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terrence-silver · 2 months

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Imagining high school sweetheart!beloved and Terry getting married before he gets shipped off to war and Beloved always sending letters to Terry while he’s away

Bonus: Terry comes back home after the war and finds Beloved’s unsent letters to him that were written when he was M.I.A. and sees how worried she was about him

---

I feel nobody would believe Twig is married because he's, well...Twig!

He's so young! So shy! So wide eyed! Scrawny! The idea of Privates infinitely more experienced and worldly than him only just being in the stage of sharing correspondence back home with their respective sweethearts and go-steady girlfriends while this kid here is already legally married is straight out of the Twilight Zone for most of his fellow soldiers who immediately wrote him off as a sore loser, perhaps with the rare exception of John Kreese who stands up for him and defends him when he's teased and called a liar who just about invented a full-blown Missus for himself to seem cool and less of a wimp in the eyes of everyone else, the letters he receives from beloved deemed fabricated one way or another even though they're actually entirely legitimate, the parcels bearing the seal of the military mail, arriving the same as everyone else's packages do.

''Did your momma write those?''

Someone might cruelly jest right before Kreese gives them a look, telling them to step off.

Gets slightly worse during POW captivity. All the members of Twig's platoon are in the same mess but it doesn't prevent in-fighting and the day-to-day cruelty and microaggressions from continuing even inside of a cage when validly, once communications are entirely cut off and they're trapped deep in enemy territory, there is no way for beloved's letters or anyone's as for that matter to come in and circulate, and the soldiers and even Twig's own Commanding Officer Turner never let him forget that like he's somehow to blame (And in their mind's eye, he is. They feel he's got them all captured through his negligence and incompetence. There will be payback for that. If the Vietcong don't do him in, his own will. For all Turner cares, Terry Silver got them here and pray to God, in the following weeks, he'll make this kid's life so difficult in this cage he'll wish the Vietcong ended him day one, bullet to the brain, same as Ponytail and what better way to utilize psychological warfare than to use the boy's own spouse against him the way he later tries with John and Betsy), finding it an apt pastime to pester one of their own even when facing death, torture and execution from the Vietcong that captured them. It's easier in a weird and very sick sense; poking and prodding at the weakest link in the hierarchy of things to better endure the gravity of the situation and just forget for a while.

You do some pretty awful things under duress.

''Guess the love letters stopped now, eh, Twig?'' Turner mocks.

''Momma back home ran out of ink?''

The older man laughs into his own chin as Twig scoots further back against the bamboo bars of their shared jail, missing beloved so badly he can feel the ache of it in his bones, loathing the fact he has no control of anything going on and John Kreese, witnessing the sight and having stood up for his friend countless times vows that one of these days, he's gonna give their Commanding Officer a piece of his mind even if he ends up court martialed for it after they're released seeing as how John can vouch that if the other soldiers are boneheads Captain Turner has enough intel on his own men to know for a fact Twig never lied and that he is in fact married back home. That beloved's real the same way his Betsy is real. Man has no excuse for the hell he's putting Twig through just because he can. John gets his chance to retaliate for the abuse a few weeks later once the Vietcong force them to fight over an open pit of snakes.

As for Twig?

Once they're rescued from the POW camp, he is finally reunited with the stack of letters beloved's been sending him back at base and it's like being reunited with a missing limb. When he gets home, beloved gives him a package of unsent mail just around the time he was captured and gone missing. Everything he's been made fun of entirely real and genuine; not one word of it a lie or made up. Everything right there, in black and white, written down with beloved's own pen. Every bit of concern. Fear. Care. Of course, it only serves to turn him a little more...well...Terry Silver as we know him. No point in being truthful if he won't be believed anyway, even when he is. Might as well fabricated. Might as well manipulate. Everyone who ever laughed at him died. And he's here. He survived. He is loved. He's won. And he'll keep winning and winning.

He hugs the stack of letters and beloved close to his chest with a vice grip.

The first seeds of something very dark have long been sown.

#high school sweetheart!beloved #terry silver #terry silver twig #twig terry silver #tw; vietnam #tw; soldiers #tw; military life #letters #tw; pow captivity #tw; vietnam war #john kreese #captain george turner #captain turner #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #fluff #dark fluff #angst #ponytail

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gay-poet-gabriel · 20 days

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Darry trying to comfort a hysterical ponybky after they found out Soda died in Vietnam?!?

