#platoon reader insert

Thank you for remembering me - Happy Valentines to you too and everyone else reading. Much love. 💕

---

― Chris Taylor falls into what can only be called melancholiac tendencies; if he was prone to partying with the boys just a day before, he retreats into himself and some lonesome place around camp on this particular holiday. If he was keen on jiving to music and letting off some steam with booze and weed, he grows more solitary and introspective, taking to pen and paper and genuinely speaking, if you're not aware of his feelings for you, he might legitimately spend the day writing 'what if' love letters to you --- things he'd say, things he feels, things he thinks, things he feels are far too high stakes and risky to say, things he holds a secret, things he'd want you to know if you were an item, things he's embarrassed to say out loud to anyone, journaling all the weight of his emotions into a confession he might never send to you, opting to burn it instead, unsure if he feels any better for it or worse. Is he relieved or agitated? Is he being galant to leave you alone and unbothered or is he chickenshit? Valentines Day somewhere in the deep bush of the Cambodian border ends with him sitting by a small fire at dusk all by himself, gazing into it, burning the papery remains of all his verbalized, written down care for you.

― Thing is, O'Neill wants to be a romantic, but he probably feels he cannot because the clique he's in is so macho, militant and downright chauvinist that they undoubtedly never let him live it down if he just openly wooed you on this day and actually gave you something like he actually wishes to deep, deep down, so to overcompensate himself for being stuck between a rock and a hard space, O'Neill spends Valentines Day being insufferable, nagging, suggestive and passive aggressive towards you, wiggling his eyebrows whenever you pass, halfway trying to schmooze you, halfway poking at you, irritating you, bugging you and genuinely doing anything so you'd fucking notice him or at least make sure to remember he's here and buzzing around you like a fly. He might even ask you, in a veiled attempt to bring up the subject, whether you have anyone special for Valentines and if you're expecting a letter from some schmuck asshole back home or from another platoon just so he could highlight that today is indeed a special day, and would you look at that --- he so happens to be here too. He thinks he's being slick, but everyone notices he's a lovesick puppy for you.

― Bunny is in the same macho-militant clique as O'Neill is, but the difference is that his unhinged nature renders him immune from peer pressure or judgement purely because he doesn't care for judgement, seeing how it bounces off from him like it would off of anyone detached from empathy and he's the type of person who makes said clique the way it is in the first place, so, oh, you'll get a Valentines Day gift from him alright, you better believe it; but it'll be on the grotesque, questionable or grizzly side, as is to be expected from Bunny. Is this a pig's heart in a box? Luckily, too small to be a human's (perish the thought). Is this a wisp of his hair and...human nails? Why is he giving you a molar attached to a neck chain? Who's...molar is that? Did he really just ink a rendition of your face stuck unto a model of a naked body unto his own skin? Oh, he named his firearm by you. Sweet. See, in Bunny's world, these are all genuinely, in a weird way as wholesome of a gesture as a gesture gets, but to everyone else, it'll be strange at best and spine-chilling at worst. Now, would he expect something back from you? Sure. You better at least let him hit it from behind today, geez.

― Rhah Vermucci feels Valentines Day is one of those Capitalist inventions meant to empty a sucker's pocket trying to appease some broad who's already emptying said sucker's pocket every other day of the year too without giving anything back; suffice to say, he is cynical about it, the way he is cynical about most of society's comings and goings. But, that doesn't mean he still wouldn't do something for you, albeit in a roundabout, concealed manner that wouldn't give him away for the man of double standards he can sometimes be, the gift he leaves you with anonymously being oddly and surprisingly...wholesome and even pretty damn romantic. You have no idea how however left this for you in your tent acquired a small statuette of Venus or a tiny Cupid out in the middle of a nowhere warzone or when or where they picked a jungle flower, but you're genuinely touched by the gesture. Of course, Rhah might scoff at your secretive mooning over the present and whatever cheesedick left it for you as typical nonsense to his friends, but something about how fixated and impassioned he is towards everything you do gives him away as your secret admirer to everyone who knows better. King is probably nearby giving him the amused stink eyes.

― Lt. Wolfe is the only one out of the bunch that would openly give you a Valentines Day present, but not just that --- he'd give every woman present on base a Valentines Day present too. The identically same one. Every nurse, secretary, cook, cleaning lady and hooch madam irregardless of age; Everyone. Might think it is good for morale and a collectivist attitude. He is much akin to those corporate bosses back in civilization who make sure to exclude no lady, simply because one gets the impression he seeks up suck up everyone, gain allies and score points wherever and with whoever he can by being helpful, making it difficult to know who from the bunch he has actual feelings for, if anyone. Naturally, the other men at base might snicker and covertly laugh at his attempts because there is something undeniably head college boy about his behaviour and Wolfe's purely democratic approach to the situation could either weirdly charm you or leave you confused whether he cares for you or is simply trying to be a good, 'by the book' Lieutenant. He himself probably feels this is a good way going about actually awkwardly giving you something without making himself a target for too much ridicule; something he circumvents by simply including every other woman too.

