This Is My Therapy

Simple dreams 🎀👰‍♀️🤍💐🌙

Snoopy zippo lighters owned by soldiers during the Vietnam war (1955-1975)

oh, to be a live oak draped in spanish moss.

Lance Johnson

“Wouldn’t it be nice to live together, in the kind of world where we belong” 💙📿👙🚙🪖💌

More Barnes as requested!

(loveeeee grumpy x sunshine trope)

Lace 🤍

Yessss Crawford getting attention 💛🏄‍♂️🌊

Could you please do some relationship headcanons for Crawford?.

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Crawford; Relationship Headcanons.

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― Genuinely a very positive person, lets get that immediately straight and out of the way --- not in some forced, artificial way either. It just shines through him naturally; You know how sweethearts writing letters to their loved ones in war are usually the ones comforting them? Pretty expected, correct? Well, in Crawford's case, it is the other way around --- he is the source of feelgood vibes towards you, back home. You receive an envelope and it is filled to the brim with words of encouragement directed at you; reminding you how he counts down the days eagerly, what his methods to make the months fly by faster are, how time passes and that's a good thing, how he is fine, no trouble on the horizon and even when something bad does happen, like him getting injured, shot, the platoon falling into an ambush, Crawford is very likely to just downplay it all, not because he is lying, being honest or swerving the truth, but simply because he always looks on the brighter side of things and it oozes through every word he's ever written you, making letters from him something you happily anticipate to get rather than dreading the notion. He's your fix of wellness and sunshine in that regard, but during deployment and away from it.

― Speaking of which, he has a natural knack at making you temporarily forget the very vivid danger he is realistically in; his correspondence including descriptions of the favorable weather, some beautiful beach he might've seen around Vietnam and took time to immortalize through descriptiveness, the circumstance of the tides, the waves, sending you the odd occasional trinket or souvenir he's either bought, found or handmade himself, be it an unusually colored seashell(s) collected somewhere off of the coastlines dotting the southern portion of the country, the occasional glass colored handful of tiny pebbles stringed together in the vein of a puka necklace, maybe some statuette of a local deity bought in some city or market place passed by a patrol; the image of a mermaid or a local, folksy oceanic spirit Crawford carefully wraps up with merely the jokey description, a singular one, on a white piece of paper that accompanies it and says 'You' --- whatever the case, the subjective feeling is that he's merely on a short lived vacation doing just fine and that he'll back to you soon, which is generally the whole point to him anyway.

― He's unabashedly, through an through, a California kid at heart. A surf boy. As a result, irregardless of where you're from yourself, you're his 'Babe', his 'Beach girl', his 'Valley Girl', his human incarnation of an easygoing, eternal summer and a promise of better days to come --- those are just some of the playful endearments he has for you and in fact, the less close you live in proximity to California itself, the more interesting it is to see just how keen Crawford is to sweetly claim you into the fold like you're a born and bred native of the place. You could be from Alaska or far off Timbuktu and he'll generally talk about you, refer to you, reference you like you downright lived on the sunny, carefree coastline somewhere all your life and that's where you rightfully belong and chances are, the boys of the Underworld might just get surprised to discover the person Crawford keeps mentioning isn't in fact from the West Coast or even anywhere near it. Say, if you are, that is simply an added bonus. But, it generally changes nothing, because he, through affection alone welcomes you into everything he is so readily you really start getting the subjective impression you are exactly who he keeps teasingly saying you are. You really are his 'beach girl' because you sure as heck feel it.