WHYYYY

WHYAWYAFYEAGYYEWGYWYYWY

angst under cut

i hate u for asking this /j

#the outsiders #my art #my doodles #fanart #darry curtis #ponyboy curtis #sodapop curtis #angst #nooooOOOO #major character death #vietnam war tw

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geminisee · 1 month

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via mjosefweber

via wikipedia

#politics #us politics #history #us history #us military #college protests #free palestine #vietnam war #kent state #kent state massacre #tiktok #video #tw violence #tw gore #tw death

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breawycker · 1 month

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Pigs haven't changed much in 54 years

#kent state shooting #Vietnam #Vietnam war #cambodia #palestine #gaza #israel #protest #death tw #murder #acab #anti capitalism #legal murder #police #anarchism #communism #socialism #important

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bear-of-mirrors · 6 months

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…… when you learn that the US supported the Khmer Rouge and even voted to let them keep Cambodia’s UN seat until 1993 after Vietnamese intervention deposed them and stopped Pol Pot’s genocide in 1979 so that the US could try and weaken Vietnam’s influence in Southeast Asia.

#cambodia #cold war #vietnam war #vietnam #united nations #united states #history #khmer rouge #tw genocide

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the-rodent-gentleman · 1 year

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Oh look, yet another list of headcanons for a comfort character that required a boatload of research. Plus, what a more appropriate time of the year, am I right?

There’ll be mentions of the Vietnam War and post-war Vietnam below; you have been warned.

His full name is Huynh Ngoc Dương (pronounced WIN KNOCK YOO-UNG)

His first name’s pronounced that way since he’s from South Vietnam.

He prefers to be called by his last name in America since it’s easier to explain and for Westerners to pronounce.

He will go by Yiang (YANG) for his first name if necessary.

However, others have known him by his last name for so long he sees no point in correcting them.

Born May 5, 1954 near Saigon (present-day Ho Chi Minh City) since he said in “Snow” that he hadn’t been born yet in 1949.

Side note: the First Indochina War ended in 1954, the second one following soon after. In other words, this birthdate would also mean Hyunh had grown up in a country consistently ravaged by war.

Was more energetic and excitable as a child, the type to dash all over the place, hunting around for whatever interested him if he didn’t have a task at hand like chores.

Also was the kind of kid who didn’t mind helping out around the house a lot (and probably made a big mess of everything more often than not), cooking in particular. Heck, if he had a bad day, he and his mom would chat while making the family’s next meal.

Was separated from his family alongside his father at the age of 7 in 1961 into one of Ngo Dinh Diem’s Agrovilles; was later relocated to one of the “strategic hamlets”, where he would meet and befriend his future wife

Had a younger brother who died fighting against South Vietnam and America during the Vietnam War. This led to Hyunh being classified as one of the “good people” by the new government, sparing him a good chunk of the misfortunes that befell others of his country.

Unfortunately, being Buddhist didn’t score him points with the government at the time either, so he kept his worship discrete until he got to America

Hyunh sees a lot of his deceased brother in Ernie.

Briefly encountered Gerald’s father during the Vietnam War, back when Hyunh barely had any grasp on English

Had Mai in 1973, 2 years before the Fall of Saigon.

His wife died from stray U.S. gunfire in a fire-free zone a few months after Mai’s birth

Mai got taken in by friends of Mr. Hyunh after he gave her up, thankfully, but due to a clerical decision to log her under her stepfamily’s surname instead of her father’s, it took ages for her to be found.

The time Hyunh gave up Mai to the American soldier would have been during Operation: Frequent Wind on April 30th, 1975.

He still has nightmares of wandering the roads of his country post-war, starving for food.

Was tempted to join the boat people some years after sending away his daughter, but chose not to for fear he might not survive.

Came to the boardinghouse in 1995, a few months before Arnold was born.

He used to be a frequent smoker (hence the pipe in “Arnold’s Christmas”) to cope with stress, but started trying to kick the habit after reuniting with Mai.

