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mylittleredgirl · 28 days

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happy easter to hawkeye setting up margaret/trapper instead of joining in

(from 1 x 24 "showtime." for @remyfire, bearer of the margaret/trapper torch this week)

#if i were alive to see this on real time television let me tell you i would have filled that hiatus mimeographing so many zines #houlintyre #mash #mashblogging #long post #houlitraphawk #<- adding that one in now that i know what it's supposed to be lmao i need a glossary of portmanteaus for this dang fandom

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remyfire · 2 months

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The fact that Trapper is quick to do his usual "So you got yourself knocked up, big whoop, get out," schtick up until the moment that Margaret says "Please," is so fun. I know in large part it's because Margaret has barely ever said please to either of them—she's too keen on giving orders and demands—and that's what tells him that it's serious, actually. But also, for better or for worse, this man is a husband, and if a beautiful, panicked woman shows up in front of him in her robe in the middle of the night, I don't think even a hurricane could stop him from providing some assistance.

#this is not even to talk about how margaret CHOOSES trapper to be the one that she keeps hanging onto in her tent #and the headcanon that if he'd been able to stay on a little longer they absolutely would've pushed a bit more of a romance for them #but i also just love when you see the husband jump out of a man just like i love when we get to see the dad jump out of trapper #trapper john mcintyre #margaret houlihan #houlintyre #m*a*s*h #mashposting #mashblogging #iron guts kelly #s3e4

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majorbaby · 6 months

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kinktober 2023 ✨

i've shared a few of these fics throughout october, but i wanted to do a roll-up of everything i posted last month

thank you @marley-manson @persianflaw and @rescue-ram for supporting in various ways - editing, helping to create prompts and chatting with me about many of these pieces <3

all fic is hosted on ao3, rated E and tagged for content within the body of each fic

Aphrodisiacs - Trapper/Hawkeye

First time - Margie Cutler/Edwina Ferguson

Face sitting - Margaret/Trapper

Sex pollen - Hawkeye/BJ

Stuck in a wall - Trapper/Hawkeye

Mutual masturbation - Margaret/Helen

Bondage - BJ/Peg

Spitroasting - Hawkeye/Trapper/Oliver

Feminization - BJ/Trapper

Frottage - Hawkeye/Frank

Pegging - Ginger/Trapper

CNC - Hawkeye/Trapper/Margie

Impotence - Trapper/Hawkeye

#kinktober #my fic #gonna tag the ships and characters that i care about cataloguing here #beejtrap #hawktrapollie #houlintyre #margaret x helen #hawnk #ginger bayliss #oliver jones #margie cutler #helen whitfield

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thelatecaptainpierce · 9 months

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houlintyre rights

#i love them :(((((((((((((#mash

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leonardcohenofficial · 4 months

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Do you ship Hawkeye and Margaret?

not in any real sense of an endgame, but i do find potentiality in that relationship compelling. i think that the friendship we got to see on screen is ultimately more interesting than if the show had gone for any real romance between them, but i get why people ship them/enjoy the very few and far between actually good fics that explore what could have been. (a bit of a sidebar but had wayne rogers stuck around on the show, i think there would have been more of an established trapper and margaret arc—which we get hints at in season three—and it would have been cool to see what a houlintyre take on something like "comrades in arms" could have been.) in the early years most of the hawkeye and margaret dynamic is based on antagonism and harassment, with one of the first episodes that allows them both to have personal growth being "carry on, hawkeye" (and even then there is still plenty of both in the episode). over the years, as margaret's character gets to develop (with both positive and negative overall results imho—this is a bit of an unpopular opinion but i do actually think that a lot of the softening of her character makes her less interesting, i think she's at her most interesting when she's more complicated emotionally and morally), her relationship with hawkeye becomes less combative but is marked by a deep level of emotional connection in which they still quibble and fight, but they're not trying to tear each other down anymore.