― Not a confrontational partner towards you whatsoever; he gives me the impression that he doesn't think a relationship should be...well...stressful. In fact, ideally, nothing should be stressful. Love and peace, man? That, or peace out, bro. Either or. He's very much in that mindset and mentality. What's the point of anything that's a draining hassle? A relationship should be fun, loving, dedicated and all things that feel good and if it ain't, there's no point it --- that being his laid back Cali self talking ---meaning that this thing you two have is oddly mellow and well balanced for all intents and purposes, making you feel like really well adjusted friends as well as significant others; in fact, so well adjusted that one might get the impression of a settled couple from you two even if you were together significantly shorter. Or maybe you weren't. Regardless of the combination of how things work between you you both give off vibe of a really young, carefree couple and two people who almost act like an old married partnership of people. From quiet walks on the beach wrapped in thin, pale cardigans, to screaming and chasing each other in the sand, the two aspects are combined just perfectly. One perhaps, wouldn't immediately expect a surf boy to have a relationship this...mature and healthy...but it is.

― You're his pearl, his mermaid, his sunshine, his sea-breeze; he realizes the nicknames are deliberately cheesy, and that they make him snort as well as they make you giggle and roll your eyes, endeared, but see, that's exactly why he likes them; the same way he likes strengthening the further impression that he is a-okay and safely out of harm's way while in-country by regularly taking polaroids and snaps of himself shirtless with his skin going through the process of red peeling due to the sharp, overhead sun, finding ways to tan during breaks on base the way he would home and sending you pics of himself covered form head to toe in creme as a joke, having photos of himself snapped near beaches, bodies of water, thumbs up and smile in tow, purely so you'd have tangible proof and reminders not to worry. He might even jovially label his own photos sent to you as 'Greetings from California, Da Nang' or 'Love from somewhere around the Cambodian Border, San Diego' purely to comedically intermix and interconnect the 'here' and the 'there' and make his deployment feel as close to home as humanly possible; like he merely popped out of town for a brief blip, but he'll be back before you know it.

― If you can't swim, he'll teach you. If you can't dive, he'll teach you. If you can't surf, he'll teach you that too, if you've a fear of water, he'll try to ease that up in you in a prodding, teasing manner; he could be generally surprised by anyone who doesn't know how to do these things because this boy's like a fish in water and he might project the notion that everyone's a natural at said skills too, but in his mind he's already rubbing his hands together eager for the opportunity to be the one to meticulously explain everything to you first, even though he is just as likely to be surprisingly fine if you never quite take to the water like a natural the way he does, because he'll be entirely content with you just smilingly, peacefully sitting in the shallow, waterfilled bosom of the tame coastline, perhaps from underneath the hooded shade of a beach parasol, waving him off lovingly while he does tricks and stunts with his surfboard for you like a champ, showing off, making you laugh or simply having you drift off, immersed in observing him from your tucked away, serene corner. If you aren't a swimmer his letters might sweetly remind not to 'head out there without him to hold unto you'.

― It is less so about a specific look where his 'type' is concerned and more so about details and aspects that show off a body and an appearance hints at being lived in; So, what does this mean, you may ask? The occasional awkward suntan on your shoulders, the way your nose might've gotten adorably red due to too much exposure to sunshine, perhaps, if your skin is prone to it, the odd freckle here and there brought about by the heat, if not, the way your complexion either got bronze or dark, maybe your hair developing an odd decolorization, fizziness or highlight from the rays, knees white with sand, salty skin, body smelling like tanning lotion washed off by the waves and the open oceanborne air and the sea, your breath smelling like the sweetness of excess ice cream, your body being paler underneath your clothes than the parts that are open to direct exposure due to spaghetti straps, cleavage, short sleeves, daisy dukes, hot pants, flip flops and the like, peach fuzz and the odd bit of body hair whitewashed by the extremity of high noon conditions --- all of these things drive Crawford absolutely bananas and he adores to see it. Probably keeps something unusual like that as his wartime keepsake. A polaroid of the different of skin shades after you've tanned in your swimsuit. He think it's cute.