He gave Arnold only part of the reason he refused fame in “Mr. Hyunh Goes Country” because he didn’t think Arnold would understand the rest of his reasoning: he knew the money would have made life easier for him, especially in regard to showering Mai with gifts to compensate for missing out on her growing up.

However, 1) he feared the celeb life would isolate him from the people in his life, his daughter included, not to mention 2) subject him to constant racial alienation by the new people he’d have to deal with as a celebrity. He’s followed the careers of other celebrities of color; he’s seen what can become of them, let alone the shit they have to put up with from white folks.

Besides, he would have donated most of that money to charity anyway

After a little convincing from Arnold and the other boarders, he tries his hand at being a local event artist and finds he enjoys that much more, not only because of the smaller crowds but because he actually gets to perform for his friends and family

His favorite animals are moon bears, followed by lions.

Big fan of country-style diners

Does yoga in his spare time

Loves visiting the ocean, especially since he’s a very adept swimmer

Blue is his favorite color; green is a close second

Halloween has been among his top favorite holidays since coming to America because he gets to dress up and act.

He got so used to riding bicycles back in Vietnam after the war to the point that he came to enjoy it. He prefers them over motorbikes anyway since he finds them easier to maintain.

In fact, he even has a bike he takes for afterwork rides around the city. However, he never uses it to actually commute to work for 2 reasons: El Patio is too close for that and doesn’t have a place to chain up bicycles.

Big fan of fruit since candy is bad for his stomach (as he stated in the Christmas episode)

Can’t stand most rap music since he considers it the musical equivalent of a migraine

Doesn’t mind jazz and RnB, though, as they’re much more soothing to his senses

As far as country music goes, he’s a big fan of Sheryl Crow, although he’ll sometimes dip his toe into Stevie Nicks’ music too (no this isn’t me projecting my childhood, what do you mean?)

Being left out of family activities hurts him as it reminds him too much of how much of an outsider he felt around other families after he gave up Mai

He has nothing against opulence in general; he simply feels he’d attract the wrong kind of people with it

Being from a tropical region, he is unsurprisingly not a big fan of the cold

He’s always hated kiss-ups (like his coworker from “Family Man”) and freeloaders like Oskar, but especially despises people who get by through nepotism even more since they never worked to get where they are

Sewing and knitting are a fond pastime for him, which would explain how he has so many sweaters in his closet.

These hobbies goes hand in hand with his love for theater - as he said in “Romeo and Juliet”, he is “very dramatic”.

In fact, he’s developed a knack for making costumes to wear. He’s even responsible for a good chunk of the outfits Gertie wears for her holiday antics

Speaking of which, he doesn’t mind getting roped into her antics as long as he gets to dress up himself, like in the Thanksgiving episode

Looking after children is like second nature to him on account of how often he had to look after his little brother; his neighbors would often ask him to look after their children for them as well

Would like to visit the Rocky Mountains someday just so he can play his guitar there. (Not the Southwest, though, beautiful as it is – too many creepy-crawlies)

Gets lost in thought easily, especially when he’s anxious over something

Pansexual and panromantic, although it takes him a while to fully embrace his orientations

Had to unlearn a lot of internalized homo/biphobia - his time in the underground queer bars in Saigon and Hillwood helped a lot with that

Would you believe me if I said Gertie and her chaotic bisexual self might have contributed as well?

Quite frankly, he thinks Dr. Tran Bong Son and his “Fake Homosexual” theory are both full of shit

A very dominant (though still caring) top in bed

Has a paunch he’s a little embarrassed about

This man is 100% Autistic: songwriting and singing help him relax; often forgets to modulate his volume, especially when excited or upset; becomes tactile with whatever’s on hand when nervous; struggles with socializing

Would be voiced by François Chau for Season 6. None of that Wally Wingert shit from the Jungle Movie.

Jonathan Ke Quan would be the perfect live-action choice for him. Change my mind.

