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atmostories · 8 days ago

Text

His Cog.

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Robert Barnes x Reader.

• (Part II)

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― Part one to be found here x. A present for @atmostories 🖤 who is the original author.

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gif by @woman-with-no-name

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Bad things always come in threes.

You supposed that was the best way to describe these past few weeks.

These three weeks in precise count.

All shouting, the blur of one task bleeding into another and days stretching into infinity. Time becoming more of an abstraction than a concept with an actual, reliable, firm meaning. From 0500 in the morning until ten in the evening or for as long as duty and current circumstances demanded. Until you could practically feel the stress mounted in the back of your spine, pulsating.

Like a living thing with a heartbeat of its own, attached to your own.

Overshadowing it.

They haul in the wounded by the dozens and you’re rushed off your feet to the degree you find yourself at a loss for time to think about the hunger — about the tiredness — thirst or the pain, not a free moment between running from one makeshift wooden palette serving as a sick bed to another, emptying basins of fresh blood, bringing in clean water, heating it, pouring out the dirtied, soiled remains, washing gauze at neck break speeds, drying the thin, cotton strands of white linen off, breathlessly collecting what bandages were disinfected and bringing them back inside in piles hastily collected, crumpled up and unclassified, handing them to the main nurses, Dorrie and the Doc, often times thanking your lucky stars for the position of an Auxiliary Field Assistant and not something with even more responsibility then you were already given as you turn your gaze, briefly, from jungle rot and gangrenous flesh catheterized from a screaming, sobbing soldier’s shot straight through thigh, the accumulated, oppressive humidity in the tent mixed with the stench of sick meat, the sound of the flies buzzing outside, the removed bullet hitting the empty container with a metallic clank, the acidic, putrid medicinal antiseptics and the sun hitting the roof of the tent nearly having you lose balance and heave over once you rush out and inhale some oxygen, however hot, back into your strained lungs, feeling the emptiness of your insides churn with an acidic ache not unlike the herald of a stomach’s contents about to lurch up, a sweat drenched spine leaning up against one of the entryway pillars holding the busy, green-beige pavilion up, lids heavy, perhaps too tired to even properly produce tears anymore, nearly causing you to jump when something presses against your lips in the buzz and rush at base camp, causing you to shoot up and realize it was thin, white, bearing the scent of tobacco that has you tilting your chin dripping with dampness up — the very scent that dominated the eternity of the nicotine-happy facility out at the heel of the jungle’s perimeters, the fingers holding the Marlboro in question meaty and tan, eerily familiar, causing you to stutter wordlessly in the back of your throat once you meet a pair of blue eyes and you readjust, instinctively, inside of your own skin, startled and pierced, realizing someone's bodily frame was obscuring the sun, the scar and the lacerations zig-zagging the left side of his face giving you a reaction, not unlike a phantom pain — you know, because you cleaned those gashes yourself.

Those craters. That splintered chin. Him?

He looks at you knowingly for a split second, like someone seeing through you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, your lips firmly pressing around the cigarette.

I don’t smoke, your own words instantaneously come to mind, flashing like lightning.

You will, he responded back with a knowing, self assured smugness, while he was still in your and indirectly nurse Colleen's charge under Doctor Foreman back at the hospital. Before you can say anything, after weeks and weeks, he’s already sauntered away at a pace that could only be considered leisurely and confidently nonchalant, if not with a sense of calm determination. Accompanied by an uniformed posse that obscures him out of sight, leaving a gust of air hitched in your throat. Sergeant Barnes. Not a single mouth in that company not adorned with a cigarette hanging askew from its corners.

You catch yourself. How long has it been? Twenty one days?

Maybe more? Less?

You knew men with his scale of injures laid up for years.

-"They need hot water in there, stat!"-

Dorrie’s voice brimming with urgency echoes from the tent slit snaps you to attention and you immediately jump, wiping the cold sweat off of your brow like someone pricked in the rear with a needle, plucking the cigarette that was wordlessly pressed into your mouth before anyone could see it, quickly tucking it into the front pocket of your fatigues, nestling in there without thought. Did you look that tired to him? Was he gloating by self referencing? How many days was it again, your grasp on memory due to overworking was loosening. Was he in pain at all these days? How was he getting along?

You don’t have time to give yourself a single answer.

Throwing yourself back into the fray.

—

The thing about brief and unexpected encounters was simple;

A person spent more time pondering them; far longer than their actual duration was.

Maybe it was a good way to pass the night and all.

The weariness so intense it ironically rendered one incapable of resting.

You wondered why he came out here so soon, when you didn’t recommend him for release? When you knew he lied on the numeric rating of his pain score deliberately. Perhaps he was just the adrenaline chasing type, always where the action was. Even if it could goddamn kill him.

The sundown offering little relief against the heat’s unleashed anvil after a ten hour shift tending to the wounded, the heavy duty waterproof canvas fabric having a way to keep the warmth inside, trapping it there, rendering the air inside humid — an oven door left open to fill the air with a numbing, toasty sensation you couldn’t shake laying on your bunk containing nothing but a bare mattress — all need for blankets, coverings and additional gear stripped, leaving you with nothing but your bedroll doubling as a pillow backrest and eyes pinned to the nylon roof of the dome of what served as sleeping quarters, crickets and the low rumbling of frogs the only companions on the other side of the PVC-coated, ripstop barrier, your legs burning with ache as you stretch them out, hoping to gain some form of relief and finding next to none once your toes hit the edge of the bunk, giving you little space for comfort, Dorrie’s chatter outside of your shared tent blending into the backdrop of dusk — the occasional snort or giggle mingling with thrilling of the twilight’s sparrows. She made friends easily, didn’t she? Like the difficulties of the day washed off of her with an invisible hose. Where she found the energy, you wouldn’t know. Maybe the smiles directed at her helped. Maybe the smiles she gave back, a sort of mutually symbiotic charging, you figure, embracing your own upper torso, the muscle burn impossible to ignore as you touch a lump here and there, underneath your fatigues, hoping nothing swelled with overexertion only for your fingers to land on your front pocket and feel the long, thin shape tucked away beneath the fabric, fumbling to unbutton the damn thing and fish out what you forgot inside. The cigarette. You turn it in your fingers tentatively, lifting it up to eye level, the orange, flickering light of a nearby kerosene lamp painting the thing with a rosy, hooded hue. You weren’t a smoker. In truth, you had nothing against it in others necessarily, you just weren’t keen on it yourself, turning your cheek on your bedroll, facing the slit of the tent, watching Dorrie’s companions, two eager looking, smiling cherries from the 25th, both adorned with a smoke each, her own index finger and thumb balancing a half finished butt. Maybe — maybe there was something prophetic to Sergeant Barnes’s words directed at you back at the hospital? You ponder it, caressing the white filter of the nicotine stick idly. Perhaps you would start smoking, whether you liked it or not. If not to alleviate stress, then to alleviate loneliness; joining everyone else in their habits. Having something in common.