― Man, King doesn't care. If he has a boo? He's giving her something. Doesn't matter if she's present at base, somewhere nearby or half the planet away --- she's getting remembered by him, baby --- and no amount of peer pressure, gossip, snide talk, being looked down upon or mockery could prevent him from doing that, because as he'd be the type to claim that all of these boys want to do the thing he's doing right now when you peel back their layers of bullshit and self-delusion, but it is their own pride that prevents them and in a way, he has to feel a bit sorry for them. So, yes, he spends Valentines Day openly and happily penning letters, trying to write poetry however fraught with grammatical errors (although, for this special day he might ask a trusted friend to proofread the thing) he might hand make a present, send her records, spend his paycheck on whatever tourist trinket in acquired in passing, but considering the shit circumstances and limited means for a gift one is faced with out in the bush, he'd legitimately go above and beyond to be thoughtful and he could be one of the rare men within the platoon who gets a gift back as well. He's probably the happiest and most smiley of the bunch during the day too and many, many days afterwards.

― Dreamcatchers, charms, bracelets, precious rocks and stones, a nazar, amulets he made on his own, necklaces meant to protect, small vials of bottled dried, fragrant flowers to place under your pillow, God's Eyes, something carved from a piece of something he swears is a chunk of meteorite that crashed into the jungle and other various trinkets Elias would personally hand craft and gift to you are part of the unique staples intended for you for Valentines and they somehow feel extremely meaningful and personal; more so than just a casual 'I like you' or 'I care for you'; coming from Elias, however jovially or playfully he might give you these things to play himself off as nonchalant, it halfway feels like an engagement or receiving a promise ring from someone. In fact, him flat out giving you a promise ring isn't entirely out of the realm of possibility either. There's no sense of half measures or lukewarm intentions with him. He is very serious even if he has a twinkle of mischief in his eyes that might occasionally cheat and insinuate otherwise to someone who doesn't know him very well. There is a gravitas to what you receive from him; the type that makes you think long and hard about the future weeks after Valentines is already over.

By @senka-mesecinemesecine

staff seargents wife

~Reader bringing home a baby deer~

~Home birth~

~Trophy collecting

~The good children of bad men~ fluff

~Close Quarters~ fluff

~Opens season~ Branes finds u married to another man

~scorched earth~

~Finds lost hiker~

~You havnt written~

~Free fire zone~ someone makes a mive on you infront of him

~Barns thoughts while your in Coma~

―

You already know who this is LMAOO

Reaper Cometh.

---

Robert Barnes x Reader.

(All the warnings --- and I never give out those). ⚠️

---

gif by the wonderful @woman-with-no-name

―

He crawls.

Fingers coiling and hooking into the muddy soil as he drags himself forward.

And slithers, belly first, through branches, fallen debris and rocks.

They ought to have called these the killing fields with how much blood the ground has soaked up, bubbling forth from nooks and crannies, from the very cracks and pores of the soil like warm, red oil, the already naturally, iron-rich copper colored sediment of the rainforest's overgrowth further colored an odd, metallic rusty crimson by spilled guts, the occasionally blown off scalp, a leg missing its owner, someone's eye in a bushel of wild ferns, looking at him lidless like a gruesome blossom --- this ain' gon' be no Arlington Cemetery, Barnes knew as much, and whoever fell here would stay here even once the cleanin' crew came to haul out the bodies on gurneys and stretchers and carry them off in Hueys and trucks, the occasional severed finger would still remain, the stray piece of flesh, a knocked out tooth lost in the foliage --- like a natural fertilizer that would change the structure of the earth itself. Nobody would come here to draw out a white picket fence or raise white marble headstones in the years to come to say sumn' died here, though. No flowers, candles or honors for the deceased; one day, these damn Gooks might just put up a goddamn lemonade stand out here and light fireworks for their Gook holidays for all he knew. To die in the jungle was to die a dog's death and he supposes he thinks of you by instinct as he drags his body forth, feeling every dent press into his belly, every jagged pebble, the root of every tree, someone's limp, dead arm, someone's boot squashed underneath his form and someone's broken flask threatin' to scratch and tear at his stomach through his shirt, his nails tar black and filled to the brim with dust, halfway cracking as he grits his teeth pulling his own body weight forward, the peripheral vision at the same level with the ground he was on looking for a specific body. Your body. Maybe sprawled out beneath someone else's. Maybe blown to bits. Maybe whole. Maybe even alive, somewhere, somehow. But, right 'bout now if he so much as found your littlest toe he would've been as close to a fulfilled man as a man like him can be. You never did know he loved'ya sumn' fierce; he supposed it was impropriety that would've distracted from mutual duty if he ever did tell you. So, he didn't.

And fuck him and his shit-for-brains for that.