― Get the impression that while he was home he wouldn't have really cared for you cooking for him in the classical, traditional sense; big, tiresome meals that take hours to prepare and all that, rather, Crawford likes the odd, quick concoction he and you can eat on your feet and on the move and he seems really taken with combinations that nobody understands but him and you; fact is, he might tell the boys of the Underworld, all endeared, how his girl likes to make him Baja bay beach sandwiches or on the go Surf San Diego style burgers, talking about all of it like it is the peak of cuisine (and to him, it is) but nobody's ever heard of any of these things even though he talks about it all with a smile plastered on his face, and the reason why nobody's ever heard of these recipes because he enjoys it when you put together something you and him can simply chow on while outside, on a pier, a dock or the seaboard and he might even reference it in his letters to you. Babe, you've no clue how much I wanna try what we ate the last time we were out on the shore. Oh, man, I'm dreaming about it.

― What he enjoys getting back from you in terms of correspondence is the same thing he sends, give or take. The simplicity of your day-to-day life in his absence, your problems, joys, hopes, thoughts, feelings, pictures of anything and everything you can possibly send; your sandals in the water, his name written out next to yours in the sand before the waves wash it away, an interesting surfboard in a shop window, a meal, a dessert or cocktail drink you've prepared and that you would've shared with him if he was with you, you trying on a new bikini or sundress, interesting newspaper clippings you think would make him laugh, some sand in a small bottle vial he can wear around his neck as a piece of home not unlike a memento, a lock of your hair particularly chewed by the salt of the beach and that you cut off and tied with a ribbon, sending it him so he can be amused by it as he safeguards it. -"Yeah, babe, I'm def. sending you a cap next time."- He might comedically respond in his next letter, legitimately finding the bright side in every situation, regardless how serious or unserious, serving as a sparkle of guiding light for you throughout the war.

PLATOON (1986) | dir. Oliver Stone

Pitching an idea (if you like) with absolutely insane baby fever but Barnes and his wife with their first child together at home? Just being hit with the realization of being safe and watching over them and having someone who depends on him

𝓦𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘴

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ୨ A Barnes x reader fic ୧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯

» a/n: later than i planned, but here it is! god i hate school. but anyways enjoy <3

inspired by the song "Wild Horses" by TRS.

7:21am, in a cabin, somewhere in rural South Carolina.

The white lace curtains blow in the humid air lazily and through the window the summer sun beams into the bedroom, shining light on the old wooden floor, then the bedframe, then the mattress, then your face.

Something was missing. It wasn't the gun kept in the nightstand drawer, it wasn't the watch or the wedding ring in a ceramic bowl on the nightstand either. You turns your head, the space beside you in the bed is empty. The wrinkles on the sheet show that once someone slept here. You outreach a hand towards the sheet, feeling no warmth. He had been gone long before you awoke.

You saw him through a window as he headed back home along the dirt path, frowning absentmindedly. He had slung a pheasant on a rope around it's neck over his shoulder. The bird had a warm brown feathery colour, it's head shades of glimmering navy and berry red. It hit against his shoulder blade limply with every step he took, like rapping knuckles on a door. Barnes was always awake before you. During his tours in Vietnam there was a 6 am sharp wake time you'd be sorry if you missed. All that routine had drilled into him and left a mark. Even without an alarm he was mechanically set to wake up at the crack of dawn, everyday, without fail.

He was the Sergeant of a platoon, he had men depending on him. He had to show up; to set an example. Yet things had changed now. Never again would the rattle of a machine gun or whizz of a bullet disturb him throughout his day. No, those terrors had shapeshifted now, transforming into nightmares, plagues that fevered his mind when the sky was dark and he was thousands of miles away from their origin. Hand on a weapon metal-made and heated from rapid use, cool jungle air in his nostrils mangled with the scent of blood and death. Although he left Vietnam, Vietnam would never leave him.

⋆

As Barnes entered the house, the sounds of early morning greeted him. The sound of a knife hitting a cutting board, the whining of a kettle near boiling, the humming of a woman. His footsteps were heavy on the old floorboards, creaking loudly. This noisiness wasn't a problem, he had no one to hide from anymore. His enemies had won the war and he had retreated back to his origins. Or had he? Some days Barnes wondered if this was real, or if he was bleeding out and dying somewhere back in the jungle; coping with his near end by envisioning a heaven. A cabin in seclusion, a wife making breakfast, a child's crib in a room down the hallway.

