Could you please write a fic about Barnes with a blind reader?, And she wants to touch his face.
it either be that they were already married before he went to Nam, and after he came back she would just want to feel what happened or how his face have changed since the last time she felt it.
or if they met and got together after he came back, she would just want to feel how a scar could evoke such fear, disgust or weariness by people around her.
I would love it if it was on the softer side(or how soft you actually can get from Barnes💀)
Robert Barnes x Blind!Reader.
He never did want anyone's sympathy.
He could halfway live with people's hate --- their natural disgust.
There were days when he genuinely thrived off of that, like fuel feeding a great, big machine. People giving the zig zagging fuck-up of winding scars running down his face anxious stares and him relishing their fears, toying with them silently, like a gator does when it smells blood spilled in the bayou; sharing the odd whisper like he was a netherworld creature walkin' in broad daylight. Averting their eyes in a rush as if not to offend. Pedestrians on the streets of Saigon parting like the Red Sea whenever he'd pass. Hurrying up their pace whenever they saw him approaching in the state that his mug was in. Talking to him with their gaze tactically looking elsewhere, their lashes flicking nervously, as if, by accident. Times when he was straight up called an ugly motherfucker by a POW who didn't know just how much of their gook language he could actually speak, or as the womenfolk back home would refer to it, label him ugly as homemade sin while he was interrogating a captive holding who was to what little sense of control they still had by throwin' 'round petty insults before he delivered them a world of pain. He was ugly as homemade sin. No denial there. Barnes never ran from the reality of things or the actuality of his situation. He embraced himself in all his entirety. He was a looker once, sure. Tall glass of water. Maybe not in the way city folk would classify good looks, but among his own, he was viewed as attractive and theirs was the only opinion that mattered to him anyhow --- Robert wasn't one for...well...vanity, but he reckoned in some human part of him he missed it on occasion, in those lonesome hours when the whiskey took hold. Bein' known as the well proportioned, comely son of old Barnes livin' on the other side of the mountain, out in the boonies. Now scarred, fucked up --- a bear mauled lookin' son of a bitch. The type of sack of shit that ought to have lived on the margins of society, not in the midst of it.
Maybe why he married you.
You never could see him; born entirely blind, sumn' hereditary in the blood.
Never even seen colors, shapes, the sunlight and you wouldn't know him from Adam.
Was it a relief? A burden off of his shoulders? A sort of release?
Fuck if he knew --- so long as he didn't come back to sumn' starin' at him like there was a slab of dried up shit stuck to his face every day for the rest of his damn life. But, there were days. There were days when the inexplicable tension in his gut he could only register as upset and jealousy, doing turns in his insides --- jealousy at the very notion that some indifferent, random force went and rendered you blind from straight out of the womb and that you'd never see him. Never catch a glimpse of him. Never be shocked by him. Never be perplexed. Never be anythin'. That you could be imagining a completely different man in your mind, attaching his distorted, scraunched up, mosaic of features to your memories instead of the visage he actually wore because you didn't know any better. He wanted to take that make belief motherfucker by the throat and ram his mug into a wall.
-"This is quite the face ---"-
You remarked on one occasion, fingers tracing him slowly.
Your expression poised up at the ceiling, mouth parted as you tried to gauge him.
Your orbs misty and red, like someone blew a mouthful of smoke into them.
A vaguely bloodshot quality to their frozen over, far away state.
Like a pair of white Sunday church pearls with a dim sheen.
The type his mamma never used to have.
