heronposting

[heronposting]

I’ve been working on an Oppenheimer x femme reader fic with the premise: what would it be like working on the Manhattan project as a physics postdoc? I figured I’d post the first draft here. More chapters to come.

Chapter 1

The Desert at Night

It’s late and you’re in his office, going over pages of coffee-stained carbon copies of calculations together.

“Was it this one? No…maybe this…no…” Dr. Oppenheimer mutters, leafing through the pages in frustration.

“I don’t think it’s in this pile,” you say, exhausted. “We should take a break and find it in the morning.”

“I’ll forget by morning,” he sighs under his breath, pinching the skin between his eyes.

The stress clearly weighs on him, not helped by the fact that he’s been chain smoking and drinking coffee for hours. You worry about him.

“What if I write down exactly what we’re looking for, and I’ll remind you in the morning?” you offer.

It’s far past quitting time — ten at night you observe, checking your watch — you’re hungry for dinner, and you have a headache. But you must bear these conditions to work with Oppie and to continue your shared task, which demands long hours and arduous work.

By this point in the project, you know his habits well enough that you feel the need to keep an eye on him. You make sure he eats once in a while and, most importantly, that he gets enough sleep. Your beloved doctor is unraveling little by little. You start gathering your things to leave but Dr. Oppenheimer stays put, stubbornly staring at the calculations on his desk.

“Come on, isn’t it about time to get home to Kitty?” you ask playfully.

His face falls a little.

“I have a feeling she doesn’t want to see me. I’m going to stay here for the night,” he admits, not making eye contact with you.

You have no idea how to respond. Are he and Kitty fighting? You want to say something to comfort him but nothing comes readily to mind. Instead you just look at him, his hand gripping the edge of the desk, eyes firmly downcast.

You’ve been infatuated with Dr. Oppenheimer ever since he hand-picked you for the project. A few months ago he traveled across the country just to recruit you — out of hundreds of postdoctoral physics trainees, no less — on a recommendation from your principal investigator. And even during that first impression there was an undeniable spark between you two. Obviously you were, and are, enamored with him. Who could resist that trim figure, those deft hands, those intelligent eyes shining in his handsome face. Maybe he’s merely impressed by your graduate work, but you can tell that Dr. Oppenheimer likes you too. Maybe that’s why he felt comfortable enough to mention his argument with Kitty in front of you.

“I’m sorry for mentioning it…” you trail off, feeling awkward.

He waves his hand to dismiss your apology.

“It’s fine, you couldn’t have known,” he reassures you, rubbing his temple.

“But you can’t sleep in your office, there’s nowhere to lie down,” you protest, brazenly following this train of thought to its destination. “Why don’t you stay at my place?”

Dr. Oppenheimer raises his eyebrows at you.

“On the couch, just for tonight,” you quickly hedge.

“Well…” he says, yawning, considering his options. “I guess there’s no harm in it.”

Internally, you cheer. You both don your coats and finally leave Dr. Oppenheimer’s office for the night. The cold desert air feels refreshing on your faces after being cooped up inside all day. After sunset, the little town rapidly cools and bathes itself in moonlight, turning the landscape into all different shades of indigo. You and Dr. Oppenheimer fall into a comfortable silence as you lead the way to your house, walking with your hands buried in your pockets to keep warm.

Once you make it away from the compound and onto the small residential road, you wonder with a pang of anxiety if anyone is watching you walking together. Towards your house, at night, no less! The rumors would be nasty. You peer at the windows as you pass the rows of identical houses that were hastily built for the project. But no one is looking back.

“Here we are,” you say, unlocking your front door and letting Dr. Oppenheimer in.

You’re internally grateful that you cleaned your house over the weekend. Even so, you scan the area for anything that might be embarrassing for him to see.

“Please make yourself at home,” you say to cut the tension.

“Thank you, [YN],” he says, quite inscrutably.

Dr. Oppenheimer can be hard to read sometimes. You nearly wish he would act sadder, giving you an excuse to comfort him. But more urgently, you’re starving, having not eaten since lunch.

“I’ll make us something to eat,” you tell him as he wearily sits on the couch, then closes his eyes and massages his temples.

You’re disappointed by the contents of the pantry: peanut butter, bread, canned beans, and canned peas. You decide to make two generous peanut butter sandwiches.

“Sorry, I need to restock the pantry so this is dinner,” you say, handing him a sandwich and a glass of water.

“Honestly, I love peanut butter sandwiches,” he replies earnestly, making you both laugh.

You sit next to him on the couch, enjoying your sandwich, when you suddenly remember you need to write down the notes and equations from your earlier discussion. You jump up, startling Dr. Oppenheimer.

“Sorry! I’m getting a paper and pen for the notes. I’ll forget otherwise,” you exclaim as you get your briefcase.

You sit back down, sandwich in one hand and pen in the other, writing the notes on your knee.

“Oh yes, thank you for remembering,” says Dr. Oppenheimer. “That constant should be squared,” he corrects, “and then you divide by — yes. Good girl, you knew what I was about to say.”

Your cheeks grow warm at that comment but you hope he doesn’t notice. You continue working on the notes, acutely aware of how little space there is between you. His thigh touches yours as he points to one of the mathematical expressions. You wonder if Dr. Oppenheimer feels your proximity the way you feel his. Finally, you finish the notes and stash them in your briefcase.

“Listen, [YN], I really appreciate you letting me stay over,” Dr. Oppenheimer says.

“Oh, don’t mention it,” you reply. “It certainly beats sleeping in your desk chair.”

“It certainly does,” he agrees.

You make up the couch for him with a pillow and blanket.

“How can I make you more comfortable?” you ask, wanting to make sure he is taken care of.