Death was the great equalizer in that sense, he figured --- forced a man to be honest in ways he otherwise couldn't. At least he wanted to fuckin' kick the bucket beside you. Maybe hauled unto the same gurney by accident. Carried out of here in the same chopper. In some other life where these shit-for-brains didn't yapper on 'bout propriety, you couldn't been entombed in the same grave too, like them Pharaohs preaches would mention during springtime tent revivals back in Tennessee.

So, he crawls.

Turns the occasional carcass seemingly shaped vaguely like a woman's.

His bloodied hands parting bushes and vines like curtains.

Checking if you haven't fell somewhere by accident.

Covered and concealed by the jungle wilderness.

Body crushing some zipperhead still holding to his last breath on the ground.

Barnes downright feels the sickening crack of a broken neck as he slithers over him.

Movin' like a tank; right 'bout now, he didn't care who or what he trampled.

Didn't care if he scraped his own knees raw to the bone.

Tore every ligament he still had intact.

The shadow on the wet, moist, dew-soaked morning soil becomes colder against his belly, enveloped by a stretching shade facing west as he raises his chin with a grunt to spot a humongous Banyan tree amidst the silent battlefield enveloped by the fog of an evaporating smoke bomb, its vines and tendons forming a curtain of dangling mossy roots riddled with broken firearms and speared bayonets and he halts for a moment, subsiding in his crawling, spotting a sitting form halfway bent in a bed of roots, head bent over as if asleep in a matted cascade of hair, pooled red at the scalp; recognition hits him like a ricocheting stray bullet and he hurries, dragging himself forward until his muscles and joints ached, the shrapnel some motherfucker hit his thigh with burning like a motherfucker. Even if he did get out of here he'd be a semi-cripple as well as a scarred one. He reaches you and grabs you bent leg, giving you a lil' shake, checking if you're alive, eliciting a weakened groan out of you, like someone just awakened from a fitful, dreamless nap; your bloodshot, glazed over eyes peer at him from underneath your mane, your face a deathly pale against a bloodied mouth, like someone struck you at one point in time, maybe with the wooden heel of an AK. Hope is dashed immediately like one of those hammers they collapse old, decrepit barn walls with; He didn't know if you noticed, but your gut was slashed horizontally through your fatigues pooled a sickening crimson and its contents were sliding into your lap --- you must've spent the night like that, impaled and cut, slowly slippin' under, leaned up against the colossal tree trunk for some comfort. No doubt the handiwork of one of those sons of bitches with all those bayonets that surrounded you like a forest of thorns. These motherfuckers. Sons of bitches. This shit country deserved to be turned to glass. -"Sergeant."- You manage when he grabs a hold of your knees, pulling himself up against you by his arms, the vocal fry of exhaustion cracking your voice, dry and dehydrated, but regardless, in some faint tonality, like you were halfway happy to see if even though he could count the number of times when you shared more than two words on his fingers. -"Sergeant, I'm torn open."- You state the obvious bluntly once his arms are halfway embracing your thighs, snaking up to you like a crawling worm. So, you did know your situation. Did it hit you he'd be the last human being you'd ever see in this life? -"If I had my kit with me, I could..."- You start ramblin', your cold, shock-induced detachment replaced by a certain budding panic as your eyes feverishly dart around, searching for some lost gear that wasn't here.

Too late.

Too late now, even if you had equipment on hand.

Your small intestine was peekin' through the gash of your mangled abdomen.

Ain' no fixin' sumn' like that; not even in an swanky emergency room.

He interrupts --- rather, your own pain does.

You grit your teeth and let out a strangled, agonized, yelping sob.

He embraces your waistline and a hand covers your open slit, pushing inside what could be pushed inside, its consistency that of warm, wet, slippery jello, seeping through the slits of his fingers as he closest his fist around you like a plug, halfway inside of you up to his wrist, literally holding the contents of your insides in one hand like a temporary band aid that could keep you alive for how long exactly? A minute longer? Two? Ten? The reaper cometh. No avoidin' that. But, he ain' never had you this close before. Throughout the entire tour, all it was glances. The occasional stare. Curt nod. Now, you were here and he didn't intend to let up. If he had a way to reach up all the way through your heart inside of your ribcage and pump your organ instead of you fucks knows he'd do that too. Face twisted in an agony drenched cold beats of sweat as your head fell against the tree trunk, your eyes flick down, clearly noticing what he was doing and letting out a muffled, seething vail that cuts through the dawn like a knife's edge, only to stifle, overtaken by hyperventilating sobs. He knew the expression on his own face right about now even though he couldn't see it; he was aware he tended to look as sad as a child when sumn's hours were numbered. But, with you? He must've seemed positively crestfallen, forcing his own face to take on what he felt was a grim look of determination to forcibly hold you together for a while longer, buying you time, keepin' you closed like a ripped ragdoll seeping forth a cotton filling and do it with five fingers on one hand if he had to.

-"Sir, you can't hold my insides until help arrives. It is no use."-

You exhale and inhale, fingers grabbing the roots underneath you for support.

Nobody would put you back together after the beating you took.

Even if help came, you were stuck like a hog.