-"I can feel it. A strong jaw. A nose with a hook right here."-
You breathe, the pad of your finger tapping and tracing, sliding down the extent of his features, describing back what you felt, what you found there, travelling south, halting for a second at the outline of his mouth which he doesn't move, letting you feel it --- the deep laceration on its left side that left a scar. Any deeper and it would've blown half of his lip off and left him appear to perpetually scowl in a makeshift snarl, like a rabid animal. -"Full mouth."- You remark, dragging the tip of your finger left and right, the sensation halfway a caress, scraping along the outline of the pit mark disfiguring one side of the mouth you called full, causing him to watch your own as you spoke, seated beside him, hip to hip. He allowed you to touch him like this; he figured, if you were man and woman, it was warranted and allowed --- you ought to have gotten a basic understanding who would be takin' you to bed, even if you'd never actually see. He was unsure if he was vexed by that or if it suited him just fine and Barnes didn't like being unsure of anything. The full palm of your open hand press against his healthy, unmarred cheek. -"Your skin…feels leathery…like the sun scorched you a lot. But...a child could've told you that."- You neck briefly tilts, like you were amused at yourself, somehow displeased with your observation, no doubt finding it very obvious. Sure. He was fresh back from The 'Nam. Didn't take sixth sense to deduce he was as burnt as they come, but then again, he left for The 'Nam lookin' like this; never was the type to hide his ass indoors, finding himself perfectly still, like sumn' with limbs havin' turned to stone once you reach his scars. You ain' never seein' those, he thinks. You only feelin' and imaginin' them. Never in a fit of anger will you call him an ugly sonofabitch. Never will he have to pretend it wouldn't bother me at least a lil'. Ever muscle in him twitches to reach up and grab your hand, stopping it, but just as many yearn to force your wrist to continue feeling him. -"And this."- You trail off, travelling up the canyon of his deep, dried up scars, the pad of your finger scraping along the scabby surface. Barnes inhales. Dares to close his eyes and enjoy the contact. You wouldn't see the vulnerability anyway. -"Does it hurt when I touch it?"- You halt for a second, genuine sincerity coloring your tone and he halfway wants to grunt in protest, displeased by the fact you stopped. -"Nah."- Is all he grumbles instead, lying like a motherfucker. Truth was, it hurt to varying degrees almost constantly. On good days, like a perpetual background hum, on bad days, so intensely he too would go blind, darkness dotting his eyesight. You reach the precipice of his forehead, a wisp of his bangs touching your knuckles. There it was; where that one gook motherfucker shot him, straight in the forehead that was meant to be killer point blank range fire. -"I sense a dent here."-
You assess, your touch intensely careful, almost sheepish, like you were uncertain.
'Fraid of hurtin' his ass.
-"Got shot in the head. Have myself a plate underneath there."-
He explains, throwing his jaw out towards you; it wasn't that he wasn't proud.
-"Is it exposed? Visible? I can't find a thing."-
Fingers travel further up, disappearing in his hairline, feeling his scalp up.
Looking for an exposed bit of flesh and the hard surface of a covering.
Was beneath the bone and skin; ain' nothin' there to see.
They operated on him and plugged him up a long time ago like a faulty faucet.
Shaved his head bald like sumn' recoverin' from lice; wore it like that for a year.
Some motherfucker at base started spreadin' rumors that they lobotomized his ass in recovery back in the hospital to stabilize him like a hunting dog with rabies, never realizin' it was just standard procedure during surgery to keep his brains from leakin' out and so they could have a clean opening to work on his skull without any locks gettin' in the way.
-"Shit's overgrown with a bushel of hair."-
He adds as you tenderly caressed his head.
Only for your arm to fall, landing right on his closed eyelids.
Doesn't strike you odd that they're already fluttered shut by time you touched them.
That they've been fluttered shut nearly the whole damn time, his guard relinquished.
That he's been sitting there stoic, givin' himself the relief of findin' this pleasurable.
The ugly ought to have married the blind by law, if he had any say in it.
The same way the mouthy ought to have married the deaf.
-"And your eyes. Right here."-
You state and he relaxes into the touch, at least somewhat.
Shoulders still rigid and straight, thighs spread, hands on his knees.
-"How blue are they? You said they're blue."-
You inquire curiously despite never havin' witnessed the shade yourself or any other as for that matter; all you knew it from was description, you said once. You understood that the sky above was blue. The sea. Certain flowers. But, not, tangibly, concretely, practically, how it actually looked like. How the fuck does one go 'bout describin' a color to sumn' who had no perception of the palette wheel? You didn't even know what darkness and blackness was behind those eyes; you said you bein' blind wasn't bein' in a complete abyss, instead, it was the absence of even that. It was just nothin', like tryin' to see through one's kneecap. It's cool, he itched to say, like if sumn' cold had a pigmentation. The sensation of bein' outside in midwinter and shiverin'. That's the color of my eyes. Don't strain your purdy head visualizin' it.
Is all he utters instead, bluntly, matter of factly, feelin' his own throat rumble.
Merely reaffirming your own words, no poetry in that shit.