#Mr. Hyunh #Mr. Huynh #headcanons #Hey Arnold #nickelodeon #favorite characters #vietnamese #Vietnam #history #tw: vietnam war #my precious husband #my childhood

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nobodycanknowihavethisapp · 8 months

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Something in TPN that I have heard NO ONE mention is the symbolism behind Ray's attempt, self immolation has been used as an act of nonviolent protest for years, the definition of self immolation is literally "sacrificing oneself by setting themselves on fire usually for religious or political protest or martyrdom." My personal belief was that Ray wasn't so much suicidal, as in he wanted to die just to end his own suffering, but to make a final statement, he said himself that setting himself on fire was going to be an act of intense protest, waiting until he is the top product and ripping it away from them before they can get it, making one last sacrifice before they're taken to freedom, basically a huge "fuck you" to the farms and his mother who he served acknowledging the horrors of what the plantations did. The most famous instance of self-immolation is by Thich Quan Duc during the Vietnam war, he set himself on fire in an intersection on the streets of Saigon during a protest against religious and discrimination and political oppression.

#Trigger warning #TW #ray the promised neverland #the promised neverland #tpn manga #tpn #I thought of this when reading about the Vietnam war protests #rest in peace Thich Quan Duc

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terrence-silver · 2 days

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Formally requesting a follow up to your married-to-his-high-school-sweetheart Twig story where he finally reunites stateside with his beloved. He gets a bit carried away in his need to convey just how much he's missed her? Maybe it gets a bit dark as he wants to possess her so deeply that no one questions their relationship again?

(You know me, there are really no boundaries on my end, so take this where you will!)

The story is a continuation / expansion of this post right here.

---

Momma Back Home Ran Out of Ink

Twig!Terry Silver x Reader

—

The limousine rushes from the airbase, his chauffeur hitting the 180 miles per hour mark.

He just about didn’t care who saw — who gawked — the image of him leaving in big style like this, his uniform the only thing lingering on him from the flight back home alongside the boxed in beige parcel on his lap — his luggage long since having been sent where he wanted it sent, meanwhile; all your letters, correspondence, pictures, perfumed paper, tokens collected from nearly three years overseas where with him. The first thing he asked for upon release to base and the one thing that stuck to him like a second skin after he was out of the cage was every bit of devotion showcased in written form; Terry Silver was only seventeen when he married you, before being deployed, technically needing parental consent to do so, and of course his old man fought the idea. Of course he waged war, of a different kind, at home, yelling and shouting until the walls practically shook, wagging his bejeweled finger and listing all the requirements of what a potential partner should be, what the acceptable age is, how life should be lived, our own kind of people being words dropped frequently, like a bomb, and Terry recalled that being his first bit of checkmate, telling his father that if he gave his consent he, like a good son, would compromise. He wouldn’t go off to the war and do something stupid and endanger his own future, like all the supposed lowlives did --- boys without prospects other than being live canon fodder were doing and the minute the signature was on paper and Terry had you secured and his, he left anyway.

He laughed then even as he was laughing now, into his own chin, all the way to the airfield.

That was then, his first ever victory.

And this was now.

And now? In the present? He needed you. He needed you badly.

Almost two years in the bush and there were nights where he’d secretly slide his hand into his green fatigues while laying in the sack during patrols, the scented envelope your letters arrived in pushed into his boxers and wrapped around his cock as he rubbed it on the tender flesh there, up and down, envisioning your fingers and lips wrapped around him instead, not minding the chafing sensation of paper on his skin. Quite the opposite; he found the slight discomfort exhilarating, cumming against the material and the itching sensation of pain, holding back groans, stashing the soaked, stained remains away and saving them for later like a lucky charm. Thing is, most of those punks never believed he was married back home in the first place, the same way his father never thought he had the guts to go against his word. Terry wasn’t sure if he preferred it that way, because it meant none of them would ever ask for your picture, never ask about you, never hassle him, never even contemplate you, convinced you were a fragment of his imagination or he despised it for being doubted. Looked down on. Underestimated. It was poetic justice when one of them would rip your newly arrived letter from his hand, jumping around like a rabid ape, giggling and reading your words aloud to everyone only to step on a landmine a week from then, losing the very leg they were jumping on in a state of mockery. Momma back home ran out of ink, they’d call it, whenever the letters were late. Somehow delayed. When they were on time, they’d say momma was diligent, writing to her son as per schedule, prodding and poking at him; it was this running gag, that his mother was posing as wife to make him look good out here, in front of the boys.

Those were the nights he wanted to kill.

Simultaneously the nights when he’d squeeze the collected envelopes of your letters harder.