one of the biggest missed opportunities for continuity in terms of exploring hawkeye and margaret's sexual and emotional intimacy comes in season six between "comrades in arms" and "what's up, doc?"; margaret and hawkeye are implied to have had (presumably unprotected) sex in "comrades in arms," and six episodes later, margaret has her pregnancy scare (also really interesting to me is that margaret says that she was "with donald about six weeks ago in tokyo," and "what's up, doc?" aired six weeks after "comrades in arms"). it would have been bold for 1977-1978 network television for the show to explore a main character getting another married main character pregnant—fun fact in that there was a CBS-rejected a script very early on in which hawkeye would have had to deal with the consequences of potentially getting two different nurses pregnant—but would have been interesting to see follow-up to that plotline. we get a hint of that with the "i'm glad it turned out the way you wanted it to." "so am i." "i'm also sorry." "so am i." exchange, but that would have taken on a very different weight had there been actual potential that hawkeye got her pregnant (which is something i'm interested in exploring in a fic sometime; watch this space lol).

all this to say also margaret and hawkeye are both hot and i think that shipping them is fun and if people want to write thousands of words of smut inspired by the "if i didn't hate violence, i'd kick you." "would you? with high heels?" exchange who would i be to complain?

#mash #margaret houlihan #hawkeye pierce #m*a*s*h #tv: mash #anon #good houlihawk writing is really rare but it's like the girl with the curl right in the middle of her forehead #when it's good it's very very good and when it's bad it's horrid

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hawkeyeslaughter · 2 months

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What do you think would’ve happened to Trapper if Wayne Rogers hadn’t left MASH?

thank you for the ask anon !!

— i definitely think we would have seen some episodes exploring the strength of hawkeye and trapper’s bond , for sure . trapper’s temper is hinted at before he leaves but never really gone into in depth , and i definitely think that would’ve been put into use in the later seasons . i also think that there would have been some flirting with the idea of houlintyre , but i have the tendency to doubt it would have become anything concrete , sort of like they did with piercintyre . i definitely could see them making trapper and margaret close , though . i would have been interested to see how radar would’ve fared if he still had his ‘ aunt hawkeye and uncle trapper ‘ … in the earlier seasons we see times that it looks like trapper is closer to radar than hawkeye is , and of course we can chalk that up to trap being good with kids . and yes , while i don’t doubt for a second that trap would have his bitter episodes over missing his daughters , i dont think trap would’ve ever lost his essence . he’s so full of love that i think he definitely could have brought some heartfelt feelings to the last seasons and also some lighter aspects with his sense of humor . i also think he and charles’ relationship would’ve been ,, something . i’d like to think they’d be the type of duo like , ‘ i’d do pretty much anything for you but i’d rather die than admit we’re friends ‘ . sort of a begrudging admiration of each other . i wish trapper had stayed . i wish we’d gotten the same heartfelt goodbye we got with bj .

#townes answers asks !#cries and cries forever btw #mash #m*a*s*h #mashposting #mash 4077 #mashblr #trapper #trapper john #trapper john mcintyre #john mcintyre #trapper mcintyre #lgbt #lgbtq

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marthammasters · 1 month

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fought art block briefly to cook this up + 1970 houlintyre except it's us

OHHHHHH MY GODSH OHM TGOS OMGEEEEE IM GONNA CRY AND SNIVEL I LOVE IT & U WAHHHH💌💌💌🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥💥💥💥💥YOU COOOKEDDD!!!!!!!!!! ongod I will fight my block tmrws For You🪬🪬🪬💙💙💙💙AHHH!!!!!!! Houlintyre will never beat the Us allegations amen! 💙

#are u AWARE. of u have the bestestsst arts ever allegations #💌💌💌#fave!!!!!!!!!!#fave #answer #Mojavephonebooths

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remyfire · 28 days

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houlintyre + begging

(prompts now closed) I think a normal amount about them (lie)

"I don't have to stay," Margaret points out while she's still holding the door open behind her.

McIntyre looks at her over his shoulder with a crooked, toothy grin. "You sure don't."