Something clenches in your chest at the prospect, though.

You cannot explain why.

The chatter in front of the tent quells and your lids grow heavy as you slumped on your side.

The world shrinks into the claw of your lowered, fluttering lashes.

And you stir on your hip, hands nearly boneless.

A dormant, hazy, semi-lucid part of your brain convinced you were still at the back of the crowded, bouncing army truck that transported you out here, into the heart of the bush, taking dusty country roads through the rice fields and mud for as long as the nose could smell, swaying left and right in crammed up space, your knees pressed awkwardly between a hard pair of thighs, unable to move, making you realize you were on the precipice of dreaming half-awake.

Regaining awareness only once Dorrie steps back inside, clicking her tongue.

-"Oh! Just what I was looking for before bedtime! Could go for another one!"-

Her voice perks up and you fidget on the mattress, blinking her way, unsure what it was she meant — only then do you realize, gasping, that you nearly fell asleep, cradling a single cigarette along the buttoned down line of your sweat stained fatigue shirt. You jolt ever so slightly, like someone caught in the act of something illicit. Like someone who was just caught napping next to a lover. You nearly snort at your own self, but you never do, instead doing nothing but trying to rid your eyes from the prickly sand of sleep. -"You gonna smoke that or —"- She trails off, pointing an index finger at you, a single eyebrow twisted upwards questioningly. She just had a smoke. For the fair share of evening. Not that you wanted to be unkind, but — -"Wha — this? — no."- You shake your head, stumbling over your words, rubbing your burning eyes vigorously, clearing your throat decidedly, too tired to be combative and too exhausted to have a filter just yet. You feel the wave of selfishness flood you like a tidal wave. -"No."- You murmur, not even quite sure why yourself. Not like you intended to light up any time soon, but the words come forth like a flood before you’re able to stop them — push them back inside. -"I mean, I’m not going to smoke it."- You explain sheepishly, re-asserting yourself more clearly, with an apologetic undercurrent, clutching the nicotine stick with your calloused, work strained fingers to showcase you weren't going to share it either --- watching her expression go sour against the light of the lamp. The jacket she’s freshly discarded and peeled off on her bed is slung back on, right across her tank top like she intended to head back out there, into the night. -"Geez. Really gonna make me walk across the eternity of the base in search of a smoke past dark after a ten hour long shift. Amazing!"- She grumbles as you lean up on your elbows, watching her practically slam the tent slit up behind her with an angry swipe, stomping away in wide strides towards the campfire surrounded by men on a night watch boiling coffee. -"You’re not even a smoker."- Is the last you hear her begrudgingly seethe through gritted teeth as you look down towards your own lap with a pang of regret, tucking the cigarette back into your pocket where it’ll attract no attention, giving it a good, protective pat with the open palm of your hand. What if I want to keep something of his? I treated him when nobody else wanted to. I’m allowed a meaningless keepsake — the voice of your subconscious rings out only to disappear as quickly as it sprang up, its echo lingering in the back of your mind like a fading afterthought.

You didn’t even know him outside of his medical record, your logic reminds.

You turn the other side, intending to catch some Z’s.

No more dreams and half dreams that night, regardless of how much you wished it.

—

The aftermath of tending the wounded always walked hand in hand with dirty laundry.

Piles and piles of blood stained fatigues, grimy bunksheets, bedrolls stained with vomit or dried bear smears, the odd pair of trousers entirely soiled mid-operation that filled the capacity of the mobile laundry unit to its maximum, doubtlessly leaving you with up to four to five hours of extensive work inside of a virtual furnace, sweat practically cascading down your neck and disappearing somewhere in the drenched, darkened collar of your short sleeved shirt — no contracted service out in the jungle — it was washing everything manually or no way at all, you thought, saddled with the morning-to-noon duty and in a way glad to be at least busy and out of the way, throwing everything in open furnaces attached to a heated, portable boiler, preparing to slam the colossal steam disinfector shut with a loud, metal thud, in spite of the machine keeping all the dirty fabric insulated, the smell being oppressive as you sift through uniforms marked with faded name tags, worn plates that have seen slightly better days and markered on intended initials to differentiate every piece of gear from another as you placed your wrist against your open mouth and nostrils to avoid hurling — Taylor, Grodin, Vermucci, Huffmeister, Barnes, O’Neill. Barnes. You halt for a second, going back, almost like all nausea instantly faded in spite of the smell being no less oppressive, grabbing the particular uniform from a mountain of others, feeling the coarse, rough fabric or a spare button jacket in your swollen, reddened hands, choosing to place his piece of attire carefully into the washer, giving a pat, like it was a living, sentient thing, a reverie interrupted only a pair of Cherries bypassing the laundry house with a whistle, hands in pockets, causing you stir, throwing your head over your shoulders, tucking a moist strand of hair back under the utilitarian durag that held your hair, tied, out of way, wondering if they just saw what you did. No, they couldn't have. -"Hey! Hey, babe! You got a smoke!?"- One of them shouts your way in stride, making a gesture against his mouth, two fingers pressed against his leering lips, mimicking having a cigar between them. You instinctively tap your breast pocket, about to lie. -"No. Sorry."- You shrug, apologetic, feeling and positively confirming that the cigarette Sergeant Barnes gave you was still there as you watch the pair disappointingly waving you off like they didn't expect you to be a good sport anyway — the tension in your arms dropped; you’re relieved, exhaling, limbs feeling idle and fidgety once you finally shut the circular lid of the 2-ton capacity disinfector equipped with a 3-kilowatt generator set closed, feeling your own hands shake with exhaustion, the only available shade cast by the machine itself, leaving you in an isolated island of glaring sunshine. You could — yeah, you consider it. Spotting the nearby wall of the laundry room, isolated and solitary enough and a narrow patch of dirt pressed between buildings of the barracks and the bunk room. Maybe you could go for a real, actual smoke there? Huddle in? Just have a guilty little drag? See how it feels like? Perhaps it would really take some of the tension off? Relax you?

