track athlete at the way he mad-sprinted to the finish line.

"OK, holy shit, man, just fuckin' go." Heffron had pushed him out, along with Tab, to get back to you. They'll come up with some bullshit excuse about how Sergeant Toye went too hard in the previous activities and got sick.

Well, he technically was sick. Sick in the balls the way he took off without a word and ran out of the camp. There was no cab running at this time with the curfews, but he didn't give a damn. His junior was going to go into arrest, and it was already making itself known as he recalled your soft skin and saucy smile. He ran like a crazed man all the way back to town, three miles up, three miles down. By the time he reached the door of your room, he was sporting a full that miraculously stayed despite his mad dash.

"Welcome back, Joe," you'd laughed as he swept your legs into his arms, gasping as he ground his sex into yours. "Welcome back."

Joe Liebgott x Reader

If he had to suffer, everyone was going to suffer.

"Holy fuck, man. Go fuckin' jerk off or some shit. You're mad unbearable." Guarnere shrugged off the fight and spat red, wiping blood off of his lip as he stalked off. Joe moved his jaw from side to side after the last nasty punch the other man gave him. Damn, that bastard always had a mean right hook. He'd probably have to have Doc Roe take a look at his shiner later on. He could already feel his right eye turning purple.

The joys of strained testosterone. Joe was antsy and tough to be around. Fights were easily started and had. He was quick to snap and tolerated absolutely zero bullshit, even making Webster shut up. And everyone knew the cause. Lieb, especially.

"Due to the recent civilian unrest, there will be no leaves granted. All leaves are suspended until further notice." Lieutenant Speirs' words were damning. All the men had voiced their complaints, but they could take that shit. Booze would be brought to the camp. Crates of Titter mags, too. And it wasn't like the ladies of the night ever kept away from the camps, anyway. The joes would be fine. Not as fun as hitting the bars in town, but they'll live.

Joe, however? No, he wouldn't. Couldn't. No leave. No seeing you. He'd just gotten a letter back from you stating that you were in France now and were waiting for him; how you missed him, how you dreamed of him every night and worried about him.

How you couldn't wait to have him do the things he said he would in his letters. Did he touch himself, too, the way you did? Did he really mean for you to be both to be trapped in bed, all day, and all night, acting out everything in your fantasies? Would he wait for you, knowing the type of man that he was?

Well he did. He fuckin' did. He may have been a piece of shit sleeze with his jock in the past, but he was serious about you. One and done wasn't a thing. Shit, he didn't even get off using any of the mags Guarnere kept punting in his face. Forget young, dumb, and full of cum. He was old, aggressive, and about to bust out a hose if his balls were to remain forever swollen.

"Buddy, I know what you're thinking, and I don't think going AWOL is the best move." Easy for Tab to say, with a leggy blonde chittering nonsense into his ear that night. Liebgott was going to goddamned run to France for the weekend on foot if this shit was going to last long enough for you to go back to England. Crawl through barbed wire. Weave through German lines. Whatever. Anything to see your face.

"I agree. I don't think that's a good idea, Joey."

That voice. Yours. At that tone, at that lovely, lovely fucking voice. He thought he died when he turned from running loose to see your shy smile. Must've hit his head too hard when you walked up to him, cupping his cheek while a smug Webster stood in the back saying some bullshit about Liebgott owing him a big one. He barely overcame his shock until you gently kissed him.

And then all the frustration, longing, hunger, and ravenous glee had him take charge of the kiss, pulling you flush against him while those who were in the know cheered and raised their mugs full of booze. He ran his fingers through your hair, spanning the width of your hips, feeling no embarrassment in cupping your rear. An exasperated exclamation of "showoff" came from Guarnere, but he paid it no mind. After all, when he finally gave you room to breathe, it was his hand holding yours, pulling you straight to much needed privacy.

Any joe with half a brain knew to keep out of the barracks until morning.