It's not exactly what she needs to hear to knock down her final reservations. The last thing she expected to accompany her three-day pass to Seoul was a handsome, insufferable, skirt-chasing, charming, brilliant, rule-breaking, incredibly compassionate asshole. But this is how things go for her now, it seems. She'll make a plan. She'll be thrilled to bits about it. It'll be dashed into pieces on the ground. And then right when she's ready to throw in the towel and go sulk for a night, something will happen. Kind of like McIntyre letting her grit out all of her frustrations about Frank while he drove them the whole way, only interjecting from time to time to wind her up again with yet another thing Frank had done—how McIntyre knew that four months ago, Frank spilled an entire bottle of nail polish on her favorite pair of underwear, she'll never know.

Perhaps she should really be focusing on that. And not the way that McIntyre is watching her, his gaze full of the invitation that slipped off his tongue when they were only a mile out from Seoul. Just long enough to leave her stirred up, just short enough that she hasn't gotten her good sense back yet to remember why she can't have something that's left an undercurrent of hunger beneath a persistent blanket of irritation.

He stares her down for a long moment, both of them caught in the standoff, before he scoffs out a chuckle and shakes his head. While he loosens his tie, he drawls. "All right, let's lay it all out on the table, huh? You don't have to stay, that's right. And I don't need you to stay. There's a dozen gals at the bar next door who'll get in my bed for nothin' more than a wink. I ain't desperate." But as an ugly tightness locks her ribs shut in a vice, McIntyre turns to face her head on and speaks over her irritation. "Neither one of us needs you to be here. But that doesn't mean I want you to go either. Yeah, if you walk out that door, I'll have another girl flat on her back in ten minutes." He pauses. When his eyelashes flutter—a single twitch—it's the first moment that he's looked anything but unflappable. "But you're the one I'm gonna be thinkin' about when I'm inside her."

It's like she overturned a hot cup of tea. One moment, she's bristling and cold. The next, she's flushed from head to toe. Has he done that before with any of those hundreds of nurses he chases like a dog? When he's rocking against one, does he bury his face in her neck and imagine the hair tickling his cheek is blonde?

The image feeds the selfish sectors of her heart. He's an animal who'd take any scraps that a woman might offer him as long as he gets to have a taste. But as unpicky as he is about whoever ends up under him...he'll still pick her to be the one he's having all the same.

Margaret licks her lips, though she knows it might ruin their painted color. She's restless. Wanton. And as if McIntyre sees it, he saunters forward, his tie loose around his neck, his two top buttons open to expose the edge of his collarbone above his undershirt. She doesn't move a muscle. But she doesn't need to. He reaches above her without breaking the eye contact and pushes the door shut so she leans into it. After another thoughtful moment, he clicks the lock shut, then stays just like that. Looming. Watching. Starving.

"Kiss me," she commands in a throaty murmur, and he sinks his fingers into her hair as he darts downward.

As McIntyre coaxes her lips to part, to let his tongue slip between them, Margaret grabs fistfuls of his jacket, this fancy dress uniform that he has no right to wear. It's a parody of a costume on him. He's done nearly everything in the book to disgrace this outfit. And yet in some strange way, that ignites her further—that old spark of fledgling rebellion that overtook her in her first year of freedom at college. The desire for her father to be proud of her in everything she did versus the temptation to pierce her ears and flirt with twenty guys with fast cars all at the same time. Her father would despise John McIntyre, would practically revere Frank Burns in comparison. But McIntyre's the boy she would've let crawl in her dorm window and fuck her whether Lorraine, on the other side of the room, woke up or not.

His other hand finds her waist, and as it slips under her jacket, he tucks his fingers just beneath the waistband of her skirt, an act of easy possession. And all at once, she needs far, far more.

Margaret hums out a rush of frenetic sound as she pushes away from the door and McIntyre breaks the kiss with a laugh that he quickly swallows as he gets a good look at her face. She drives him backward step by step to the rhythm of her panting until she shoves him down on his futon, then shrugs off her dress uniform's jacket in one smooth motion. He follows her lead, yanking his own away so he's down to his shirtsleeves, and though Margaret intends to get a bit more comfortable, she's only toed off one high heel when she notices the thick swell down McIntyre's right pant leg. A hurricane overtakes her. One moment, she's standing tall, and the next she's straddling him, her other heel dangling helplessly from her foot before finally plummeting.

