(no subject)
Title: Only.
Fandom: MASH
Characters: B.J/Hawk
Prompt: Lovers.
Word Count:
Rating: R
Author's Notes: Unbeta'd. MASH isn't mine. Feedback is Love.
Big Damn Table:Here
B.J doesn’t fuck for fun: this isn’t an affair. He doesn’t plan to meet or meet to plan, just stumbles over his hesitance and into his cot; Hawkeye already three steps ahead, no shirts or pants or hollow apologies. They’re war’s reflection: dusty from the long days that forgot them, hazy from the smog of doubt and hidden enemies. They’re rough skin and clumsy limbs and the trickle of rogue sweat behind the cleft of B.J’s knee. Words seep out through the hysteria: truth words, sometimes lies. I love you, I will forever.
B.J didn’t choose Hawkeye for anything; they’re 1 and 2 and A and B and it works well for them, they use it. Room mates, cell mates, work mates, best mates. They share clothes and shoes and booze and the habitual prank at Uncle Sam’s expense. They share every idea and thought and hope that floods their minds; if they don’t, it dies with the soldier, nameless and wasted. They’re two lives forced into one, reworked and reshaped to make sense, and sometimes it all falls into sex and every time that’s ok.
B.J won’t regret; he hasn’t the time or the energy for it. Peg wears her skirt below the knee, her blouse tucked in and her perfume at the neck and wrists; the indefinite smell of purity and preservation. Peg is soft all over; B.J’s hands will glide from side to side so easily, Peg’s breath will emerge in short erratic bursts, their love making will be text book and beautiful. Few words are spoken, the kisses are chaste and they only lie wrapped together until she falls asleep. Hawkeye isn’t Peg, he’s not even a woman, he just is and it has to be enough.
Fandom: MASH
Characters: B.J/Hawk
Prompt: Lovers.
Word Count:
Rating: R
Author's Notes: Unbeta'd. MASH isn't mine. Feedback is Love.
Big Damn Table:Here
B.J doesn’t fuck for fun: this isn’t an affair. He doesn’t plan to meet or meet to plan, just stumbles over his hesitance and into his cot; Hawkeye already three steps ahead, no shirts or pants or hollow apologies. They’re war’s reflection: dusty from the long days that forgot them, hazy from the smog of doubt and hidden enemies. They’re rough skin and clumsy limbs and the trickle of rogue sweat behind the cleft of B.J’s knee. Words seep out through the hysteria: truth words, sometimes lies. I love you, I will forever.
B.J didn’t choose Hawkeye for anything; they’re 1 and 2 and A and B and it works well for them, they use it. Room mates, cell mates, work mates, best mates. They share clothes and shoes and booze and the habitual prank at Uncle Sam’s expense. They share every idea and thought and hope that floods their minds; if they don’t, it dies with the soldier, nameless and wasted. They’re two lives forced into one, reworked and reshaped to make sense, and sometimes it all falls into sex and every time that’s ok.
B.J won’t regret; he hasn’t the time or the energy for it. Peg wears her skirt below the knee, her blouse tucked in and her perfume at the neck and wrists; the indefinite smell of purity and preservation. Peg is soft all over; B.J’s hands will glide from side to side so easily, Peg’s breath will emerge in short erratic bursts, their love making will be text book and beautiful. Few words are spoken, the kisses are chaste and they only lie wrapped together until she falls asleep. Hawkeye isn’t Peg, he’s not even a woman, he just is and it has to be enough.