You wish he would answer, “I would be more comfortable sleeping next to you in your bed, and while you’re at it can you give me a massage and a kiss and hold me in your arms?”

Instead he politely says, “I’m fine, thank you. Goodnight.”

You retire to your room and stare at the door after closing it, madly in love with him. You want to scream into your pillow, but instead you silently scream at the door and scribble a few sentences onto a piece of paper, then crumple it up and throw it onto the floor where it makes a pitifully quiet sound. Then, you’re ready to change into your nightgown and go to sleep.

[heronposting]

Does anyone love Luca Changretta as much as I do? Here is an excerpt I’m composing which is likely to expand into a little slow burn short story.

“What are you doing for the rest of the night, baby?”

“Dancing with you?”

Luca smiled. “Yes you are, doll. Yes you certainly are.”

Luca took my hand and led me to the dance floor. The band was playing an up tempo jazz piece. Everyone was doing some form of quickstep, and we kept pace. When the next song—a slow one—began, Luca pulled me in close. He held my waist with his left hand and my hand with his right. He was quite tall but led the dance elegantly.

I looked into his dark brown eyes with an expression that I hoped depicted innocence and infatuation. My left hand, resting on his shoulder, caressed the material of his jacket.

“This is beautiful,” I murmured, admiring it as much as I was deliberately stroking his ego.

“Yes it is. Finally a woman who recognizes good taste.”

Luca brought me even closer until there was no space between us. I had to focus not to tread on him. I glanced at his lips, then found his eye contact again. Unsure if it was a good idea to do so, I moved my hand to the side of his neck where his cross tattoo was. Luca barely reacted, but he looked at me intensely. I put both my arms around his neck and let him hold me for the rest of the song. His hands were wrapped tightly, and a bit indecently, around my waist.

“What are we drinking?” I asked as the song ended.

“Champagne,” Luca said.

“Sure.”

Luca’s hand never left the small of my back as we went back to the bar and sat together.

“It’s Charlotte, by the way,” I said, extending my hand to him.

Luca half smiled, taking my hand and kissing it.

“A pleasure, Charlotte.”

His voice was husky, almost raspy. As he sipped the champagne, he covertly turned his wrist outward, revealing his Black Hand tattoo. He placed the flute delicately onto the bar.

“And do you know who I am, Charlotte?”

“No,” I lied. “Not until you tell me.”

“I’m the kind of man that you don’t wanna get too close to.

“What if I do?”

I tried to give my question a flirtatious tone without being too coy.

“Sweet innocent girl like you. You’re playing with fire,” he said provocatively. “Luca,” he added.

“Luca…” I pondered aloud. “Like luce. Light.”

Surprise crossed his face, softening his features. That meant something to you, you bastard. I got you.

“That’s right, sweetheart. La Luce.”

“Speaking of…” I said, taking out a cigarette.

He lit it for me with a match, saying nothing. The tension finally ebbed as we smoked and drank our champagne. I observed Luca’s right hand in the low light of the bar. He had two gold rings with black stones, one on his pinky and the other on his index finger. There was the Black Hand of course, then a 6 on his thumb, and I could make out another small cross. I wondered what other tattoos he was hiding. If all went to plan, I would find out.

“Let’s get outta here,” said Luca, gathering his coat and hat.

“Where to?” I asked.

As he helped me with my coat, Luca said, “anywhere to get a decent drink in this fuckin town.”

“What do you prefer?”

“If I had my choice? Italian goddamn wine. Vino. This champagne is swill.”

He grimaced.

“Well, it’s your lucky night. I have some Italian wine at home.”

“What.” Luca made the che vuoi hand gesture. “You’re fucking joking.”

“Barolo.”

He sucked his teeth and looked at me in amazement.

“You got Barolo?”

“Well I used to have a few bottles. Now I have two. But I’d be happy to open one for you, Luca.”

“Doll…where have you been? I mean where the fuck have you been?” Luca shook his head. “Come on.”

We walked into the chilly Birmingham air. It must have been approaching midnight. I started to lead us to my flat when Luca suddenly steered me into an alley.

“Can I kiss you?” Luca asked roughly, already leaning in.

I gave him a small smile in answer, tilting my chin up. Luca kissed me hard, tasting of champagne. He held the back of my head and pressed me against the wall. I closed my eyes and kissed him the way I wanted to kiss Tommy. Luca made a quiet, low sound in his throat.

Are you that desperate? Maybe it’s been a while. Doesn’t matter. That just makes my job easier.

He reached inside my coat to feel the silk of my dress. His hand brushed over my breast, surprising me and making my breath catch, which only encouraged him. We started kissing again. He moved his hand down over my stomach to my hip, then he circled his arm around my back.

I needed to get him to the flat. I reached out and found his belt, pulling on it to let him know where I was about to touch him. Luca grabbed my ass while I felt his arousal with my hand.

“Fuck…mi ecciti,” he groaned. You’re turning me on.

“Luca, please. Let’s go. Andiamo.”

“Say please like that again.”

“Please, Luca?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice in your mouth, doll.”

We broke apart, straightening our coats as we stepped back onto to the street. I took Luca’s arm again and we started walking towards my temporary flat. We barely made it in the door and up the stairs before Luca was on me again. He practically tore off my jacket and felt my breasts in earnest, with both hands.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how nice this dress is. You’re the only woman in this town who knows how to dress.”

He started to unbutton me.

“It’s silk,” I said.

“Italian?”

“What else?”

He hummed in approval.

“I need it off of you. Now.”

Finally we got my dress off. I was naked underneath except for my stockings. Luca grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me up and down approvingly. Hungrily.

“On your knees, doll face.”

I did as he asked and knelt. Luca undid his belt and took out his cock.

Pretend it’s Tommy. It’s just Tommy, it’s Tommy, I thought as I took him in my mouth.