At first McIntyre goes for her shirt buttons, but Margaret grunts as she wiggles on her knees to push her tightly-fitted skirt up, and the moment he sees this, his eyes go as wide as saucers. "Touch me." Margaret intends for that to come out like an order but it's tinged with a breathy ache, and perhaps he hears this because he moves instantly into action.

She isn't sure if this is what he must have fantasized about however many times he palmed himself to thoughts of having her—maybe he thought it'd be a slow seduction, a loosening of her nervous limbs little by little—but she can't slow down, can't think twice, can't come to her senses when he's right here. No one's going to knock on the door. There aren't going to be choppers. And as McIntyre touches the back of his knuckles to her inner thigh, she feels them as potently as flames straight through her nylon stockings.

He drags them slowly upward as he locks her in place with his brown sugar gaze. She fumbles for stability. When she sinks her fingers into his shoulder, he trembles. The world's shrunk down to the two of them having the most unfathomably irresponsible encounter they could. The moment they're back in camp, this secret space will evaporate entirely, and they'll snark and bite at each other all over again. This is madness. They really shouldn't.

She is not going to stop him. Not for a second.

She holds her breath as he finds the first hint of bare skin, squeezes him tighter as he makes her wait. "McIntyre..." A gasp breaks from her when he moves inward. It comes in a one-two punch—the firm grind of his palm's heel down the length of her, then the sudden press of his thumb right against her clitoris. Even through the fabric and her swollen folds, he sparks a rush of adrenaline.

It's rare that Margaret is this clothed when a man fondles her. All of her father's old Army friends, they love when she's nude in their bed. She draws a sort of power from their smoldering lust as they take in a taut, youthful figure, softer skin than their wife's. For his part, Frank is restless once he has her undressed, his hands and body rolling over all of her curves like a summer storm. But this? It's filthy. She's soaking through her panties in a rush as McIntyre's thumb teases her.

A single barely audible whine croaks free. It charms a growl out of him in turn, and as he pulls her close so he can mouth at her neck, she shudders and slides her fingers through his tight curls.

"C'mon, honey, lemme hear it," he whispers hotly against her throat. It's already unfair that he has the most beautiful hands she's ever seen, but his drawl? That's sinful all on its own. "Give it to me, gimme those pretty sounds I know you've got, huh?"

But beneath his tone, there's something else. An edge of desperation. And that in and of itself is fascinating. She would've expected him to be far more confident, maybe even mocking her for finally breaking for him the second they're away from their colleagues. "You want it that badly?" Margaret's voice trembles as she murmurs the words.

McIntyre straightens up, and though it jostles her, he tightens his arm around her waist so she can arch her back and give his clever, rubbing thumb better access. "Oh, you know I do."

"Ask me nicely," she whispers, "and I'll consider it."

He lets out a groan that's so raw, she can feel her skin tingling in sympathy, almost pained. When he rests his lips on the swell of her breast, she begins to tighten her grip on his hair. "I need it, baby." Margaret tugs a fistful of curls and his words go raspy in its wake. "Lemme know how good I'm making it, I gotta hear."

Margaret smothers his face in her chest as she puts her mouth to his ear and releases a whisper-thin, quivering moan.

"Fuuuck..." He rocks under her, not finding any stimulation, just chasing the phantom desire to be inside of her, and it emboldens her further.

"I want you to feel how wet I am," she breathes.

He presses the edge of his teeth through her blouse, lets them dig into the top of her breast. "Uh-huh..." Though she expects him to unhook her garter belt so he can slide her panties down, he shoves them roughly aside like he can't wait another second, like he's going to fuck her right now, and Margaret throws her head back as he rubs his softly-calloused thumb along her slick labia. "Oh, fuck, honey, you're dripping for me."

She loses all sense of language for a few seconds, can only nod as he lights a chain of pleasure through her body. She's not only dripping, she's throbbing, every inch of her swollen and flush with hot blood until she thinks just a stiff breeze might make her moan.

"You're gonna tell me what you need, aincha?" he asks, a little stronger now.

"Mm—" Margaret squeezes her eyes shut. She wants everything, wants to shove him on his back and mount his face, wants him to roll her over and take her like an animal, wants to know if he could pick her up and bruise her by pounding her into the wall. "Ohh, I-I... Inside me?"