He's seen wounds like this before and the mortal outcome was always guaranteed.

Whoever allowed and greenlit you to be deployed out here ought to have been put against a wall and shot without trial. Could've gone on and be sum' son of a bitch's wife instead you were here with half of your stomach, womb and all its contents wrapped around his fist, his rage 'nough for him to chew through any motherfucker that even thought 'bout gettin' close to him right 'bout now.

Could've gone and been his wife. Or at least his grievin' widow.

He tramples that thought.

Relishin' it a lil' too much for comfort.

-"Shiet, I ain' came here to save you or myself."-

He groans confessing as he drags himself up to a seated position.

One useless leg dragging behind him.

His frame partially covering you, partially straddling.

Hand still firmly lodged inside of you like an extended organ.

Barnes's mouth parts when he finally crashes back first against the tree trunk.

Sharing your seat shoulder to shoulder, eyes flicking to you.

-"Came here to die."-

He remarks, momentarily finding it darkly amusing how casual he sounded.

Even to his own ears.

Might as well have said that he came here to have a smoke break.

-"Why?"-

You close your eyes, shivering, a slight gurgle bubbling up from your bloodied mouth.

Lips red as a mountain flower.

In another life, you must've looked nice with one of them lipsticks, he reckoned.

-"Nothing on you is fatal. You can pull through, Sarge."-

You stutter, briefly looking down, fluttering lashes examining his body.

Thing is, he didn't wanna pull through.

This was the ninth time he was shot over the span of four tours and a decade of service, and like a wildcat, he figured his extra lives were at an end --- wouldn't have minded givin' you a spare one, though. Lettin' you walk on outta here. Livin'. Perhaps occasionally feelin' him like a phantom pain even if some miracle worker Doctor could sow you up successfully, however unlikely that was, causin' you to wake in the middle of the night years later in your purdy bed, on your purdy pillow, still sensin' the ghost of his fist in your entrains, caressing your spleen beneath all your stitches; maybe there was no afterlife, no heaven 'cept for eternal hellfire, but he could live on that way. As the weird soreness you'd get in the middle of the night, the middle of the day, swearin' that he was still inside of you as vividly as now. His thumb on his free hand finds your mouth, wipin' away the spittle you couldn't swallow in pain and the spasms that came in waves and he figures he wouldn't have minded kissin' you neither, your lips gored and bloody as they were. Then again, his were no different right 'bout now. He could taste the metal on his own tongue. He must've bit sumn's throat out last night with bare teeth, like an animal, only to crawl to you like a wounded, rabid dog that wants to die on the threshold of its home.

The distant sound of fire crackles somewhere further up ahead.

The stench of smoke and a sulphureous odor fills his nostrils.

Smoke grenades, the reek of burnt sugar and matches.

Camphor. The earthiness of tear gas.

You gurgle, dying.

His eyes are firmly on your trembling, blood smeared lips.

The contents of your prolapsed colon hit his nose and he ain' had the need to mind.

You ain' stayin' here alone; not even if he had to crawl through broken glass.

An active minefield.

-"W...why not? S-save yourself."-

You ask again, more desperately this time, feverishly, mumbling, numb with shock, partially disoriented at this point, a freezing hand squeezing his shoulder, your fingers digging into his collarbone like a life raft, not realizing that he's made his decision hours ago. Years ago, even, if he was being honest with himself. He's made his decision to not go back home ever again sometime in '62. Or was it '63? Barnes bends forward and kisses you, all hunger, need, utilizing every second, not caring about any sort of figurative rescue, sanguinary, scarlet maw against scarlet maw, tasting the aroma of metal, iron, saltiness and sweetness mingling, bloody cheeks sticking to each other as his tongue delved past the nonexistent resistance of your limp lips, finding the saliva mingled with the bitterness of life's red essence inside still warm, the tongue still receptive, a moan life still present in the cavern of your mouth, like you understood, like you were cognizant enough to know you were being osculated by him, returning the gesture as much as your strength allowed when two bloody mouths touched in a first and last kiss with his hand still inside of you stomach, leavin' him to ponder how he would've kissed you like this after a bar fight, smashin' some sonofabitch's head open only for you to smooch the corner of his jaw as you tried to pacify him, how he would've kissed you like this in the heat of battle, grabbing your head and plantin' one on you before pushing you down into a foxhole for safety, how there could've been a thousand occasions to kiss like this in some reality that ought to have been instead of the reality that was; with only once chance in tow as he feels you still and every movement in your mouth halting until the spit in your tongue starts leaking at the corners of loosened nerve endings and he know you were gone, wiping you clean and lowering your frozen eyelids down, almost instinctively flicking his eyes on his muddied, cracked wristwatch. Time of death. 0730 in the morning. Barnes lowers his face into the crook of your lolled-over neck devoid of a pulse, feelin' the mornin' chill there, catching his breath from the intensity of the kiss, and laying his head there for a while, embraced around your lifeless form, your guts a dead, tangled mass around his fingers and nothing more --- a sack of flesh that he loved as his free hand roamed, touched along the soil and found the head of a nearby bayonet discarded beneath the heavy, darkened root of the Bayan tree, eying it for a moment and not hesitating before driving it inside of his abdomen too, deep, deeper, takin' the pain, so he wouldn't sit 'round in this shit existence for longer than necessary.

