ext_1675 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
laceymcbain.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crack_van2006-11-30 01:29 pm
laceymcbain.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2006-11-30 01:29 pm
Entry tags:
Broken Wing by lamardeuse (R)
Fandom: THE A-TEAM
Pairing: Face/Murdock
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lamardeuse
Author Website: where the world is puddle wonderful
Why this must be read: Lamardeuse entered A-Team fandom about the same time I did and in much the same way. We keep running into one another in various fandoms, and I'm always pleased with what she writes. She's got an easy style that moves the story along, but still packs a lot of emotional impact; she also doesn't pull punches when it comes to the hard stuff, especially the Vietnam stories. This one in particular goes back to a week in Saigon where Face and Murdock found some solace in one another. Eighteen years later, they're both still thinking about it, but as usual they've got regrets for all the wrong reasons. (Men!) This technically is part of a series of connected stories, but it can be read as a stand alone, although I certainly recommend reading anything this author writes.
They slept during the days, only coming together in the dark, spending hours just kissing and touching and exploring with hands and mouths, tentatively at first, then bolder and more desperately as the week waned. It was as if both of them knew, though they didn't talk about it, that there would never be a repeat of this, and so they would pile up memories to keep for later years, or maybe only until next Friday, depending on their luck. Temp remembered being surprised by the smooth skin of his sides, about the only place on him not covered in hair. He remembered tracing the jut of narrow hipbones with his tongue, and feeling his cock harden against the mattress when a hand reached down, not to control him, but to stroke the top of his head gently, so gently. It was the tenderness he cherished most--yeah, cherished, that was the word, what the hell--on the quiet nights afterward when he remembered the incoherent sounds of pleasure his friend had made, low and almost musical, and thought, at least I gave him that. At least the voices left him for a while.
Temp could relive every detail of that week, wondered how the hell it was possible after all the soft-bodied women in the intervening years. Maybe it was the way they had fit together despite the sameness, despite the strangeness of it for both of them. But then, it was a strange time, when you slept, ate, breathed in a world populated entirely by men, owed them your life a dozen times over. The intensity of it wasn't easy to describe, to explain; it had a power to elevate the profane to the level of the sacred, and to trample sacraments in the dust.
Eighteen years later, he was standing on the other side of a steel door, waiting for the courage to ring the doorbell. Whether or not Murdock would let him in was a whole other issue.
Read the story: Broken Wing, and let the author know you enjoyed it.
Pairing: Face/Murdock
Author on LJ:
lamardeuseAuthor Website: where the world is puddle wonderful
Why this must be read: Lamardeuse entered A-Team fandom about the same time I did and in much the same way. We keep running into one another in various fandoms, and I'm always pleased with what she writes. She's got an easy style that moves the story along, but still packs a lot of emotional impact; she also doesn't pull punches when it comes to the hard stuff, especially the Vietnam stories. This one in particular goes back to a week in Saigon where Face and Murdock found some solace in one another. Eighteen years later, they're both still thinking about it, but as usual they've got regrets for all the wrong reasons. (Men!) This technically is part of a series of connected stories, but it can be read as a stand alone, although I certainly recommend reading anything this author writes.
They slept during the days, only coming together in the dark, spending hours just kissing and touching and exploring with hands and mouths, tentatively at first, then bolder and more desperately as the week waned. It was as if both of them knew, though they didn't talk about it, that there would never be a repeat of this, and so they would pile up memories to keep for later years, or maybe only until next Friday, depending on their luck. Temp remembered being surprised by the smooth skin of his sides, about the only place on him not covered in hair. He remembered tracing the jut of narrow hipbones with his tongue, and feeling his cock harden against the mattress when a hand reached down, not to control him, but to stroke the top of his head gently, so gently. It was the tenderness he cherished most--yeah, cherished, that was the word, what the hell--on the quiet nights afterward when he remembered the incoherent sounds of pleasure his friend had made, low and almost musical, and thought, at least I gave him that. At least the voices left him for a while.
Temp could relive every detail of that week, wondered how the hell it was possible after all the soft-bodied women in the intervening years. Maybe it was the way they had fit together despite the sameness, despite the strangeness of it for both of them. But then, it was a strange time, when you slept, ate, breathed in a world populated entirely by men, owed them your life a dozen times over. The intensity of it wasn't easy to describe, to explain; it had a power to elevate the profane to the level of the sacred, and to trample sacraments in the dust.
Eighteen years later, he was standing on the other side of a steel door, waiting for the courage to ring the doorbell. Whether or not Murdock would let him in was a whole other issue.
Read the story: Broken Wing, and let the author know you enjoyed it.