The last thing she wanted it to be is a question. It makes him chuckle—makes her want to slap his shoulder, really—but he slips two fingers close to her entrance, and when she shakes with a wave of anticipation, he appears to take note of it. There's a fine line between men who think that all she wants is to be fucked and men who understand that the nerves around and just barely inside of her hole are sometimes just as sensitive as her clitoris. And as McIntyre rubs a teasing, slow circle around her even as she's practically trying to suck him in, she knows to the depths of her that he's figuring it out much, much faster than anyone ever has.

"Please..." She shapes the word but doesn't quite say it.

"What's that, doll?" he growls.

"Please?" Again with the curve of her voice, the faint pathetic wobble.

He dips just the tip of his middle finger inside of her, then slips out again, drawing every ounce of her attention to that area as she gasps. "Say it."

"Bastard," she grits out, then whines when he takes his hand completely off of her. "No! No, I-I want... I want your fingers inside of me."

McIntyre hums as he covers her heat with his whole palm and rubs back and forth, vibrating faster than an idling jeep, torturing her with sparks through her veins like the remnants of fireworks. "Say it again. Make me sweat this time."

God, he's the most evil man alive. Sweat? Yes. Yeah, she can do that. Margaret arches her back once more as she looks down at him, watches his gaze slowly drag up from her breasts to her face. "Trapper," she murmurs, watching his pupils dilate further immediately and his cheeks flush. "Do you know what I need from you?"

"What?" he whispers.

"When you touch yourself while you think of me..." She pauses, immediately has those suspicions confirmed when his mouth falls open. "...when you think about how badly you want to fill me..." His fingers dig into her hip hard enough to bruise. "...I need to know what that feels like. I need you to fuck me with your fingers just like you're going to fuck me with your cock."

The groan that her words pull from him is filled with agony. "That I can do," he murmurs raspily just before he presses two fingers inside of her.

A shiver rolls up her spine. "Yes, yes, mmm—" Margaret squeezes her eyes shut as she rolls her hips, teases that extra sensation out around his knuckles as he works his digits deeper. He has a spooky way of picking up on the nuances of when her breath hitches, if her lips part, what makes her gasp out a shocked moan.

"Margaret, you are somethin' else." She can hear the smirk when he speaks. "Yeah, that's what you like. Nice, long strokes, huh?" She's not quite capable of speaking quite yet—is too fixated on the tiny shifts of his fingers like he's conducting the most thorough experiment of his career. "Remind me, honey, this is about how wide what Ferret Face's packing is, ain't it? A little under, maybe?"

The realization that McIntyre must have seen Frank when he's erect hits her like a lightning bolt, leaving strange bubbles in her gut and a squirming curiosity that turns her beet red as she looks down at him. "What?"

That boyish grin lights up his whole face with a particular satisfaction. "S'okay, you don't hafta say it. It's all over your face." But when he pushes a third finger inside of her with no warning, he hums at how she throws her whole body backward, only her grip on his shoulders keeping her stable. "Don't worry, doll. We'll get you up to taking my cock."

"Oh God, you're huge, aren't you?" She doesn't quite mean to say the words out loud, but even she can hear the sharp hunger that colors them.

McIntyre groans. "You'll see. You'll fuckin' see, all right. Hold tight for me, don't let go." She only gets that second of warning before he releases his hold on her waist and finds her clit with his free hand.

"Ohh!" Margaret can barely hold herself up now. How the hell are her muscles supposed to not turn into jelly? It's like he's been holding back until this very moment, compiling all his data and letting it loose to pound into her with his long, thick fingers while rubbing perfect circles over her clit. "Oh my God please don't stop—" All one quick breath.

"You're gonna come for me, Margaret," McIntyre murmurs with that cocky, sexy drawl of his. He's playing her like a fiddle. "You're gonna come so hard, you're gonna soak my fingers, 'cause you're thinking about every inch of my cock filling you up 'til you scream."