Frank Perconte x Reader

"You brush your teeth any harder, and you're not gonna have any fuckin' teeth left," Heffron stated, fixing him with a pointed look at the intense manner in which Perco was brushing his teeth. Frank couldn't give a shit. however. He was beyond giving shits. He was beyond dealing with all this fuckin' shit, really. Only thing that kept him sane right now was his rigid hygiene regimen, and he was barely getting through it unless he put extra zeal in it. So what if he brushed too hard or was insufferable because he spent extra time in the showers to scrub his body more than usual? Let a man live. Hell if he knew how long he was going to survive.

Hell if he knew how long until you were going to come back. And when you came back, would you continue where you left off? Or would you continue to let him burn, only to give him saucy looks that lingered too long? Play with his hair, sit too close to him, act all innocent even though you knew exactly what you were doing?

May the Father forgive him, because a man could only choke his chicken for so long. The thoughts he had were dangerous. Not like Frank Perconte. Not nice boy thoughts. No rosary would redeem his sorry ass.

You'd be at his will, at his mercy. All the times you teased him, pushed your ass into his crotch on accident. Yeah, accident, his ass. Well, you bet your ass was going to be pushed into his face, because he intended to be all up in it, tongue and all. Hold you down until you begged. Said sorry. But he wouldn't budge, not one bit. He'd take his time, working you up and over, over and over and over again, way past your supposed limit.

It was the worst idea for him to store all these fantasies in his head, for all the effects they had on his body, on his mind, on his damned prick that refused to have a rest. Even though he had the nastiest thoughts, he was a good boy, at heart. He waited obediently for your return. Maybe that meant he hogged all of the hot water, toothpaste, and soap (especially Guarnere's because he probably thought washing his ass often was too homosexual in nature), but he kept himself in check.

Barely, in check. Barely. He felt awful guilty when he recited prayers with the chaplain about keeping an immaculate heart. There was nothing immaculate about what was going on in his pants and his heart, and nothing immaculate about your return.

Because you did come back. The intelligence mission Captain Nixon sent you on was wrapped up and done, judging by how you sat at the bar that night, amusedly watching Randleman and Martin recalling some baseball matches. You sure did come back in the flesh when you backed him up into the corner of the supply tent hours later. Neither of you were drunk, both completely sober as you nipped and sucked along the expanse of his throat.

"Were you a good boy, Perky?" you breathed against the shell of his ear, working him intentionally with your hand as he gripped onto the ammo crates for dear life. "Did you behave?"

Forget all the things he was going to do to you. All the ways he was going to gain control of the situation and lay it down. He was a complete goner, giving himself over to you fully to do with as you pleased. You could tell him to bark and he'd fuckin' do it. Roll over on his damned stomach to beg for treats. Hell, he might as well wear a collar with your name on it. What the hell was the difference between him and an actual mutt.

If he listened like a good boy, would you finally let him come?

Eugene Roe x Reader

"H-Hey, Doc. Really appreciate your attention, but could you be...Oh, I dunno...a little more gentle?" Guarnere sardonically started, adding an extra touch of salaciousness to his tone to hide his wincing. "It ain't my first time, but it's been a while, you know what I mean—Ah, shit! Fuck, that hurts!"

Every man within earshot of Doc patching Bill up prayed to not cross his path unless it was truly necessary. A grownass man didn't need coddling when it came to a mend, and he sure as hell knew better than to start theatrics with a medic at three a.m.. If Heffron wasn't there to soften Eugene up, the latter would've shut the door when he was requested to play nurse to a drunken soldier's bar fights.

Lesson learned. No bothering Doc. Didn't matter if the person was an officer or enlisted. All except Spina, of course; but trying to stop Spina was like trying to stop the waves of the ocean, and for all his antics, he was a damned good medic. Behind all his clownery, he had a keen sense to not push and prod at whatever was bothering Eugene, so he was safe, in that sense.

No one knew what was bothering Doc Roe, and no one needed to know. He kept it all to himself. He took the mental beatings all to himself, too, when he finally realized how much of a couillon he was. A damned fool. Always too late to notice, too late to make a move.