Tighter. The pace vigorous and angry. Desperate.

Scrunching them around his dick until he could feel himself bleed.

-"So, married man, huh?"-

John Kreese remarked on one occasion, sitting beside him in the busy canteen, giving him a broad smile, seemingly eager and warm, the type someone gives you when they’re honest — genuine — regardless, Terry instinctively braced for more mockery, having been used to it by now. Desensitized in ways. Kreese fished into his pocket, lowering himself into the chair beside him, pulling out a photo of his own, tapping him on the back with a big, heavy hand with a gesture sudden and firm enough to be felt in Terry’s spine, John being almost twice his size where muscle mass was concerned. -"Right on!"- A sense of congratulation in his voice and Terry remembered sitting there, surprised. The picture offered to him. A girl. An introduction. Like they were equals. Two brothers. Not even his own father gave him such a welcome sensation after he’s gotten hitched; quite the contrary. He’s threatened to disown and disinherit him. Which he would’ve done too if he simply he had in who’s favor to disown and disinherit him. -"This is my Betsy. My Pasadena girl."- John explained with a twinge of visible, twinkling pride and Terry held that photo between shaking fingers, feeling his own mouth partially fall agape. Acceptance? This was acceptance, wasn’t it? A way of saying ‘I believe you, friend’. All the more reason then, for him to rush home now, in John’s name, in his own, and fuck you, on the foundation of everything that he lived through in Vietnam. The news that Betsy died. That you, on the other hand, were alive and well, and that he should push himself inside of you so deep you feel him in your bloodstream, precisely because you weren’t taken from him. That Captain Turner wasn’t announcing that you were the one who wasn’t alive anymore, during that fateful night when the bamboo cage sprung open and they were handpicked and led outside.

The car comes to a sudden halt and you’re already on the front porch, eagerly waving.

Waiting for him, having got his call, hour, date and all.

His cock twitches in his trousers at the sight of you as he rushes out, slamming the door behind him.

-"Terry! Sweetheart! Baby!"-

Your arms open towards him, he doesn’t even know when he’s managed to cross the street that separated the parked vehicle from your house by a narrow road, but it’s one of those things a man does in a trance, he supposed. Instinctually. Naturally. The body didn’t need reminds to breathe at night, while it was asleep. Organs didn’t give out while he was dreaming. Having nightmares. Thinking of you. They’d just seamlessly continued to do their own thing, without reminders needed. He figured it was the case now. Terry ran to you because nothing in the world could’ve made more sense. Your soft hands encircle his face, holding his cheeks, gaze scrutinizing every feature riddled with the sheen of warm tears. You speak, exasperated, and he’s heard your voice before. In the sound or rifles. Gunfire. The rare quietude of the night. Nothing beat hearing it live, like piecing together a puzzle from memory. -"Terry, you’re here!"- You speak through gasps, like you couldn’t believe the sight of him. He changed. He was aware he changed. Internally. Externally. In every way possible. The widening of your eyes testifying as to how much exactly. He supposed he did it for himself. For you. For all the people who ever doubted him to the degree they’d fail to imagine him a married man because they couldn’t reconcile he had it in him, leading him to go to Korea after the war and take even more time away from you — make that ultimate sacrifice of discipline and willpower if it only meant how he’d look the part of everything he started being convinced he could be. -"Let me look at you!"- Your stare riddled with happy tears travels up and down his uniform in shock once you release yourself from an embrace he’s reluctant to break — allowing you only so much breathing space, backing you further away from the front yard, the lawn and further up the porch, causing you to walk backwards. Too happy to notice it too. Terry wasn’t looking at his surroundings. He was only looking at you. At this point, a car could’ve pulled up from the roadside and he swears he could’ve stopped it with desire and power of tenacity alone for daring to interrupt him. -"I swear, you got taller somehow! They've been feeding you good out there!"- You chuckle out, trying to alleviate the situation, observing his head and reaching back, finding a wisp of hair tied at the nape of his neck, tenderly tugging at the strands, needing to stand propped up on your toes to even touch him.

Quite the contrary to your endearing, adorable statement; you couldn't even imagine half of the things he was forced to eat 'out there', as you put it so poetically.

He grins at the fact.

He'd much prefer eating you, though. Right now.