Bastard, bastard, he's right, he's put it all in her head now, a rainy midnight where he lets himself into her tent and locks the door, where he strips down and pulls the blanket off of her, where his slick body holds her down and his mouth swallows her moans and he gives it to her just like she needs, splitting her in two over and over again, "Yes, yes, yes, oh God, yes, don't stop don't stop—" She's quaking inside, melting down from a solid block of ice into a rippling puddle.

His voice comes from a great distance. "You're gonna ride my face, squeeze me with those soft thighs 'til I can't breathe anymore. Gonna leave my fingers sore from how greedy you are for me to make you come over and over again. Fuck, Margaret, I want you to wring me out. Tell me what you want. Let me give it to you."

"Just like that," she whimpers out, gasps, tries again, "just like that, McIntyre, fuck..."

"Come for me, please, sweetheart, fuck, lemme see it." His confidence twists with another taste of desperation that ignites her, and as his words turn into nothing but senseless noise, Margaret cries out and clenches around his digits, feels her whole body lurch when he growls and fucks her even harder through her release. Her mind fogs over with a blanket of tingling ecstasy that washes through her again, again, hovering right there at her peak until it burns, and only then does she shove at his shoulders.

He goes straight back like she slammed into him with the force of a car, taking her with him. He leaves her sensitive folds alone. Lets her shake it all out with another rough moan that feels as though it blooms from her very muscle fibers. When Margaret finds it within herself to open her eyes, he's gaping up at her like she's a goddess who came down from the skies to use him up until he breaks.

Oh yes. This is absolutely the worst idea she's ever had. She has set herself up for the most twisting, complicated pathway in camp—needing him to fuck her as often as possible, already knowing he's going to take full advantage of that the next time he and Pierce get a silly little notion in their skulls. But that sounds like a problem for Major Houlihan. Margaret is lushly content right now, her muscles still clenching like they're trying to milk him dry in the midst of her aftershocks.

"McIntyre?" she drawls out, husky as can be.

"Yeah?" He looks like he can barely breathe, much less speak.

Margaret tosses the hair out of her face and wiggles, getting the last of her body to relax, feeling the clothes sticking to her with sweat. She'll need to get all those off. Maybe a shower. Maybe a good fuck in the shower. "Mm...you all right?"

McIntyre nods wildly, his voice pained. "Oh, y'know."

He's probably about to burst through his trousers. Poor thing. She wonders if he has condoms in his suitcase, if she'll have to send him to buy some while he's visibly hard as nails. It gives her a little thrill to imagine that. She smirks lazily and draws a loose pattern on his chest with the tip of her finger. "I need a moment to breathe." She bites her bottom lip and watches his eyes follow the motion. "And then...I'll see what I'm going to do with you."

#pHEW that was fun #we need a million more fics about them btw my fellow warriors i am desperate #margaret houlihan #trapper john mcintyre #houlintyre #trapmarg #margtrap #my writing #ask meme replies

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remyfire · 9 months

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🎲 Margaret/Trapper

(You get a gentle peck!! Ahh, this is my first foray into writing early-seasons Margaret, I think, and that was quite a minefield to be wading into, but I hope she reads okay. Thank you so much for the meme!!)

If Margaret has learned anything over the past year, it's that war will force you to become reliant on people that you never would've given the time of day in your usual life. There are moments where Frank makes that swim into dizzying clarity—she can say with one-hundred-and-ten percent confidence that if a married man kept her waiting in the wings for so long back in the States, she'd bid him a frustrated goodbye and turn her attention to the other dozen fellows trying to catch her eye. But given that the other men in this unit are below her rank, are unforgivable womanizers with the backbone of an earthworm, or have an intense disdain for the very country that sustains them, who else would she find any kind of succor with?

Sure, she'd leave Frank in her dust back home, but she'd just as happily slap Pierce across the face or break McIntyre's toes with her heel. There's very little that's redeemable about them.

Yet the closeness of proximity also forces remarkable emotions to rise in her that she would never otherwise entertain.

She has plenty of time to muse on this after the most recent shelling around the 4077th. They're fortunate in so many ways that even with the damage done in post-op from flying debris—shattered bulbs, a hole in the wall, and one bedframe broken when it was enthusiastically thrown down to provide some measure of cover—they're still able to reorient the patients on their mattresses and make sure that none of their stitches were torn out.