How damned stupid was he to not realize that you wanted him, too? How much of a fool was he to brush off your gentle advances, only caring about his ego being potentially bruised if he dared to make a move on you, only to be met with rejection?

But what were the odds that you really did like him? Because you did. And he did, too, but he kept that knowledge to himself, thinking you thought of him as an awkward figure who couldn't help but to fix his eyes on you at all times; he was always thick in the head, as Maman said.

Thick in the head, but frail in the heart, especially when you suddenly confessed to him, that you were sorry about all of this, and you ran out of the med bay in mortification when he stood stock still in shock. He should've ran after you harder, told Captain Nixon to kick rocks instead of taking whatever order he was given. Instead, every night since you were reassigned to Fox company, he could only dream.

Dream about your face. Your hair and your expressive eyes, the quirk in your smile, the way you caught his attention from day one with a nifty pair of scissors. Your fortitude to take care of the grunts, your character, favorite foods and wine, how you laughed at his jokes that tasted of ash in his mouth from how nervously he chewed at his cigarette due to your presence.

How much he wanted to kiss you. Hold you. How his fingers ached at not feeling your skin. How, at night, he trembled, tried to suppress the filthy thoughts that generated a hunger most insatiable in his cock.

Would you hate him if he thought of you underneath him, clawing at his back as he drove into you? Would you forgive him if he fisted his dick in the dark, imagining how his mouth would lick and lathe at your chest, at the sinful sounds he'd milk out of you? God, don't tell him to stop loving you, having you, holding you, fucking you like only the two of you existed.

Don't tell him that it's just another morning. Another break of day where he awoke, panting like a bitch in heat, to dirt and broken rubble and the snores of tired men.

Don't tell the others to keep away at his acerbic disposition. They don't need to be told. Never. Don't. He was told Fox and Easy were to meet eventually at an appointed crossing, and if the others only knew how bad his gut twisted at that revelation, they'd never let him live it down.

Because this time, he wouldn't miss. There'd be no hesitation. This time, he'd do things right.

This time, he'd march right on over to you, officers and protocol be damned. There wouldn't need to be a pretense of medics convening at the field hospital. This time, he'd beg in broken French, in the broken English you loved so much, if he had to. This time, he'd be the one to spill his guts, to urge his words to come out, to not only offer his apologetic stares.

"That's pretty true, Dick. Your ass has been looking pretty gaunt lately. Might want to ask some of those Belgian farmers if they have any sweet potatoes."

Barely keeping himself from bristling, he sat still as Lew chuckled again, even amidst the freezing cold. Even with the snow pelting and ice eating into his bones, the blush on his skin made its presence known, and his fingers lost their blue. This was the 37th letter he had received from this anonymous heckler, and the next stanza, he could not dare to reveal to his best friend.

He'd have to pry the letter out of his cold, dead body. Which, if this weather didn't stop, along with hot cups of watery coffee, he'd be a popsicle, soon enough. And then Lewis Nixon III can ignore his ice block of a body and read the forbidden words that would actually inspire him to read a book, for once:

But, anyway, this cold didn't STOP ME from looking. Sir, your body is fine as hell, and I rubbed one out AGAIN in tribute to your sexy asscheeks. These wool pants aren't stopping ANYTHING when it comes to your booty poking out. I STAY LOOKING EVERY DAY!!!!!! GOD BLESS your parents for what they created!!!!!

P.S. I notice you tend to eat less when things are tight. Please make sure you eat enough, and take care of yourself.

(And your beautiful booty meat.)

They...Who...Well, then. He supposed he should be livid, alert the company, and stomp this matter to the ground, but he did not. Call it obstinancy. Call it morbid curiosity. Call it anything, but he did not want to alert innocent men about such...behavior and add confusion to the fray.

He had a reputation to uphold, order and discipline, and they were getting closer and closer to the heart of the beast. Such matters would not be wise to bring up for public address. Such matters would not be pertinent to many, because this did not start in the freeze of Belgium, nor in the grass and dirt of France and Holland.