You feel the lighter you acquired in your pocket, pulling it out and flicking it.

The machine whirls and does its work behind you as you hide away between two buildings.

Fishing the crumpled cigarette out and taking it in, putting it into your mouth.

Only to fish it back out, twirling it between your fingers slowly.

Leaning your head against the wall, closing your eyes.

Maybe this was your comfort.

People made comforts of all sorts of unlikely things out here.

Pin up posters, correspondence with people they never met, weed, alcohol, heroin.

Was a parasocial fondness for a token a former patient gave you quite so bad?

No, you figured it wasn’t, pressing the cigarette back between your lips unlit, intending to hold it there for a while in relative silence, interrupted only by the churning of the portable washer, merely savoring it, the faint aroma of nicotine, not intending, you supposed, to go any further with it, finding the sensation oddly calming, if nothing else, interrupted only by a shift of air, the soundlessness, the sudden chill running up your spine — you snap your eyes open to see a form leaning against the wall of the laundry room’s building, a singular match hanging askew from the precipice of his mouth. Barnes. Your back jolts off from the surface of the wall where you slanted over in the half shade and you find yourself dusting yourself off, adjusting your fatigues, like someone caught in the act. -"You smokin’?"- He drawls casually, head tilted. -"Sergeant Barnes! I was just —"- The stutter that leaves your lips is something fierce, the deep abiding embarrassment sinking into your gut like a searing rock; you prayed to god he isn’t perceptive enough to realize you kept something of his for weeks as he approaches, each footstep simultaneously inaudible yet inexplicable heavy as he crosses the distance between you — he hasn’t been this close since you were treating him back at the hospital. -"Smokin’ this here?"- He effortlessly snatches the cigarette out of your mouth before you can even blink, holding it up to your eyes, giving it an amused stare; a half grin curving his scarred lips you recalled in bandages, peppered with gauze, now bare and fleshy, obscured only by the match in his mouth. –"Yes, sir."- You murmur quietly, averting your gaze, feeling all the warmth seep out of your cheeks exerted with a morning full of work. He was going to crush it in his hand, wasn’t he? -"This a pet of yours now or sumn’?"- He obviously teases, but you can’t tell if the edge he does it with is necessarily cruel or playful. Maybe a bit of both, having no time to decide once he picks the match out of his mouth and drags it along the concrete surface of the nearby wall, lighting it, pressing the tiny flame against the filter, enveloping it in a pillar of smoke. You yelp, feeling like a child bereft of its only toy. -"No, please! That’s mine!"- You plead with more urgency than intended, instinctively reaching out to grab him only for him to grip his wrist with his fingers, causing you covering your mouth in distress once the deed was already done, your heart clenching painfully in your ribcage. You nearly went and pawed at your superior officer. Robert Barnes didn’t seem angry. Only bemused. You weren’t certain if that was better or worse. Better, perhaps. Hopefully.

-"Reckon you been fixin’ to hold unto this shit for the remainder of your contract."-

He coos, the smoke unfurling through his nostrils like two flaring chimneys.

The filter is dotted with embers as the cigarette burns.

A profound, inexplicable sadness fills you.

Yeah. You did plan on holding unto it.

Tapping it inside of your breast pocket.

Doing so whenever things got difficult, unbearable.

He spits the half smoked tobacco out along with his phlegm unto the red dust soil. The heel of his boot promptly stepping on it, squashing next to where you stood paralyzed. He exhales the remainder of the nicotine fumes straight into your face as you hold your breath. His stare alight with humor, nose close enough to touch the side of your cheek as the noise from the nearby laundry room rattles on and on, the embarrassment you felt flaring your face up like a fever burning you up from the inside, the pressure in your gut building and travelling lower and you tell yourself its the loneliness of your time here, the lack of human physical contact --- your fingers coil defensively, so do the toes in your footwear. He looks you up and down, touching you, tilting you chin with an index finger, measuring you up, you supposed. You saw now, in part, why he used to intimidate the girls back at the hospital so much. Why he was handed off to you.

Why did you not mind, though?

Not truly.

-"Like that would save your ass."-

Barnes murmurs, giving you a long, hard glare over the shoulder before striding off.

You gaze down at the half smoked butt in the copper dirt, suppressing tears.

What would save your ass if small attachments didn’t then?

—

Pouring out used water.

Heating and bringing in a fresh basin.

Cleaning and dressing wounds --- listening to the sobbing. The grunting.

Fighting back the sickness and the occasional nausea that would hijack your senses.

Disinfecting the aftermath of operations, the tools, the equipment; rinse-repeat.

Pouring out used water; heating and bringing in a fresh basin.

Touching your breast pocket in times of stress.

Or in moments of idleness, habitually so.

Finding it alarmingly empty.