It's only when the door opens and Pierce is stumbling in with an almost limp McIntyre, arm thrown over his shoulder, that Margaret feels her heart skip a beat. It loses a subsequent one when she sees the blood dripping down McIntyre's cheek.

"What happened?" She flies straight into crisis mode, marching over to a nearby empty bed and making sure the mattress is properly placed and secure.

"Falling beam," Pierce spits in that authoritative way he has when he's one hundred percent focused on his duties. She hears it so rarely, even in the operating room. Experiencing it now makes her vision sharpen on the dripping wound as Pierce settles McIntyre to sit up against the wall. "He threw himself to cover Radar."

"My God," Margaret murmurs as a powerful, surging emotion floods her. She's so unfamiliar with experiencing it to this magnitude that it takes her a moment to identify it as monumental concern.

McIntyre grins up at them both. "Kid gets his brain broken, we lose the whole fuckin' war." His words slur slightly. As he turns his focus on Pierce more intentionally, his eyebrows spring up. "Hey, gorgeous."

"Concussed," Margaret diagnoses.

"Yeah, or something." Pierce shoots McIntyre a look she doesn't recognize before he gets to work. It doesn't take long, only a few moments of sponging and disinfecting and care, for Pierce to determine that he won't need stitches, but he'll have a nasty bruise and needs to keep the wound covered.

By the time they have McIntyre settled, there's more that they both need to care to—Pierce to check on others who took glancing blows or cuts, Margaret who has an entire post-op to keep an eye on—and they're able to leave him there.

But she'd be lying if she said she didn't keep glancing over her shoulder as the hours passed.

Men like McIntyre aren't worth her time, her energy, her attention. Yet he has it in spades. She can't help it. There's something about him that draws in all her nurses like moths to a flame, and...and she's noticed. She knows he's noticed. She knows because she's...told him too much. More than she ever planned to.

He summons extremes within her. She'll walk past two of her nurses comforting a third who is crying and know that he's used up yet another woman like a razor blade that's gone dull. But she'll also see how tenderly he'll wrap an arm around Lieutenant Bayliss and touch a handkerchief to her cheek in a way that Frank has never done for her. Part of that is perhaps that Margaret won't permit the vulnerability of weeping, but...but she can't deny the near ache that floods her, to see a man take a woman so gently in his arms and make the darkness go away for even just a little while.

It'll often make her wonder what it must be like to be Mrs. McIntyre when there's not a war on. Is he just another man who swears he has permission to mess around with whoever he needs to so he can get home? Is he as devoted to his wife as he is in these compassionate moments with his favorite nurses of choice?

What is it like to have a man be so...gentle?

When she catches herself lingering on these thoughts in the third hour, Margaret actually scoffs at herself aloud. These are useless time-wasting contemplations that have nothing to do with the act of medicine.

What does have to do with nursing and her solemn, patriotic duty is swinging back to check on his injury and if he has a bit more awareness.

As Margaret drops into the chair by McIntyre's bedside, he looks up at her and beams. "Hey, you're back quick."

"What?" She blinks.

"You were just here, right? With Hawk. Where's Hawk, anyway?"

Margaret breathes a sharp sigh through her nose. She buries her concern in the facts. These brief periods of memory loss are often standard, of course, and not a sign that there's something dangerously wrong. "I haven't spoken to you for several hours, McIntyre," she informs him as she continues checking his vitals for her own peace of mind.

His eyes twinkle up at her. "Musta been just running through my head, then."

I will not be susceptible to your charms, she repeats internally as a mantra.

But when she moves to check his pupils, his voice goes incredibly soft. "Y'know you look kinda like an angel with that lamp up there?"

I. Will Not. Be Susceptible. "What on earth do you mean?"

"With the light on. Makes you look like you've got a halo. S'nice. When you're being all sweet like this, it really suits you, y'know? Makes you look even prettier than normal, and that's fuckin' hard to beat."

God. She despises him. He plays women like a fiddle, even when his faculties are so powerfully affected by an injury. "What do you want, McIntyre?"

"Nothin', honest. Just enjoying the view."