It started in the hot sun in North Carolina, amongst tangled parachutes and the hum and buzz of preparing for Europe. The first which would lead to many in his hands; observations and anecdotes, bawdy relays of what him merely breathing did to them, and strange notes of encouragement. Filthy yet hopeful. Heinous yet reassuring, especially after particular battles that left his soul drained of moving forward.

Somehow these explicit letters kept him putting one boot ahead of the other. Since the first, he'd been making inquiries, observing, determined to get to the bottom of this, but at the same time, there was a languid nature to his investigations.

(If only, on behest of his incorrigible ego, he would wait in silence for one more letter. One more. Another and another and another. Most improper of him, he knew, but it was undeniable that receiving yet another was...all right. Expected. Twisted and beyond reproach, he knew, yet...)

"What's wrong, Dick? Somehow this letter got you speechless, even though it wasn't as bad as the others" was what him break out of his reverie, and he sighed. He regarded Lew with a tired look of exasperation, grim lines setting the hardness of his jaw, and folded the letter deep into his chest pocket.

"Hope you don't mind me eating your share of the sweet potatoes, Lew," he curtly responded, and the other man snorted in incredulity at his unexpected cheek. "I'll need to maintain as much of my wasting 'booty meat', after all."

His friend rolled his eyes before he tossed him his flask, and he unscrewed the top off and took a long pull. Richard Davis Winters did not smoke, nor did he drink. Captain Dick Winters did not smoke, nor did he drink. Yet, he did here, and he did so only in front of Lewis Nixon III, who flashed him a mutinous set of teeth at his deep swigs of Vat 69.

Bullets and blood had made their marks, but not as much as the letters. The haunting shadow of his admirer was ironically what him survive to freeze out in a time and place he didn't think he'd experience. He settled his head back against the hard cold of the earth and closed his eyes.

He'd find out who they were, one way or another. If only to justify the amused grin he hid under the cover of his helmet, unable to vocalize the macabre enjoyment he had from the monotony of warfare.

Dear Sir,

I wonder if you're ever curious enough to find out who I am? Or do you ignore me? Either way, I hope you keep your beautiful body warm. I found out that some of your socks had holes in them, so I stitched them up. Wearing them would fill me with joy.

Could you please wave your foot out in the open so I can confirm? Also, that is a very impressive shoe size that you have. Nice toes.

Always watching,

Your faithful admirer

Thus, the reaction from your Ronnie should've been glorious. But it wasn't. It was as if you handed him another piece of paperwork to process. You frowned. Then again, he took it, so he wasn't complaining, was he? That was the thing, though: He could've at least complained or said something. You felt daringly bratty today, solidifying how you two were the unbearable "freaks" of Battalion HQ. But, alas, no cigar.

Irritated, you harrumphed and then sped outside. Looked like he was too busy entertaining his darling, little lieutenant. Whatever. You could always go bitch at his darling sergeant, Chuck Grant. The Californian blondie was always patient when it came to your drama, and thus, you made up your mind to waste your afternoon away by binge-eating chocolate stolen from Luz and rant. Too bad for Ronald Speirs, then. Idiot.

Too bad, indeed. Because you missed the dark intensity of his gaze, the flicker of his eyes resting on your retreating back in resolute hunger. A dog tracking every subtle movement of his prey making its flight. He looked. Calculated. Didn't bother to hide his intentions from Carwood, and by now, Lip should've already known what kind of man his own lieutenant was. The hunt was on, and heat rapidly rushed throughout his body at seeing intense resolution bracketing the lines of Ron Speirs' shoulders.

But that was a story for another time.

The hunt was on, and by the time you knew you had a target on your back, he was the one to fill you with absolute hunger. You could feel him, see him, stalk you, measuring your steps and having you turning to see him look at you. All day. All afternoon. He was there where you were.

He was there to level you with intent, dark eyes boring into you with testimonies of what exactly he planned to do to you when he got the opportunity to have you. Everywhere you went you saw scenario after scenario reflected in his gaze. Face down, ass up. His rough hand on your throat while he toyed with your clit. Legs wrapped around his waist as he rutted into you on top of Captain Winters' desk. Again and again and again and again until you were screeching for mercy and marking up his back. Uncaring of who saw or who heard what. The true freaks of the battalion, breaking the chains around each other's dog tags with every coupling.