You discover him looking at you at times --- Sergeant Barnes --- his glassy blue eyes like a scope cast from underneath a scarred brow meeting yours from halfway across the field of the basecamp; how anyone could have an eyesight that disturbingly good and keen, even in the army, spotting you from forty-fifty feet away, was beyond understanding but you'd catch him looking without looking away once caught, instead, you'd be the one occasionally pushing down a ball of accumulated mucus while hauling out a pile of sheets brown and moist with jungle rot leaking unto the fabric through a freshly popped and infected blister, staring down at your own dust covered boots, the in-need-of-washing material obscuring your view, the pathway towards the laundry house and distance it took to get there from the medical tent, anywhere but at him, certain he was still watching you even when you've already decided to place your attention someplace else for the sake of your own sanity, convinced he was staring a hole into your back, into your skull, into your general self judging by the way a shiver would run up and down your spine every time you'd turn away. Did he dislike you...ever since the exchange? Well, it was a question if he ever liked you at all --- everyone thought him a challenging patient. By the looks of him, he seemed like a challenging Sergeant too. In turn, he must've thought you a fool. A grown woman with a child's mind in his opinion, no doubt. When he said you'd start smoking back at the hospital, he meant it in the literal sense, you chastise yourself. You developing your own escapist vices like everyone else because the drudgery of your months served would become that unbearable you'll need something to blow off some steam with, even if its just a cigarette, the occasional bit of boozing in free time, but you shake your head now, hauling the washing into the machine, feeling he must've thought you uppity; a stick up your ass. Like you were too good to sit and smoke with the rest of the 25th's Auxiliary detail, with the other nurses, the military personnel, the soldiers, holding unto naive folly instead. As much as you knew him so far you could almost imagine him chastising you 'You intendin' to walk outta here as clean as a whistle? Pure as the driven snow? Unlike the rest of us?'

He sits on a collapsed log on the perimeters of the wilderness, jungle to his side.

Dewy, sunlit dust heavy in the air and his back is hunched over.

Index finger pressed against the side of his eye.

Gaze far and away, cigarette half smoked between his fingers.

You nearly startle yourself, not noticing him initially, pouring out blood from a basin.

He looks at you quietly, like someone aggrieved.

You might've seen that look before.

At the hospital.

Your words, as a result, you find, come forth instinctively.

-"A-are you in pain, sir? Good morning."-

You try, your legs turning to iron; he merely waves his hand dismissively.

-"Eh."-

Is all you get out of his as his cheeks hollow, dragging in the smoke hard.

More of a grunting sound than an actual answer.

But, it said enough.

He was hurting and he shouldn't have been here.

Any medical practitioner believing in ethics would've said the same.

-"You overstated your NRS to get an early release, though its beyond me why. You rated yourself a three when I know your pain level was realistically closer to a crippling strong eight."-

You set your emptied basin down sheepishly, approaching him anxiously and daring to slowly squat down beside him, fearing you'll come off as preachy and bracing yourself to be brushed off --- you were alone, the base camp still in a vague state of inactivity, with only just the occasional sentry point waiting for a daytime shift; you weren't likely to put him on the spot in front of others. That wasn't your intent. -"It’s a miracle you can function at all, Sergeant, all due respect, least of all as efficiently as you do daily."- You comment as tenderly and as diplomatically as you could muster, finding something about his eyes grow oddly vulnerable for a second, strangely childlike, undeniably sad, yes, like something not supposed to be witnessed, making you goddamn near uncomfortable how much like a boy he looked when he was somber; how the years rolled off of his face within an instant. You clear your throat, uneasy. If Barnes of all people was reacting like this when he had the bravado he had in the hospital when his injuries were still fresh, then he must've been truly in agony. -"Forgive me."- You murmur sympathetically while the fluttering smoke of his cigarette coils between you, fearing you overstepped a boundary addressing him at all; the fact he hasn't gotten up or shouted you down, well, it was encouraging. -"There’s nobody around, you can tell me. It’s part of my job. I...I can administer an Oxycodone now and another one later."- You offer discreetly, knowing he was too proud to take it without coaxing --- heck, knowing he was too proud to take it even with coaxing, being the type to just suffer through debilitating pain for no reason other than the fact that he simply could --- you envisioned him the kind of man who would have to be held down by a medical staff consisting of three or four people needed to administer a mandatory injection and even then someone would end up with a broken nose. He flicks the crumpled, depleted butt of his cigarette into the red dust and tilts his head sardonically; the sad child from a minute ago all but tucked away, out of sight. -"Get me another smoke and I reckon I might tell’ya why I’m here when I ought to be laid up, outta commission."- He quips, seemingly smug and self content and you couldn't believe he found it in him to joke when he was obviously hurting, nonetheless, some phantom memory in your legs has you standing up, no arguing, about to do as you're ordered --- Barnes's eyes travel up with the rest of you.

They land on your face.

You shift the weight of your body awkwardly from one leg to another.

-"Like old times, beaut."-

He observes and the words nearly knock the wind out of your lungs.

You scamper, intent on quickly finding Dorrie.

Coaxing a cigarette or two out of her.

Did he just call you ---

-"R-right away, Sergeant!"-

You stutter in confirmation, turning on your heel, halfway walking, halfway running, stumbling upon a bitter-faced, visibly irritated Dorrie changing the bandage on a foot hit by shrapnel, agreeing, no, being cornered into emptying the latrines of the soldiers at sick beds for a full week in exchange of an untouched box of Marlboros and an old lighter, oh, how sorry you were for bothering her, how much you wanted to apologize --- it was an unfair trade, perhaps --- but in that moment, you're not sure what washes over you; wouldn't be the first time you'd go about fetching smokes for Sergeant Barnes, but you figure, as you rush back out to find him where you left him, catching him standing up as straight as an arrow, headed back to the barracks by the looks of it, no indicator of physical struggle at all, if having a cigarette or a full pack would help him alleviate the pain he was hiding he was having in the first place, then so be it. You dig in your boot heels into the dust halting in front of him purposefully, handing him the tobacco pack and the lighter for keeps. -"Sir."- You announce, tone clipped as he reaches over, taking the offering, his expression seemingly gratified; the seams of his mouth pressing into the scarred left side of his cheek in what could only be called a half-smirk. -"Mmmh-hmm!"- The pleased sound rumbles from somewhere in the back of his throat as he takes the entire package, fishing one cigarette out and tucking the rest into his breast pocket, lighting himself a smoke with the metal zippo; you should've politely made yourself scarce by then, with mission accomplished, but a fair trade was a fair trade; you wanted to know just why he prematurely re-upped back into field service, semi-expecting an answer that seemed typical of him --- War's my life. There's sons of bitches in need of killin', you envision his Southern drawl as vividly as the daylight coming down hard all around you, so best have sumn' 'round who knows how. All you do is catch your breath, wiping the sweat accumulated on your brow, watching him take a drag, then another, every movement measured and slow. Then finally, blue eyes blink up and look at you. It hits you; he must've been very handsome at one point in time, before the injuries, because under this sharp morning light, he almost seemed, well...striking.