She sees how it's so easy for her nurses to play into his hands. She wouldn't be surprised if he's been spinning these exact lines to every single one of them who might've swung by his bedside to make sure he'll survive the night, be on his feet soon so he won't miss their perverted dates to the supply shed.

But she feels her pulse flutter all the same. And if her fingers linger when she nudges his curls back to check his swelling, she doesn't feel a need to comment on it. "I hear those lines every day. From you, even. Perhaps you've already forgotten them all, but you'll remember soon enough."

"Louise'd like you, y'know."

All at once, it's as though Margaret was dropped naked into a frigid lake. She rolls her eyes, covers the lingering sting by checking his bandage to see if it needs changing. "You married men. You're all the same. Obsessed with keeping your wife close and your mistress closer. What kind of fantasy world do you live in that you think a woman—a real woman, with a brilliant mind and a passionate heart—would settle for living in one of your...your little apartments on the far side of town where you can invite her around for garden parties and barbecues and take advantage of her in the facilities while your wife is feeding your daughters?"

But all at once, her rushing train of thought comes to a sudden stop as McIntyre brushes the back of his fingers down her cheek, a more tender action than she's received in quite some time. Margaret turns her head to look into his eyes, suspicious, but the dopey smile on his face catches her before his words do. "No, I mean, she'd like you. Like I like you."

It turns out that at the bottom of the icy lake is somehow a blasting, deep volcano, one that bursts all at once. She stops breathing. Moment by moment, she processes his words. Understands what he's implying. Has absolutely no idea how to respond without...

When Margaret glances askance, those fingers could belong to anybody. McIntyre. Her Lorraine who isn't hers anymore.

As her cheeks blister, she clears her throat. "I see that concussion's far worse than we thought," she eventually murmurs. When she leans down to finally lift the bandage away and check his wound, there's tiny touches on the back of her neck, and just the littlest bit of pressure.

Turns out that's all he needs to come up an inch and kiss her.

It's there and gone, and then he's collapsing back down with a huffed breath like it took all his effort to pull that off, but as Margaret flies to her feet, he's grinning even wider. "Promise me if we make it out of here alive, you'll look us up, okay?" he's asking.

"I cannot believe you!" Margaret blurts. She touches her mouth, brings her fingers away, somehow finds herself staring at them as though there'll be evidence of his actions right there on her skin. "Wh-What is the matter with you?"

If it's possible, McIntyre's gaze goes softer, those pretty hazel eyes that haunt her when she's alone in her tent and nursing irritation at Frank for finding yet another reason to make her feel small. "Sorry," he whispers. "You're even prettier when you're fired up like this. Can't help it."

"Major?" It's Lieutenant Kellye behind her, her voice soft and searching. "I could change his bandage, if you want to go check on bed four?"

It's a gentle out, the kind that her nurses so rarely give her. She can't imagine what the entire post-op tent can read on her face, in her voice, for one of her own subordinates to have enough compassion for the hated ice queen to offer her an escape.

"I'll check on him right away," Margaret eventually replies. She throws her shoulders back and starts walking as commandingly as she can.

And if her lips are still tingling, well, that's something she'll deal with later—or bury at the bottom of that lake when she shoves down a boulder, something that can plug up the volcano before it can irreparably harm her.

#margaret houlihan #trapper john mcintyre #houlintyre #my writing #ask meme answers #m*a*s*h

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majorbaby · 2 months

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non-houlintyre fic where trapper tells margaret he's in love with his boy best friend and margaret tells trapper she's in love with her girl best friend and then suggests to him they fuck each other. but the enlightened trapper john goes "what? no. that makes no sense. nothing would make less sense for this fic to end in hetero sex... but i suppose it could end in mutual masturbation" and then they jack off twelve paces apart

#the majorbaby hcu #houlintyre notes

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majorbaby · 9 months

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have to complain about this somewhere: i've never struggled so much with writing a scene in my whole life. i think i just don't know how to build sexual tension between a man and a woman anymore, i am not designed for it. homophobic for me to have to try to do it convincingly.

#im never doing this again #houlintyre is so hot but at what cost #next time we're cold opening on PIV #wip stuff

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