He had your own fangs protruding, salivating by the time evening came. He had you groaning when Captain Nixon informed you that you were to be out on a mission to gather intel, and there'd be no way for you to sink your teeth into Ron's skin tonight. No way to sate that appetite in your womb that clenched at the last scene he left you with.

His hand on Lieutenant Lipton's shoulder from slightly behind, watching as you tried to pretend that he wasn't there as Captain Winters spoke about the upcoming move to the next location. They were slightly drumming on the solid surface. Lieutenant Lipton looked like he had his own pretending to do, attempting to mind his own business. The both of you were at his whim. The both of you nearly lost yourselves when he pulled your lacey panties out of his chest pocket and gave it a lengthy regard. And without any hesitation, he brought the garment up to his nose and took a deep sniff.

You almost blacked out when he rearranged it so that the gusset was on top and settled his mouth on its surface. He gave it an amused suck, and if it weren't for Lieutenant Welsh who suddenly appeared behind you, you would've launched yourself at him, bowled over poor Lip, and started ripping his uniform off so that the two of you could fuck like rabbits.

Oh, he loved it. He fucking loved it. The way his eyelids fluttered shut before he locked his vision on you, Lipton was your Welsh and the last bulwark from him pulling you flush against his body and taking you then and there out in the open. Like dogs. Like a man starved of his woman, and the only regret you had was not giving him those panties after wearing them for longer.

The only regret for Ron...Well, he had no regrets. He had plans. Time was on his side for far too long, and a hungry hound didn't mind gnawing at scraps until it had its full meal. Time meant him alone, the dim candle burning and paperwork abandoned. Pink cotton and lace on his calloused palm, displayed in all of its glory.

He hungered. The panties were an appetizer. They'd be good for now, but the raw need to bury his cock in you gnawed at him. The wait seemed far too long. He inhaled as much of your scent as he could, breathed in your musk until he salivated. Your personal freak of a dog Ronald Speirs, lathing and sucking out every drop of juice out of the lace. The smell and taste was intoxicating, and he'd gladly drown in your essence if he could.

He wondered if you were doing what he was doing. Did you starve as much as he did? You most likely did. He was astute enough to notice that one of his undershirts and boxers had gone missing. The undershirt you'd wear, something you found comforting when either of you had to part ways. The underwear taken, however, was a shame. All of his laundry had gone to the wash, and you'd taken a clean pair. You were his personal freak of a a dog, too, and you wouldn't have hesitated to have taken his most recently worn pair.

You wouldn't have hesitated to do what he was doing, using soaked undergarments to quell the roar of blood in his loins. Using spit and imagination like every other damned grunt. These pink panties he'd bought for you as part of contraband while stationed in France. You'd modeled them for him in some blown-out building, and he'd blown-out your back as soon as he saw the curve of your sex and ass in the fabric. Tore that poor thing right up. So he bought you another one. They were your favorite, too, so you said Ronnie no ripping. And Ronnie listened, bought you different cuts and colors of lace and satin and cotton, and ripped up and devoured a good deal of them, sparing the pink ones only because you'd sucked the living hell out of him whenever you wore them. You wouldn't have hesitated to model them for him again, and he wouldn't have hesitated to strip right down and model how he felt about you with his hands.

Just like how he was doing now. Thinking of you split wide open on his cock, screaming his name over and over while he worked that same cock in deliberate strokes. He wrapped the panties around his shaft, and he allowed depravity in his mind to reign supreme in helping him get off. You had a matching bra, as well, and there was no doubt that you were wearing it. Gorgeous bra cupping those gorgeous tits, and he wondered if you were doing what his hands would do when it came to your breasts.

He licked and lathed and pumped and finished all over his hand and your panties. Not once, not twice, but at least four times, and he still fisted at his cock that strained for attention. It strained for the real deal, perspiration sliding down his Adam's apple, and it ached for the real deal.