Darkness comes swiftly, and he figures, when they find you and him together?

Like this? Rigor mortis takin' over? His arm halfway inside of your belly?

They'll have to haul you unto the same gurney like a pair of newly weds.

That, or saw him off first in the morgue like sumn' that's grown around you.

Sug, ain' no untanglin' me, is the last thing that crosses his shuddering, tremor filled mind.

---

― For Chris, it is change. He'd want to change in the new year. Definitely not stay as he was or where he was, fundamentally transforming in worldview, beliefs, mentality and stance so much that he becomes far removed from everything he was raised to be, effectively paving his own path and personhood, growing in the literal and figurative sense; if people scarcely recognize him when he finally rotates back home, he'd consider that a sort of personal victory and success. He might even want to be slightly polarizing and shocking to a degree.

― O'Neill's resolution would be to survive by any means necessary; it is that simple. He wouldn't care how much he has to slither, who he has to suck up to, what sort of people he has to align himself to, what sort of monster he has to back up, what sort of macho tendencies he has to advertise to people to keep himself alive, whether he has to hide, slime, sleaze, but he's making it out one way or another and ending up on some sunny beach somewhere even if he has to bullshit his way there. Ultimately, it is a pretty human desire to have.

― Mayhem. Bunny's resolution all year, every year of his short life, is just general mayhem for mayhem's sake. He wants to ravage, destroy and kill. He wants to be even more depraved, unhinged, chaotic and without scruples than usual, his juvenile wants, needs and desires being what can only be described as base and doing whatever he wants whenever he wants simply because. If prompted, he says that his new year wish is even more pussy and murder. That bluntly and crudely, yeah.

― Rhah Vermucci is too cynical for new year's resolutions because he's of the conviction that everything you firmly plan will blow up in your face one way or another anyway so you might as well not to get immersed in any major forethought. Resolutions are a thing intended for civilians with fluoride stares and he keeps to saving what spiritual sanity he has and making that his agenda for whatever new year he lives to see, convinced that it'll be the work of his lifetime.

― Believe it or not, even though much like O'Neill, Wolfe wants to bullshit his way into surviving, he also wants to bullshit his way into thriving, meaning that his new year's resolution is somewhere along the lines of a very lowkey promotion. Yeah. You heard that right. He might have career goals of making it to Lieutenant Commander or a Captain, no matter if he is in over his head currently as it is and probably way too underqualified and inexperienced to lead on the field. He doesn't mind hoping, though.

― Attending a concert as soon as possible. Yep. King's a man of simple wants and he's proud of it too, not flaunting himself as someone with any grand, ambitious designs for the future except to make the most of it and enjoy life. He wants to go to a music festival, somewhere where there's song, dance and a good groove the minute he lands back home and if possible, even before that, professing to wanting to go hear Bob Marley play because he swears up and down that man will be the new hip thing.

― When he isn't joking around, Elias is almost depressively devoid of personal resolutions, possibly because in a strangely melancholic, disillusioned way few people understand, he might be convinced his future is all but depleted and that there isn't much to reach for but the war ending at this point, meaning that in the new year he'd legitimately hope for peace and everyone going home. That no kid is sent out to the bush and die a meaningless death or mangled up for a cause that is all but lost.

---

― Chris Taylor likes to watch you get ready and do everything you do all on your own while he quietly sits to the side somewhere, elbows on his knees, silently enjoying your presence and you being in your element, engrossed in your routines and feminine self-care tasks; something very boyish busts out of him as he gets lost in the sight of you managing your hair, putting on makeup, removing making up, re-applying, indulging in a skin routine or merely grooming yourself in front of a bathroom mirror after a comforting, refreshing shower, the door left ajar and a ribbon of light spilling across the bedroom carpet while he observes from bed --- the habit of taking you is inherently calming for him, something almost therapeutic about it and fact is, he could spend hours observing you and never joining in, hating to spoil the solace of the moment, sometimes even going as far as smoking some weed and just losing himself in the ritual of watching you beautify yourself. It is a reminder, in a sense, that all's right in the world and that there's small joys to be had.

― O'Neill strikes me as the type to outwardly pretend he doesn't care about 'the nonsense broads do in their downtime' as something of an attempt at overinflated, macho posturing, but inwardly he is just lingering and hovering around your space with an air of eager, nervous, foot-tapping antsiness, possibly chain-smoking and anxiously scratching the back of his head, leering at you, perhaps occasionally winking or wagging his eyebrows at you when you catch him looking and just waiting for the right opportunity to zip up your dress for you, put on your coat, take off your coat, fix an underwear strap here or there or adjust your flimsy, loose hanging stocking and if he doesn't get the chance outright he might just carve out a chance for himself by smugly, smarmily and very jokingly pointing out how 'you got something there' pointing at your cheek as he wipes off a bit of rouge or offering himself up in the style of 'You need the help of these expert O'Neill fingers' as he buttons the back of your collar up for you with a self contented smile.