-"Eyup! Sumn’ had to look after you."-

He admonishes casually at long last, taking his time.

Flicking the zippo, inspecting whether it was to his liking, you supposed.

What...what was he saying exactly?

-"An’ I ain’ gon’ let the one who gone 'n took care of my ass kick the bucket."-

The gravitas of those words hit you, leaving you stunned for words.

For a second all you can do is look down towards the ground.

Yearning to disappear into a sinkhole beneath your feet.

Swallowed by the jungle roots hidden beneath forever.

-"Oh."-

Is all you manage to utter.

-"Sir."-

You lift up your head, speaking barely above a tiny, meek little whisper.

For you? To keep you out of harm's way? As pay back for your hospital treatment?

Your brain already firmly registers the notion, but the verbalized part lags behind.

The speed of your foggy, hazy thoughts refusing to coincide with your tongue.

You could hardly believe or even accept what you were hearing.

-"What, are you saying you came out here prematurely because of —"-

You gulp, emboldened, perhaps in a flash of madness, trailing off sudden, catching sight of Sergeant O'Neill and Sanderson in tank tops respectively exiting the barracks in tow, heading for the center of basecamp for a morning briefing and Sergeant Barnes taking this as a sign to join them, the awakening of camp activity leaving you to push your conclusion back into the cavern of your mouth from whence it sprang out and Barnes throws you nothing but a smile --- the man actually smiles - teeth bared and the sight of it fully reaching his eyes before he turns on his heel, cigarette in his mouth and leaves you to stew in the notion that it was, in part, for you. He did it because of you.

#eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee #😀😀😀#thankya so much!!!!!!!

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atmostories · 6 months ago

Note

The movie ROBBED US from having -💚 Barnes with face paint on. 🖤Just imagine. ...JUST. AH. That's all I have to say rn

Happy Holidays.

#STUNNING #🥴🥴🥴

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atmostories · 7 months ago

Text

Sergeant Barnes x Reader

A gift for @senka-mesecine 🚬🚬🚬

His Cog

The girls were scared of him. It couldn't have been because of his facial injuries, they'd been here at the city hospital longer than you had after all, seen much worse. You supposed it must have been his rough bedside manner. They loved the sweet boys, the charming ones, and from what you'd witnessed they must have spent half their time flirting and the other half actually providing care. But considering how the boys healed up, the flirting seemed to be part of the healing. Sergeant Barnes wasn't a flirt then. That suited you just fine. Coleen had shoved his file against your chest as you were restocking one of the operating rooms, making you take him as one of your patients. She barely gave you time to grab the file before the papers could spill out everywhere.

After reading through his rather extensive medical history, you headed to the step down unit with fresh bandages in hand. It was quieter in here than the intensive care wards or the floor units where patients were almost ready to be discharged. When you spotted Sergeant Barnes sitting up on his bed, his eyes were already on you. He didn't react to the polite smile you gave him as you approached, nor did he respond when you introduced yourself. The laceration on his chin went through his lip, it must have been painful for him to- “I need a smoke,” he ordered plainly, his hand reacting out, obviously expecting you to have a pack on your person like most of the other nurses did. “When I've finished changing-” “Now.” You blinked at his blunt interruption, suddenly understanding why Coleen had forced him on you. “Alright,” you replied slowly, placing down the bandages on the bedside table. He spoke again when you turned around. “You ain't got none?” “I. . .I don't smoke.” “You will,” he replied, his words nothing but a promise. You rushed off out of the unit, managing to plead for two cigarettes from Dorrie before hurrying back to him. He pointedly took both of them, tucking one on top of his ear. It was as if he was silently chastising you for not having them in the first place. “Well?” He was giving you an expectant look. You stared back helplessly. The hostility of his demeanour was putting you out of sorts. “What. . .you thought the passion of you wanting to help heal folk and such was gonna light this here cigarette?” Your gut rolled with embarrassment and you felt your cheeks redden. You mumbled an apology and left the unit once more, this time in search for a lighter. Thankfully you bumped into Dr. Foreman who lent you his lighter, appearing understanding when you mentioned who your patient was. You sucked in a deep breath before walking back to Sergeant Barnes in an attempt to compose yourself. Rather than taking the lighter from you, he jutted out his chin with the cigarette pressed between his lips, expectant and waiting impatiently. You lit it for him and he thankfully didn't criticise you any further as you got to work taking off the old bandage. The stitches looked messier than they should have been and the thick scabs on his upper and lower lips were bleeding slightly. While you cleaned the wound carefully, you were surprised he didn't blow the smoke right into your eyes. His jaw twitched, he must have been in pain. You slowed even further. "I ain't a damn china cup," he commented in annoyance. You ignored him and continued at the same pace, concerned that the future scar on his chin and his lips would be as prominent as the one going around his brow. He suddenly grabbed your wrist and wrenched you forwards, your nose almost bumping against his. "What did I just say?" He murmured softly, his voice juxtaposed the vicious grip he had on you.

"You're in pain," you explained, almost letting out a whimper.

"I can take the pain. You hurry on up and get to the other men, there's plenty of them, ain't there?"

"You're my-"

"I don't take back talk. That's your first and only warning. Now get to work." You stared at him for a brief moment when he released your hand, there was something almost hypnotic about his eyes and his cool, controlling demeanour that compelled you to obey. You resumed your work at pace, as he had commanded you to. Your hands were getting unsteady as Sergeant Barnes watched you intently while he smoked. Would he chastise you once more? Would he grab you again? Were you going fast enough? After applying a fresh bandage on his chin, you examined his swollen ankle and put an additional pillow underneath it to raise it even higher. He didn't seem to like that but said nothing on the matter, nor did he comment as you completed the nursing observations, timed his pulse and respiratory rate, checked his temperature and blood pressure. He'd finished the second cigarette by the time you got to the pain score. You purposefully left it until last, wanting to avoid further conversation with him.