He could do nothing but wonder and attempt to dampen—Well, it was all futile, really. No use. Time was on his side for far too much and far too long, and waiting was adding fuel to the fire. Hands on his cock, eyes on your lace panties, 0300 fatigue settling into his bones, and yet, he couldn't sleep a wink.

Because his mind raced. Pink. Dogtags. Skin on skin. The scent and taste of an eager woman. Panties. In his bed or out where the sky was the ceiling. You and him and the both of you fucking like it was the end of the world. He thought of him laying into you and swallowing your moans with his eager mouth. He thought of how you'd clamp one leg around and push into his backside, and he'd roll around so that you were on top and riding him, using him for your own benefit. And you'd chant his name like a litany as you came, and Ron Speirs could imagine that blood didn't end up under his fingernails and he didn't know what it meant to take another man's life. Euphoria. Numbness flooding every last cell of his body, and he was somewhere back in genteel society and not war-torn Europe where only the most feral dogs could survive.

But until then, he burned. Until you walked through that door, he ached and strained and watched in a lull at your lace undergarments wrapped tightly around his dick. There was no reprieve. No quenching the heat radiating off of his body. He'd given you plenty of warnings through his eyes alone, and you'd given him looks that made him aware of your own hunger that roared to life.

I wonder if that fiery hair up top is the same on the bottom? I'd like a reply back, if yes, but I'll be content with fantasizing that it's true. What would it feel like if I run my fingers through your hair? What would it be like to have my lips on those hairs around your cock?

A person can dream.

Always watching,

Your faithful admirer.

"You want my help."

"I don't want your help."

"You want it, Dick."

"...Lew, I do not need your help. No, thank you."

To dampen his bristling was to be met with amusement. Another letter, another lie that all was well, and another morning off from Colonel Sink after another victory against the Germans. There, his challenger lay, propped up on one arm, the other nursing a dram of whiskey, watching him in dry humor while he clamped down on the flush that threatened to spill over from his collar to his face.

He didn't need to flash the letter to Lew for the other to note that this wasn't some heartwarming letter from home to stick in some family-friendly museum as a wartime artifact. It was a scarlet letter delivered right on top of his pillow. How the perpetrator managed to infiltrate his quarters without a sliver of evidence was mind-blowing.

Besides the contents of the letter, of course.

"Oh, I don't know, Dick," his friend lazily responded, downing his shot of liquor before flopping down on his pillow. Lew wasn't even dressed properly, and wasted all day in his bed, the evening come upon them. "One might think you want this mascarade to continue for much longer."

Dick frowned. "Is that Italian?"

"French, Richard."

"Since when did you care about speaking French?"

'It helps that there were French ladies all around us. And our little vacation to Paris. If you actually took the time to entertain some of them, you'd pick up on more than a few words."

Well, he didn't care to, so he did not respond in turn. He hastily tucked the letter into the pocket of his jacket, and attempted to concentrate on the new op orders received. Word after word, page after page: All was naught but jumbled letters, invariably realigning to form those that haunted him.

They liked his hair. Fiery hair. They wanted to see if the top matched with the bottom, skin on skin, fingers touching him in places he dared not mention in polite company, much less to himself.

"You're thinking about it."

Damn it all to hell.

"I'm not thinking about it."

"You are."

"Lew, I'm not."

"You're thinking about it. So much so, in fact, that you didn't even deny what the it is."

"Lew."

The whisky was finished, decanter abandoned on the sheets, and his now adversary amusedly regarded him with all the time in the world. "Dick, my good man, lying was never your strong suit. Building a narrative, yes, but outright denial: God forbid if you ever went to an ivy college. You'd even fool me."

"I didn't."

"And that's precisely why you sit here, tucking the letter into your person, instead of burning it with the rest of said offending letters?"

Not a second later, he vacated the premise and hastened his stride towards the main villa that acted as a temporary base of operations. He'd rather drown himself in paperwork than play victim to his friend's interrogation, and when it came to Lewis Nixon III, he was always bound to be found guilty.