― Bunny is downright the type to put on nail polish on your hands and feet all while openly bragging how he shot some 'gook motherfucker' in the face and how the color of the man's brain matter eerily reminds of the shade of your finger laquear, all while in the same breath he might've smugly professed on an earlier occasion how he doesn't care 'about any of that pussy shit', that is to say feminine stuff and the act of feminine grooming, but the minute you indulge in the very same thing he's somehow always there with the morbid curiosity of a meddling kid, not letting you comb your hair, get dressed, shave your legs unless he's somehow involved like the whole thing is an absolute novelty he needs to at least comment on if not witness. Maybe he doesn't get why you do half of the things you do, admittedly. You depilate your hair? Well, shit, he prefers the bush. You're prone to frequent showers? Maybe he prefers funky smells sometimes, huh? You're having trouble with hair maintenance? Shoot, you should cut it off and let him wear it around his belt as a keepsake and shit.

― Rhah thinks that when a woman sets out to beautify herself a little too much, she is inherently up to no good and out to ruin lives whether she realizes it or not (even though he is convinced of nobody's innocence and feels they ALL realize what they're doing --- they're all responsible for their own actions, the same way the poor sobs who get snared into their siren's trap are too) because why would anyone need to look that tantalizing and tempting at all times if there wasn't something nefarious afoot...which is what he might say to you as he's actively affixing a shoe on your foot, looking up at you, devotedly clasping the hook of a necklace at the nape of your neck for you or holding your hair up for you while you adjust the back of your clothing without hair strands getting hooked on the fabric, whispering sweet nothing's against the lobe of your ear --- man's negative trait is that he is very likely to either get into a heated rant directed at you if you look a little too gorgeous for comfort or get into an equally heated headspace of lust which is somehow, on occasion, for Rhah, one and the same.

― Wolfe is probably so inherently affected he develops butterfingers. What does that mean, you may ask? The sight of you in a dress, all dolled up, looking your very best, well, it has him shifting his weight from one leg to the other, throwing on an awkward, bashful smile to hide the big gulps he's swallowing and undoubtedly hiding his nervousness with some little comment that comes off as puppy dog sheepish, if anything, his fingers all clumsy as he accidentally, unintentionally drops a curler meant for your hairdo that has to sit the night he intended to hand to you or nearly stepping on the hem of your long dress even as he intended to help you with it --- a tension that could very well start fading when he's faced with the fact that others are admiring you in the same way he was; that's when his agitated heart might just grow a bit understatedly smug and he continues with his ministrations even in public; adjusting the sleeve of your attire, a strand of hair, looking around intensely, with furrowed brows, to see if anyone sees this and chances are, the prettier you made yourself up for an occasion, the more likely it is to get to Mark Wolfe's head; man might just end the night a bit mean.

― King is absolutely, irrevocably, undeniably and totally enthusiastic to help his boo tend to herself; You don't have to go and tell him twice --- in fact, he might approach you at your little vanity mirror with the widest, biggest, uninhibited of smiles, braid your hair, comb through it, help you into jeans you're having difficulties pulling up in one swoop by aiding you pulling up its edges over your posterior and waistline, claps your bra at your back or watch you with a concentrated, furrowed brow as you apply eyeliner, lipstick or something that demands some molecule of skill. Shit, he might just tell his friends that he ain' get a motherfucker who ain' keen on helping his boo while she's making herself pretty for him. if he misses out on that shit? Well, he must be dead and six feet under! If he ain' six feet under!? He must be completely off his rocker seeing as how, to him, this is like the foundational stone of intimacy and the best part of being with you girl outside of having sex with her --- is watching her just be a woman. Boy, you better get in there and help your girl, he might preach to some naysayer, before sumn' else goes and helps her instead of y'all.

― Elias relishes sprawling out on a hammock, a mattress or any surface where one can validly lounge and just watch you do your work while he smiles blissfully, being shamelessly lazy chowing down on fruit, having himself a snack, smoking some grass and tenderly swaying left and right. It is not that he is against helping you; oh, he is here if you need him, but you do all of this so spectacularly on your own, it is a pleasure to just...you know, lay back and find satisfaction in the show you're putting up just for him. Your grooming routine doesn't even have to be inherently sensual or erotic by any stretch of the imagination; you could just be going about the daily task of brushing your hair, changing an article of clothing, plucking a stray hair from your chin with a tweezer with one eye squinted closed in the reflection of a compact or adjusting a loosened earring and once you turn your head back from the task at hand you might just find Elias throwing you a shit eating grin with a comment like 'Need help with that? I'd offer it, but the view from here...it's so nice'. The next moment, once your attention's averted, he might already be behind you. How's he so quiet?