He gave you a one out of ten for his face and also for his ankle. You hesitated to note down his answers because he wasn't telling you the truth. “If I uhh put down a one for your ankle, that means you can walk. . .but you can't just yet, not for at least a couple more days. How. . .how about a three?” You tried to negotiate with him, the Sergeant silently considered your attempt before nodding in reply so you quickly noted down a three. “Thank you, Sergeant,” you told him, managing to take back the lighter without protest and you hurried out of the unit, wishing that Coleen had cornered someone else before you. - - -

The next day you were prepared for Sergeant Barnes. You purchased a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, two of which were promptly returned to Dorrie, and you immediately had one lit before guiding it in between his lips. He thankfully said nothing as you got to work once more. When you'd returned Dr. Foreman's lighter yesterday, you expressed the need for Sergeant Barnes' pain relief to be reviewed. The doctor had merely chuckled at you, replying that Barnes had always denied pain medication and it wasn't worth the bother. You wanted to refute the notion, explain that the Sergeant was worth the bother, but you knew that you couldn't force the pain relief on him. From what he'd said yesterday, you assumed that he'd give some justification that the other men needed it rather than him. You wondered what was fostering that mindset. There were plenty of supplies here in the city hospital, there wouldn't be so many when you headed to the front next week. The swelling of his ankle was subsiding, another two days and you'd like to see whether he could put some weight on it. His pain score remained the same and you jotted down the results from your routine observations. He offered no critic or chastisement. Perhaps he was having a particularly bad day yesterday. On your visit the next day, when you had replaced his bandage he pulled off the bedsheets and swung his legs off the bed. “You said two days,” he told you before you could protest at his sudden movement. “Please could you wait for a moment?” You pleaded as you knelt at his feet, hands gently running over his ankle. Though the swelling was going down nicely, you'd prefer him to rest until tomorrow to be sure. But Sergeant Barnes was seemingly adverse to standard medical practice. As the thought crossed your mind, you felt his hand press down on your shoulder, he rose to stand on one foot and slowly began to put weight on the bad ankle. You stayed on your knees, conscious that moving would mean he'd be placing all of his weight on his feet rather than using you as a crutch. He was rather good at hiding the pain, and yet it was still evident as you observed him closely. There was tension in his jaw, his eyes flicked from the floor, across the ward, to the ceiling, he leaned even more against your shoulder. Considering what you knew about him, he'd probably start trying to walk around the unit. “Maybe. . .I can come back later today and we can get you back on your feet again? If you'd like?” You asked softly, trying to walk the fine line between placating him and not wanting to push his body too far. He gazed down at you for what felt like the longest time before he sat back down on the bed. “I'll hold you to it.” - - - Surprisingly you got used to Sergeant Barnes. You obeyed his previous commands, provided him with cigarettes on every visit and kept focused on your work, on helping him to his feet. He left you well enough alone, commenting only here and there about hurrying up.

He wasn't like the other patients, he was all business. He didn't chat, he didn't gossip, he didn't regal his stories of battle and glory. He didn't confide in you, he didn't attempt to persuade you to get him extra rations, he didn't try his luck trying to steal a kiss from you. It was almost as if he was waiting to get back to the front. He constantly pushed himself to recover as quickly as humanly possible. No matter his pain. The others dreaded the front, they'd push the thought of it from their mind, they'd chat with you and the other girls about their lives beyond the war, about what they'd be doing during their rest and recuperation time, about learning how to surf in Hawaii, going to the dance halls and partying through the night. Sergeant Barnes was fully focused on recovering and getting back. There was something. . .robotic about him, something relentless, something not quite human. You supposed it should have unsettled you more than it did. The day came when you traded your pristine white nurse uniform for fatigues. It was standard issue for medical personnel at the front, both male and female. You liked it in some ways, that it was looser and more comfortable to wear, that the men might see you more as an equal. And yet it dawned on you that were about to truly enter a war zone. Nurses before you had been killed, blown to bits by artillery fire. You supposed if you were gonna go, you'd hope it be quick. You told Sergeant Barnes that this would be your last visit with him, that you were flying out to the border area first thing in the morning and that another nurse would see out the rest of his recovery. “Tomorrow hmm?” He murmured and you nodded in reply. It was the only thing he said. You finished up your observations in the usual silence of his company and bid your goodbyes. You didn't sleep at all that night, mind filled with what was to come. At dawn, you were waiting at the back of the line with Dorrie to get into the truck, your one bag of possessions in hand. You and Dorrie were the only nurses heading out, the rest were soldiers. Two of them seemed to be competing for Dorrie as they both helped her climb up into the truck and were trying to convince her to sit next to them. You looked at the back of the truck with a sigh, wondering how you were going to climb up so high without breaking your neck. A hand reached then reached out, Sergeant Barnes was staring down at you. He wasn't wearing a bandage on his face. What was he doing here? “Up ya get, cherry,” he prompted. You held out your hand and he helped you up into the back of the truck, guiding you to the bench opposite him. Your knees brushed against his as you sat down, there was barely any space inside, you wondered how so many people could fit in such a small space. A duffel bag was on the bench next to you, so thankfully you were leaning right up against that rather than someone else. With your bag resting on your lap, you kept your legs pressed together. Sergeant Barnes' legs were spread, his knees either side of yours. You almost jumped when the back of the truck got closed up half way, you were too distracted.