-"You're not helping me. The more you describe yourself to me, the better."-
You remark with a sense of mirth, not begrudging his verbal brevity, feelin' yourself up another set of scars, on the right side of his face, placed on the edges of his eye, deep and intendent, like a permanent fleshy, deep cut web of crow's feet caused by a bit of shrapnel bouncing off of his face and nearly hitting his socket and exploding it --- a mere centimeter further and he would've been blind in one eye for the rest of his life, same as you, renderin' him physically unfit for service, goin' 'round with an eyepatch like Rooster Cogburn or Alvarez Kelly. And one for words? He's never been one for words. He could do many things, but describe himself was hardly one of them. A grown man had no business praisin' his own looks no how. He couldn't just say 'I'm sight to behold, girl. I've seen better days, but I'm not nothin' to scoff one's nose at now neithers. When you lay down, you ain' layin' down with a horses' ass'. Instead he half grins; an expression you cannot see. Maybe you sense it, once you fingers slide down to his mouth, touching the seams of his lips pressing against the outlines of his puffed up cheeks. You might've heard it too. The deep rumble in his chest. You had a good set of ears on'ya. -"You got me all pegged, darlin'. Did a better work readin' me with them hands then I could've described my ass with words."- His spine leans backwards, up against the wall into the corner of which the bed you sat up on was pushed into, pulling you flush against him, causin' him to wonder what was goin' on inside of that head of yours? How did the image of him look like to you? If it wasn't him, it might as well have been his mortal enemy, confoundin' him, splittin' him in half like some sort of indecisive broad. Do you want to be seen by her or not, motherfucker? Which is it? Hitched with a blind girl so she doesn't go 'round gawkin' at your ass and gettin' angry at God for never givin' her her eyesight so she could see your fuckin' ugly mug. The dimmed light hits the side of your face as you stared up absently at a corner of nothingness and you looked like them marble cut statues they keep in museums. God didn't need to give you eyes; his eyes were good for the both of'ya. -"I imagine…this has got a lot of people…well…staring."- You return to tracin' his scar and he says nothing; lets the gesture run its course, hand reaching for the nightstand and grabbing a pack, pulling out a cigarette; Imma light up, he briefly murmurs, as a warning to you. -"Because I figure they stare at me too."- You pull away only slight once the tobacco smoke curls from his mouth and the zippo is set aside. They ain' gon' stare no more. Not with him 'round. And you didn't even realize that. They were so scared of him they'd be scared of you too
-"They been known to look."-
Barnes shrugs, talkin' 'bout himself.
-"I've been known to look back."-
He adds, wonderin' if you caught the smugness in his tone.
-"You're the staring type then too."-
You mutter more to yourself than him, slowly lowering your head on his shoulder.
Nestlin' there like a newborn rabbit nests in a basket of cotton.
The silence gives way to a loon bird shriekin' outside.
Somewhere deep in the forest; night was slowly enveloping the mountainside.
You never did experience it, but the moon was a yellow crescent up above.
Like the thinly split side of a perfectly cut autumn apple.
Your voice perks up while you lay there.
A cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth.
He reaches over for a nearby ashtray, as to not disturb you.
Sets it down on his own meaty ass thigh 'stead of the mattress.
You ain' gon' sleep on no dirtied sheets while he was alive.
-"Describe me to myself. What do I look like to you?"-
You halfway whisper and he feels himself stiffen against the bedroom wall. How the fuck could he ever do you justice? He wasn't versed in them pretty words. Flattery. Spinnin' a yarn. Platitudes and purple prose. Just purdy wouldn't cut it either. Not sayin' anythin' to his blind woman hankerin' to know what she looked like? Would sayin' 'you look mine and that's good 'nough for me'. Would that cut it? Goin' Biblical, perhaps, even though his God was death and emptiness; nothing found in any church or place of worship. He remembers Pentecostal sermons; the type his mamma used to go to. The preacher in extasy, with a hissing Hognose wrapped 'round his neck sayin' woman was made from a piece of man's flesh as a companion. That's what you looked like to Barnes, he assumed. Sumn' designed for him from his own marrow before he even knew who you were --- maybe why he failed gettin' his own ass killed back in The 'Nam, even though he went courtin' danger. 'Cos he was supposed to drag his hide back here and find'ya. Eyup. That's a fine thing to say, he figured. As well as he could phrase it.
-"Like you a rib taken from inside of me."-
Is all he answers with, gathering you close while he blew smoke circles out of his mouth, lettin' them float mid air.