―

The smoke break. 🚬

Close Quarters.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

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wonderful gif by @woman-with-no-name

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The patrol culminates in rain and thunder.

At 0200 the drenched, tired reconnaissance team wordlessly halts in the bosom of the overgrown bush fenced off from all sides by colossal tree trunks as a natural borderland, rain coming down hard, pelting and pawing at the foliage, the thumping sounds of a shower downpour dancing pins and dots on the grass leaving a haze of heated mist behind, the greenery, needles of water ricocheting off the meaty surface of Monstera and overgrown, towering Alocasia leaves when the signal is silently given sometime after three hours of continuous movement westwards, through the valley about to be hit with the prelude to the early monsoon season announced by a cacophony of crickets, frogs, the squeaking of Tokay gecko lizards and the repetitive chirping of the Blue Eared Barbet bird, one hand held up to signalize; the Lieutenant and Sergeants raising their arm to the square, palm forward, fingers and thumb extended; you've slept in the wild during the rain before, sure, hauling equipment, backpacks, the fatigues on your own exhausted spine, the air so humid and stifling even at this late hour, almost like the pitch black, cloud-heavy sky overhead was pressing down on the warm oxygen, trapping it between the jungle and the atmosphere not unlike a hydraulic press, that the quiet past-midnight storm was almost welcome in a strange way --- a rare bit of fresh, breathable air in an oven --- washing you down like an overly heated piece of plate gets sprayed down by a hose from somewhere overhead. He never slept. Part of you wondered how that was even humanly possible. Or at least, nobody has ever seen him do it; no doubt, he viewed it like some act of inherent, profound vulnerability he didn't wish to be outright witnessed by human eyes; a soft-belly man with shut off senses with his tender neck bared and exposed to the world, unbecoming, like somebody asking to be jumped --- you wouldn't put it past Robert Barnes to sleep hidden, in the rare off chance he did get shut eye once his usual battle-pumped adrenaline wore off, somewhere up in a tree like a panther or a tiger maintaining watch over perimeters in the night with unblinking eyes as blue and as fluorescent as a hunting tom-cat's gaze, or in some forest cave not unlike a wild hog, emerging only once the break was done, without anyone knowing where he was in the brief second it took for them to turn their heads.

He ain' never sleep, Rhah Vermucci's fervent, impassioned words come to mind.

Does a machine need sleep? Huh!? Yeah, bah, only once its battery is bepelted and once it's depleted, you just replace 'em and the machinery keeps'on runnin' smooth as can be, day in, day out. That's Barnes! Lids open, body upside down, like a nocturnal bat! Yeah.

You were offended by those words then; silently, privately.

Like any and every man's lover undoubtedly would anyhow.

Gaze framed with lashes dripping with the salt of sweat and rainwater searching for Barnes's form in the chaos of wilderness even now as you found some tucked away place, intending to catch your Z's, or at least pretend to and rest your eye lids and your body on the bare, wet soil, your oily green, knee-length rain coat the only thing between you and the elements as your rucksack stayed firmly attached to your shoulders by its belted straps, knowing he was somewhere close by, M16 in tow, inspecting perimeters while everyone else in the infantry settled down in their own respective chosen resting corner, about to lay low until the first crack of dawn. Maybe why you shiver so suddenly when you catch the sound of barely audible movement sashay from behind your back, thinking for a second that you stupidly, carelessly laid down on a snake's hovel, a red ant's nest or a VC hole, tactically covered by shrubberies and branches, ready to bayonet you from underground. No, no. Barnes. It was him. On a hip. Already settled next to you as your heart hammered away fast. His presence as quiet as the air itself. The sleek fabric of his raincoat occasionally flashing with a dim sheen faced with the distant flash of lighting, elbow leaned up against the thick, vein root of a Banyan tree that served as natural roofing against the rain, his firearm wrapped in protective cloth against the moisture propped up beside him like an extended limb, watching you as you instinctively turned your position, facing him; wasn't the first time you lounged in close quarters like this either, under the cover of night, when nobody was likely to see or question why two soldiers were having each other's backs; the schedule of one resting and the other keeping vigil an intended pairing of practicality. The first time he ever did it was startling but you didn't question it --- you assumed it was the nature of things that the strongest in the unit naturally paired up with what was the weakest link, an auxiliary nurse hauling equipment, slow and often overburdened, to avoid the needless casualty of being shot during an unexpected ambush. The second time he's done it? The third? How about the fourth? You came to expect it almost; this knowledge that when you'd halt and put down gear, Barnes would be close by, appearing wordlessly like a shadow in the abyss, halting and putting down gear too, magnets moving and dragging the other along.

You shuffle on your side, suppressing a sigh and a groan.

Underground, soil-covered stones, pebbles and roots digging into your body.

Cheek against the ground still radiating the extinguished anvil of daytime's warmth.

Fetal position intending to make you small on purpose; the less noticeable, the better.