As the truck got moving, your eyes flickered over to Sergeant Barnes who was already looking at you. “What are you doing here, Sergeant?” You asked him, having to raise your voice slightly because there must have been at least five different conversations going on. Dorrie was already laughing loudly. “Got discharged.” “But. . .I didn't recommend that.” “So?” He replied dismissively, shrugging a shoulder at you. “Well usually there needs to be a nurse recommendation and a doctor's authorisation for personnel to be discharged.” “Well. . .guess I skipped the unnecessary part and just got the authorisation.” There was an uncomfortable twinge in your chest at his harsh words. Was he purposefully trying to insult you by insinuating that you were unnecessary? Nothing on his expression helped you to determine his meaning. You didn't respond to him, and turned your attention to the view out the back of the truck as the city passed by. If only Dorrie had stayed with you, maybe you could have chatted together, make the journey go a bit quicker. In your peripheral vision, you saw him pull a cap out of his pocket. He put it on before pulling it down over his eyes and crossed his arms. That was something of a relief, to not have Sergeant Barnes stare at you the whole way. Every now and then, you'd glance over at him, taking in a detail here and there, looking at the watch on his left wrist. The roads started to get windier as you headed out into the countryside, rice field after rice field rolling past. His knee would knock into you when the truck turned. After an hour or so, one of his knees remained pressed up against you and he continued his leisurely nap, oblivious to what he was doing. Rain began to pelt down onto the top of the truck and Sergeant Barnes remained unperturbed. As the truck went around another bend, his other knee knocked against you, but then it didn't move away again. He had both of his knees pressed against yours, effectively boxing you in. For a moment, you thought about saying something, but the last thing you wanted to do was disturb him. Who knew what kind of wrath you could awaken if you woke him up? No, you wouldn't do that, you'd simply remain uncomfortable as you were. The rain had been over for a good half an hour when the truck arrived at the airbase. Three helicopters would take you the rest of the way to the base camp which you'd call home for the next six months. Sergeant Barnes pulled off the cap a few moments before the truck pulled up, finally moving his knees away from yours.

#sergeant barnes #robert barnes #robert barnes x reader #sergeant barnes x reader #platoon #platoon 1986

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atmostories · 7 months ago

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''I am reality.''

#not alme getting me into another vietnam vet #🙄#what ya like

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atmostories · 7 months ago

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🩸

bloodlust, a commission for scorpion-silver. x

#🩸🩸🩸#😍😍😍

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atmostories · 7 months ago

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(X)

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atmostories · 7 months ago

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#TIG deserves better

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atmostories · 11 months ago

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Terry Silver x Reader

Tags: NSFW, Female Reader, Exhibitionism A gift for @terrence-silver 🖤🖤🖤 An Evening At The Opera

You were out like a light. Was the opera really that boring? Terry sniggered to himself as he possessively caressed your hair, fingers twirling and wrapping around the strands. You were napping on his lap while Reginald drove the limo back home to the hills. The lights of LA streamed past him in an unintelligible blur, the events of the evening still rushing through his body like two fresh hits of ketamine in his bloodstream. He could do with a cigar right now, but didn't want to disturb you with any movement. The celebration could wait. There was a growing urge to take you the moment you entered the mansion's threshold, or hell he could even fuck you right on the entranceway, smear his come and yours on the front door to mark this home as both his and yours forever. Like two king cobras marking the entrance to their den, a declaration of their mated nature, a warning to strangers to stay clear or face the consequences. Love and death all intertwined as one. However, his beloved needed to rest. He'd have you again first thing in the morning, wake you up to the sensations of his body desperately rubbing against yours. "We missed over an hour of the opera, my dear, we'll simply have to go again." He'd whisper and giggle into your ear, no doubt thinking of what transpired.

/ / / La Bohème was completely sold out. So of course, Terry had purchased the biggest box of the theatre, best seat in the house. The previous holder of the box had been outbid, much to their distress Margaret had assured him. Well, if you wanted something, you took it. Why was that so hard for people to understand? Just like he took you. Somehow you were both easier and harder to take than he thought it would be. Easier because your feelings for him were so potent even from early on. That made his toes curl just at the thought, how much you wanted him, how your devotion shone through you like a reflection of his own, more blinding than the sun itself. And it was harder because he needed to earn your trust. Trust had never been something he'd needed to foster when he was seducing someone. Usually all he'd need to do was give the right look, mutter an innuendo here or there, and his body would do the rest of the work. He never had to chase someone before. Whoever peeked Terry's interest, already wanted him. There was never any hesitation involved. He never realised how exciting the thrill of the hunt would be. Forever being thrown prey into his cage, fat and lazy from the endless offerings, until the day he spotted you beyond the threshold of his contained dominion. He couldn't just take your body, that was too easy. He needed your mind, your heart, your fucking soul cradled against him to keep for all eternity. When you both arrived at the theatre, Terry ensured you went through the staff only entrance. You simply looked too ravishing tonight, he couldn't allow the paparazzi to have up close shots of you. He guided you through the back area like he owned the place, which he of course did now, past the stage hands and technicians, past the dressing rooms of the performers. They cooed and greeted you like you were both the star lovers of the show, wishing that you enjoyed the evening.

"Break a leg." Terry announced to them. He smirked at you then, enjoying the amused but almost reprimanding expression on your face. His heart panged with desire, fuck he wanted you so badly. The waiting area was buzzing with guests and conversation, the excitement palpable in the air, but the noise noticeably quietened when the two of you came in. Many faces turned to you, Terry subconsciously tightened his grip around your white faux fur capelet-covered shoulder. Your capelet matched the white ribbon adorned on his ponytail, which you had tied yourself. Your blood red tailored dress matched his cravat and waistcoat underneath his jacket. He ensured that it was the exact shade of your blood from the cut he most definitely didn't purposefully cause by prodding your finger against a rose thorn in the east wing greenhouse almost a month ago. His mind was filled with the image of sucking your finger for almost half an hour, the heady metallic taste of you ripe in his memory. Heading to the box, he led you up the stairs, hand in hand. An announcement was made over the speakers that the performance would start shortly. Right on cue. You were shown into box by a personal butler who he immediately dismissed after you'd taken your seat. He wanted the two of you alone, undisturbed. After all, he wasn't here for the damn opera. The box was extremely luxurious, it had its own bar in the corner, its own bathroom. Rather than two separate seats, the two of you sat on an eighteenth century Chesterfield that he'd had specially procured for the evening. He asked whether you liked the box and you were gushing out compliments to him, eyes wide with excitement as you took in view of the theatre, the perfect central location with the best view of the stage and the orchestra in front of it. "Have I told you how beautiful you look, my dear?" Your cheeks reddened like he was summoning your blood to the surface like a satanic blood ritual, your skin almost splitting open upon a rose thorn. “Yes you have, Terry, thank you. And you look very handsome.” "Do I?" He feigned, his hand reaching up to rest on your neck. The lights of the theatre dimmed, his thumb rubbing along your throat. It was his explicit gesture to you that he was hard and desperately needed to be inside of you. A gasp escaped your mouth before you stuttered out a yes. His eyes flicked down to his lap, his silent command for you to place a hand on his cock, to feel how much he needed you, for you to dare question his desire for his beloved. Your motion was slow, delayed, you weren't entirely comfortable doing this here, but you obeyed, you always did. You were so good to him. You gasped again, feeling how hard he was over his slacks. You never could exactly grasp the depths of his want for you, the hardness of his cock physical proof that words couldn't quite place. La Bohème began its opening act with its star lovers rather too preoccupied, he mused before shifting his body like he was paying attention to the performance. You followed suit, though your soft, gentle hand kept up its teasing motions, fingers rubbing against his length.