-"This is new too. I like it!"-

You remark, a smile revealing a row of teeth behind a pleased lip, eying his locks.

-"It’s just like you described it!"-

You add, twirling a curl of hair around your finger and he unwittingly thinks of Ponytail. From his letters, you assumed the tied, long hair was simply a fashion choice, but Terry doesn’t allow himself time to fall behind any longer and get distracted by explanations, hoisting you up without warning, there and then on the sidewalk and lifting your body up, towards his shoulder, eliciting a jolted cry of surprise from you as he balances you by grabbing unto the back of your hips, right beneath your buttocks. He doesn't linger. Ponytail wouldn’t want him to linger either, in fact. Ponytail would want him to fuck your brains out right about now, regardless of the fact that he frequently believed getting married at seventeen is either some Redneck nonsense or Waspy nonsense, never anything in between. You either had to be trailer park destitute or richer than God to be pulling things like that, he'd theorize. Terry nearly cackles at the idea, beaming at the recollection. -"You like it, huh?"- He remarks with a contented hum, sauntering in wide strides towards the house, practically carrying your body forward, his nails digging into the flesh of your ass, feeling the tender skin there through the fabric of your clothes and underwear. It takes a cosmic amount of self-control not to throw you against the front porch wall and screw you right against it, in view of the entire street, letting everyone who accidentally caught ahold of the sight that you’re his. That he did it. That it was his fucking right to do this. You were his wife and he was consummating his marriage.

The front door slams shut behind him.

He puts you down, cornering you against the nearby wall.

When the buttons of your blouse snap scattering across the floorboard, with each rolling and tumble of the fasteners disappearing under chairs, tables and cupboards like so many ants, Captain Turner’s voice echoes through his mind.

-"So help me God, you got us into this shit, and you’ll pay for it."-

His grimace flashes before Terry’s eyes, obscured by the shadows of the canopy.

His fingers unbuckle his belt like they had a mind of their own, seeking your warmth.

Your cunt hidden underneath layers of fabric.

-"I’ll make you pay for it, kid."-

His familiar voice repeats and rumbles inside of his brain and Terry isn't certain what way he'd rather fuck you, trying to quell the noise inside of his head, yet simultaneously embracing it gladly, hoping that in some weird way, everyone he was intrusively remembering could hear him. See what he was doing right now. That they were witness to it, as they should've been, as he was getting ready to claim you and preform for each and every one of them, including you, purely so they'd all understand this was real. This was his wife. He was having her. A big collective 'screw you' to the very lot of them --- every doubter in his life so far. He grabs you underneath your hips, effectively lifting you up and spreading you, up against the wall. Thank fuck for the practicality sundresses, because your whole wetness falls open like the most delicious treat inside of a wending machine, the scent of you salty and pungent. Delectable. Soaked and obscured by the thin fabric of your panties. He could see exactly where you were split. Yearning for him. It's child's play to dig into the material and rip it open right in the middle, exposing you for him. You shriek. -"Those bozos out there will seem like a kitten in comparison and by the time they walk through to get you, you’ll beg them to finish you."- His commanding officer had the tendency of saying, moving as close as the tightly confined space of their shared cage allowed back, believing in equal measure retribution as he threatened him, even though Terry knew it was more than a threat --- it was a promise. The buzzing sound of his radio station alerted the enemy to their position out in the wild, endangering the whole platoon and the only reasonable conclusion was for the unit to take the matters of justice into their own hands and ensure clumsy little Twig pays dearly for his negligence. Code Red. Extra judicial punishment. The idea that he isn't safe outside of the cage as much as inside of it. That his own compatriots would make him suffer as much as the Gooks would've and that it would've been John and him against all of them. But, he was here. He was alive. He was devouring you.

-"That little missy of yours? Swear on my heart and hope to die, you ain't never seeing her again except in the front pews while they put to rest whatever's left to ship home of you of you and your ass."-

Turner threatened in his thoughts and you moan, lashed with velvety hot licks.

Hips bucking against Terry's mouth.

The thought of seeing you again was the chief reasons why he felt he survived.

To have someone tell him even that will be taken away from him?

He wondered how he stayed sane. If he was sane at all.

Sane? What was sane anymore?