Because he knew that was the truth. He didn't discard a single one. He kept them all, and he must've lost all of his sanity to bring letters delivered on Georgian soil to Europe. The new addition would go into his ruck, just like all of the rest, and the neat calligraphy would invade his dreams, even in the cold and snow.

Just like your face.

"Sergeant?"

You were surprised, peeking up at him suddenly, interrupted in your conversation with Floyd Talbert, whose gaze seemed strange.

Just like an inkling that nurtured itself into its full form, even though it should never have been able to. An ugly feeling when he saw the other man at such close proximity. What were his words, his whispers? You didn't seem to mind when his body was positioned to nearly cocooning you in between one of the many shelves in the library. The two of you looked surprise, but there was not a shred of guilt.

Should there have been? And for what? He was the one guilty, unless the tiniest bit of suggestiveness was what little distance the two of you had with each other. Fraternization.

And what of the dirty letters? A collection derived from entertaining an admirer gone past the point of propriety. Such guilt was more incriminating than the hallucination he imposed on you both.

The madness and paranoia—the hunger—drove his mind to utter ruins, it seemed.

"S-Sir?" you hesitantly asked, and it was only then that Talbert's body angled itself sideways so you were in full view. "Did you need anything?"

He needed to blast these damned letters and blast these strange sentiments and blast the most dreadful feeling at seeing Floyd Talbert asserting himself in front of you.

And yet, he didn't seem to condemn whatever sensibilities he had of you.

Of himself in relation to you.

"Sir."

The war front could be the only explanation for his muddled sense of moral compass.

"No need for address. I see that..." He wished not to see. "The two of you are...busy."

What a coward. He hastened past the two of you to the other side of the room, obscuring himself in between the most droll of reading material and logistical reports. A fair distance away, where he was far away enough for the conversation to resume, albeit still hushed. He spent his time idling away, childishly attempting to eavesdrop on the quiet, broken banter, and not a shred of logic was spent filling out any paperwork.

"—and you could spend leave with Chuck and I. Promise Babe will not be there. Shortstack won't even see you get in the jeep, I swear."

"Oh, I dunno, Tabby. Captain Nixon might need me. I don't wanna go too far."

"C'mon, Cookie. It'll be fun. What's better than spending time with Blondie Boy and Bunny Duck?"

Such nicknames! Dick nearly choked on air, and he grit his teeth at shuffling the papers too loudly when the talk abruptly ceased. It was just that the entire ordeal was a surprise, and utter incredulity was the least of what he felt. At what exactly, was the premise, but he should currently get back to the monotonous sounds of boring administrative tasks.

Or, at least, try to be less obvious with his audience. More writing, more monotonous shuffling. Monotonous sitting.

Not ever monotonous listening.

He wasn't spying. He just happened to be there, and an officer was still an officer and had to extend a watchful eye over all persons of the company.

Right.

"—seems okay..."

His ears perked; he shouldn't be eavesdropping, but he did. Because when it came to you, eavesdropping unfortunately was the least he found himself doing. It was wrong. He knew. He shouldn't be thinking about your mindful manners, the pleasing tone of your voice, your face, your brevity when messages had to be delivered to the HHC under hellfire, your tactile observations that gave Lew an edge when it came to analyses.

An ugly ichor festering low in his gut when he remembered Floyd Talbert leaning towards you, and...what? Did he expect you to save your graces and straighten out when he came by? What business you had, especially when not on the clock, was none of his to mind. But, alas, his greed got the better of him, and had his ears itching.

"Chuck's the best driver around. We'll have fun. You'll see."

Dick swallowed. Ichor and jealousy. The letters and Floyd Talbert and his propensity to win over every woman. Paperwork. His reprieve in the library was no reprieve, at all. His mind was still a jumbled mess of thoughts, and seeing Lew's all too knowing smirk wasn't something he wanted to revisit right now. Nevertheless, he couldn't bear to stay here.