His hips lazily kept raising slightly to meet your touch, the music and singing mere noise in the background. He slid an arm around your shoulder, his thumb rubbing up and down your throat, I want you, I need you, I want you, I need you, he conveyed to you over and over and over. Branding his desire onto your body. Were you wet yet? Were your thighs aching? Were you finding it impossible to take in a deep breath? Was your clit twitching? His other hand rested on your thigh, and your free hand shot out to his with surprising speed as you began urgently rubbing his inner wrist. Now this was your explicit gesture to him. I want you, I need you, I want you, I need you, you begged him, you screamed at him with your wordless gesture. He shot up from the Chesterfield, wrenching the privacy curtains closed as far as they would go. Climbing on top of you, his mouth devoured yours, his lips pressing against yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth to meet your own before he began to suck on your own tongue. He growled at the way you groaned in surprise at the sensation. He pulled away. This wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all, would it? He hurried you to your feet, ready to carry you out of the box and down the theatre stairs if you weren't fast enough. But you were up and being pulled by him out through the door like the box had been set on fire. “Mr. and Mrs. Silver?” The butler called out, concern heavy in his voice. Terry knew you'd want to satiate this complete stranger, purely out of the goodness of your heart. He sighed internally. "Pressing business!" Terry shouted back, pulling you around the corner. He looked back at you, inflamed by the smile on your face for him knowing just what you wanted. He immediately stopped at the top of the stairs, out of sight from any of the staff. His hand slid under your dress, cupped your cunt and squeezed, forcing a squeal out of your hot, wet mouth. "Pressing indeed." He murmured, capturing your lips for a brief moment before forcing himself to take you down the stairs. Otherwise he'd be fucking you right there and then. He told hold of your waist, taking some of your weight to keep you balanced, how could you not be weak at the knees for him? He came to a halt in the waiting area, head flicking side to side as he took in his options, body shaking in need, cock straining against his underwear, hand gripping onto yours like a lifeline, it was too far to the limo, the back area was busy with people, hmm. . .coat closet? Practically shoving a wad of cash at the attendants, he ordered for them to leave and slammed the door shut behind them. With no time to waste, he stripped off the fur capelet that was covering your bare shoulders and ripped the top part of your dress down, the sound of tearing material made his balls ache. As you stood frozen in shock, his mouth immediately attacked your nipples, he manoeuvred you against one of the coat racks, your back cushioned by real fur coats. He nipped and sucked and nibbled at you without breaking away, you were more out of breath than he was. Something had to be done about those real fur coats, he thought to himself, letting out a chuckle as he pulled back, giving you a second to take in oxygen. Taking to his knee, he wrenched up the dress to your hips, knocked apart your legs and shoved his mouth into your wet cunt like a man dying of thirst and god he felt like it. You squealed and desperately grabbed onto his shoulders for support. He played with your clit with his tongue, incensed by your constant stream of moans and cries. Working a finger inside of you, he began a relentless pace, rubbing your clit side to side, fucking you deep with one finger before working in another, and then a third. Your legs were shaking by then, your eyes kept rolling back, your hand mindlessly gripping onto his hair, undoing the meticulously neat ponytail you'd tied back earlier that evening. His white ribbon fell onto the floor.

He was too selfish to let you come first, he wanted to come with you. Pulling his mouth and fingers away from you, he rose off the floor to stand. You looked like you'd been fucked out of your mind and his cock hadn't even been inside of you yet. As he scrambled to release his cock, he lifted up one of your legs and you cried out together when he sunk into you. He growled at the wet, tight, hot sensation, relishing it for a fleeting moment before he began to move. Leaning down, his forehead pressed against yours, his tongue licking up the side of your face, his lips laying kisses on your cheeks. He could taste your come, your sweat, your skin. He fucked you hard and fast, your bodies laced together, the mated king cobras deep in the throws of heat. The two of you as one, like it was always meant to be. His hips kept thrusting into you. He knew you were close, he was close to. Weeks and weeks had been spent tuning himself to your rhythms, learning how to delay his pleasure and the effort had paid off tenfold. He upped his paced, feeling that you were about come, his body clinging onto yours. Falling silent as you climaxed together, the sound of you orgasming was music to his ears. He slowed his pace after you reached the peek, emptying himself inside of you. He looked at you then, his thumb coming up to rub against your throat. The touch made you come back to reality, you looked back at him, mouth open, expression spent, someone needed a nap, rest her head right up against his cock. Pulling out of you, he took to his knees again to admire some of his come drip down your thighs. He wiped it off your skin with his hand and wiped it on the fur coats behind you. "My dear doesn't like fur." He commented casually as you stared at him quizzically. After collecting more come leaking from you, he wiped it on another coat, and another. He was doing his part after all, ruining these horrible people's coats. The curiosity on your expression was replaced by concern, your eyebrows furrowing when he took to his feet. “Angel, your hair,” you muttered, regret on your expression, hand reaching out to tuck some of it behind his ear. He snatched onto your hand, staring at you for ten long seconds before sniggering and falling into a fit of laughter.

#terry silver #terry silver x reader #karate kid iii #cobra kai #thomas ian griffith #atmo #oi oi cunts #miss me?

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