He sat at the table, coming out of his wandering mind back to reality. He plopped the pheasant down on the table. "That'll be t'night's dinner." He declares casually, crossing his ankles over underneath the table.

⋆

You sat on the front porch, in a rocking chair built from spruce wood with carved details in it. The initials of you and Barnes had been carved on the middle of the back rest carefully with a miniature chisel and mallet. A gift, for the arrival of a newborn. In your cradling arms, wrapped in fine white cotton, a babe no more than nine months rests, close to the warmth of your core.

The view of a valley breaking out from a forest lies in front of your porch. There are strong, wild winds bouncing and whirling and running through the plains, but the tall pines either side of the porchway protect you from the elements. The grass of the valley falls and rises rhythmically with the melody of wind, like a sea of green blades, like nature's lungs ascending and descending. And then there, like rogues in leagues of their own, a herd of horses emerges from the horizon, making their way into clear view.

Wild horses. Beautiful, strong, dark, mottled, light, bold, patterned. Flowing unbrushed manes and muscular necks. There were maybe a dozen of them, all staying close to each other's vicinity among the swaying grass.

"Look, Bobby." You whispered under your breath, following the shapes of grey and brown and white animals in the distance.

Barnes was leaning against the railing, away from you and your new child. He had a Marlboro red tucked between his lips, the smoke blowing in the opposite direction to you, intentionally. He had picked up the habit of smoking not in the near proximity of the child, as to your satisfaction. He had already turned his head towards your view. It was rare to spot wild horses, even in the middle of the sticks where the laws of society were replaced with the laws of the land. There were no men shouting conversation, but rather a bobcat's yowl. No late night callers cry, but rather a horned owl's signature tune.

Both, in silence, you and Barnes watched the horses graze. A small speckled foal followed by it's mother's side, young slender joints carrying it in an unsteady, fresh stride.

Your face turns to Bobby, an expression of endearment underlined. He too was watching the foal, an animalistic reminder that life goes on.

⋆

Late at night, lying by your side, Robert can't find it in him to fall asleep. Late night shifts of watching over the sleeping platoon, being the only one depended on to keep watch had been ingrained into him to an almost institutionalised level.

Now, it was different. He was not squatted amongst verdant bushes with ragged soldiers scattered out of sight in turning, tossing slumber. He didn't wear a uniform of army green, his surroundings didn't smell like rain-wet vegetation and the smolder of gun smoke. The room smelled like the lavender sitting in a vase on the nightstand. Moonlight invited itself into the room through the window, shining through the silhouette of a window. Barnes turned his head slowly, seeing a familiar crescent moon in the middle of the midnight sky. Funny, how it was the same moon he'd been gazing at all his life, even overseas when he was deployed. The moon had been there since before he even existed, and it'd be there long after he's gone.

He holds you closer, kissing your forehead. You'd never know this, you were fast asleep in his trusted embrace.

⋆

Barnes watched from the comfort of a dust-red armchair you sat on the floor, kneeling beside your infant, hands under their elbows as they used their stubby legs to support their weight. You glanced up, making sure Bobby was watching. He was. Barnes smiled rarely with his mouth. His smile was a hidden one, in the twinkle of his eyes as he watched on.

Clumsily, one foot fell in front of the other. You lingered, letting the babe walk unsupported. Towards their father. He smiled. Everything was so simple right now. Your face was illuminated by the midday sun shining through the window behind him, your child was taking their first steps. When the child reached him, in about four stumbling steps, he reached down, picking them up and propping the infant on his knee. They giggled, looking at Barnes' face. How funny it was, to be loved unconditionally. To this babe Barnes was their father, nothing more. Not a killer branded by war, not a Frankenstein pariah.