They walk like they own the goddamn planet.
Not just confidence—
cocky, oozing it,
like it’s leaking out their pores
with the cologne and creative.

Tight shirts,
rolled sleeves showing off arms
that probably get more action
than their rifles.
Tats like curated art—
not a single bad decision inked on skin.
Every fade is fresh.
Every smirk is earned.

You want to hate them.
You do.
But you can’t stop watching.

Boots spotless,
like they hover above dirt.
Somehow their sweat smells like aftershave,
like war’s just another gym set.
Even when they’re tired,
they flex.
Even when they lose,
they win.

They throw words like punches—
loud, fast,
always laughing
like the world’s a joke
they already got.

You look at them
and see G.I. Joe
crossed with a frat boy
who bench-presses pain
but never shows it.
Maybe it’s real.
Maybe it’s armor.

Either way,
they’re out here
turning combat boots into catwalks,
making the rest of us
feel like background noise.

Ken dolls with kill counts.
Too smooth to break.
Too cool to bleed.

Annoying as hell.
And somehow
unshakably
magnetic.