Strategically crawled in between the grass and the foot of the strangler fig, all tangled, hanging, branch-supporting roots and thick curtains of hanging, Spanish moss, face to face with each other, you only barely withhold a gasp when his unfolded sleeping roll slides over you like a wing, shrouding you in total darkness for all but a second, having him cover you in it in one swift movement while his other hand never let go of his firearm, pulling the camping blanket over your head, adjusting it over your hair covered by the hood of your raincoat, tightened and tied into place by an elastic thread, the rain pelting down on the compression straps of the waterproof nylon instead of your body while he lay there as wet as the jungle itself; his head wrapping drenched and darkened along with the whisps of hair peeking through its edges, scattered across his covered forehead, scarred, leathery skin covered in a soaked gleam, the corner of his jaw, starting from his temple, down his cheeks, dripping with the drizzle. Yet he cared, you figured, in his own way, that even though you were already soaked to the bone you don't continue being bolted down by the rain for the rest of the night if he had any say in it, creating a makeshift refuge of relative dryness and shelter; a solitary island in the darkness --- wordless ways he looked out for you.

-"Thank you."-

You mouth without making sounds, the words merely oxygen.

Barely audible.

He knew what you meant; you continuously thanked him the same every time.

And his eyes always followed the movement of your lips, reading signs.

Mutual silences being an ingrained way of communication out in the jungle.

Now laying so very close you practically feel his breath on your face.

A hair's inch between you as he scoots nearer on his side.

The tip of his nose nearly pressing into yours.

No moon outside, no source of light.

Regardless, you nearly see yourself reflected in the center of his stare.

He doesn't kiss you even though his presence is right there, going by the mantra of all business, no pleasure, at least not while in the open bush, ever the consummate professional and disciplinarian, the discoloration of his meaty, full mouth where once upon a time the shrapnel of a bullet hit his face visible, a layer of flesh peeled off from the edge of his lower lip like the skin off a bruised peach, revealing the dark layer of crust that formed the crater of a wound and you watch him and he watches right back, taking in your face, lids hanging low and the blue of his eyes steady on the horizon of his sockets, having you cornered in from all sides by the protective wall of the looming tree, his sleeping roll blanketing you over, effectively hiding you, and his own body, the tips of two noses slowly brushing each other in the mimicry of a caress, not unlike one of those Eskimo kisses, the contact leaving a wet imprint on your face --- not quite an embrace, but close enough, torsos pressed together to the degree you could feel the low rumbling of his insides, the rhythm of his breathing, in and out, in out, heart hitting a steady beat, filling your nostrils with the musk of him, thigh against thigh, hip against hip; the outdoors forged aroma of sweat and tobacco smoked while at base, the freshness of rain, something almost leaf-like, briefly reminiscent of pine even though there wasn't a single one in sight this side of the continent, his closeness calm and steady, yet heavy, like a living rock covering you, keeping you safe as you nestled, using the hollowness of a muscular shoulder you knew was covered in scars underneath layers of fatigue and equipment as a pillow --- a warm, wet place to carefully, tenderly lean the outline of your hooded, sweat soaked scalp, his raincoat crinkling slightly as you set down your head to be able to gaze at him at even closer proximity until two faces were almost one, the side of your cheek smushed against the scarred, left side of his, fitting together like a solved puzzle, feeling every crater, every nook, every cranny, every dent imprinted on your own skin certain to leave faint, pale sleeping marks by you by morning, making you reflections of each other; a closeness held at back only by the presence of the ground your heads were on. Even now, Barnes's lids never flutter shut even in the make belief of sleep while all his other senses were alert; no, his eyes always open. Always scrutinizing. Always searching yours, stern, serious, focused, intense.

The distant sound of thunder rumbles on and you knew he intended to watch.

You knew he intended to wordlessly, quietly watch while you recuperated.

Sleeping bag off of his shoulder and every hour of rest out of his eyes ---

Purely so you could have yours.

In absolute gratitude, your lips touch the mangled scar of his, not kissing, never breaking that protocol bit of contract, not out here anyway where a moment of negligence could come with a high cost, but merely lingering, a parted caresses as you close your weary eyes, feeling instant relief once you do, fully awake, ears on alert, limbs ready to jump at any moment, but your eyes subsiding in their burning sensation on the precipice of being awake and being asleep, halfway rested and halfway aware, even if it was for a minute, ten, half an hour, under the defensive hill of blankets he's made for you, shielding you, not unlike an umbrella, as the relentless rain kept crashing down hard and heavy, beating against his body as rigid and as unmoving as a boulder while you lay there, soundly, the windows of your lids blissfully closed, mouth against his face prickled with the faintest sensation of a fresh shave around his scars, feeling the warm, tender flesh cushioned beside you, laying watch; your own personal guard.

No, Barnes never slept.

At least not when anyone was likely to see.

Observing you do it instead, leaving you with the knowledge that when you wake?

Hit with the earliest cracks of a dawn bedashed with the aftermath of a storm?