-"I still own whatever's left of you and your ass."-

The words come out of his mouth of his own volition, repeating lines he's heard before, halfway paying homage, halfway mocking his commander's statement. Lines address for him initially. Reframing them. Causing you to moan from above him once his mouth separates from the slick moisture of your pussy. -"When I'm done."- He adds, once he catches his breath, letting you slide down against the surface of the wall right back into his embrace, not giving you too little or too much pleasure, rather just enough to make you suffer. You huff, breathless, hair falling over your forehead shiny with sweat, mouth partially open in delight, partially on the precipice of inhaling oxygen, like you were on the verge of saying something while he was feverishly massaging your slit with the tip of his cock, easing himself in. He's grown in every way he could. Even his cock would need time to re-adjust to your cunt. But, he knew you'd like that. You'd like that very much. He would too. -"I know this isn't the right time, Terry, but your dad --- he's called and called and called. Almost every day. I just think you should know. Even before we were told you were MIA."- You practically gasp your words once he's inside of you, rocking back and forth --- there was something very amusing, remising about family mid-sex, but admittedly, he barely gave you time to properly greet him after such a long time being away and so much shit he had to get through to merely come back alive, practically hoisting you up and carrying you inside, never even giving you time to say too much. -"And what did you tell him?"- Terry practically purrs, inhaling the scent of your neck. -"What did my hole tell him?"- He corrects himself, allowing himself to laugh. So? The old man did maintain some contact with the only daughter-in-law he'd ever get. He promised Terry he'd never utter a single word directed your way. Clearly, it was a short lived promise. The same way the threat that pa' would disown him if he went to 'Nam was. Funny how people tended to capitulate in strange ways when faced with someone who took the matter of agency into their own hands.

His father told him to leave the whole Karate-Vietnam business behind too.

And then he went and bought John his first dojo, as a gift.

What was the old man gonna do about it?

Get angry twice?

-"I told him the same thing every time."-

You mutter into his ear with what sounded like infinite tenderness.

Gentleness peppered with the shadow of desire.

-"That deep down, against all odds, I know you're okay."-

Terry looks at you then, separating himself from the precipice of your throat riddled with kisses that he was certain would bruise red by tomorrow, You knew he'd be okay. You knew? You told his father that? Even if he wasn't okay and had to come home in bits and pieces he'd drag himself back tooth and nail. John wouldn't let him fall behind. He'd carry him out there on his back and Terry knew that much. That's why you and him were the two most valuable people in his life. His best friend and the woman who deserved to live inside a returning soldier's locket forever as a memento. Still inside of you, Terry takes a second to tilt his head and smile. He's been doing a lot of that lately. The palm of his hand pressed against your cheek. If anything, you killed his father with kindness, believing in him when nobody else did and keeping the faith of his return even in the face of adversity. If anything, you showed your complete and utter quality. Your devotion. The very idea nearly made him salivate. The things he wanted to do to you bypassed imagination and description right about now, but Terry starts with the practical aspects of it all, grabbing the elastic lace holding the two cups of your exposed brassiere and tugging at it hard enough to allow the ribbon to snap, coming undone, exposing your chest, allowing the top to slide down, limp, lacking support. You gasp. He's had waking dreams about your tits. Imagine them every time he set his head down on any makeshift surface that could double as a pillow. But, now? He finally had the real deal, reaching out, and kneading with both hands. -"It's good my little robot's been so diligently answering the phone and taking care of correspondence."- He praises, tugging at your firm nipples --- one and then the other, listening to your breath hitch at the contact. What conversation happened happened; now that he's home he'd make use of the marital bedroom the right, proper way, holding nothing back. After all, you and him had all the time in the world now. Terry's arms envelop your waist, dragging you forward with him, down the corridor, never taking his eyes off of you. Your color drains from your face once he speaks and he didn't blame you. In fact, all of this was deliberate. He didn't know if he meant his words figuratively or literally anymore.

-"Considering this is only just the start and we're not leaving that room until you're wrecked and dead."-

Terry hums with deliberate provocation and lulling self-satisfaction.

Trapping you in an embrace, stripping pieces of clothes from you and himself.

Or rather, ripping --- slamming the bedroom door once you were inside.

Leaving the abject chaos of the foyer floor behind.

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