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crack_van2011-08-24 12:03 am
nyteflyer.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2011-08-24 12:03 am
Entry tags:
Transistor by Storyfan (Rating: PG-13)
Fandom: DONALD STRACHEY MYSTERIES
Pairing: Donald Strachey/Timothy Callahan
Length: 3500 words
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
storyfan
Author's Website: none, but links to her stories can be found on the right-hand sidebar of her journal.
Why this must be read: Storyfan's StracheyFic is uniformly engaging, no matter which universe she's writing at any given time. However, she does have an unequaled flair for capturing the flavor and cadence of Donald's bookvoice as well as reproducing the affectionate-yet-decidedly-spirited snark that flows between our bookverse boys. In this story in particular, we get a generous sampling of all the goodies that make bookverse an exceptional world to play in -- the grumphing and snarking, the ever-present sexual undercurrent and the humor, and above all else, the enduring love and devotion that Don and Tim share!
Timmy cleared his throat. I sighed internally, too tired to counter the forthcoming dose of Catholic guilt.
“Remember when Brigit was going to throw out books you’d spent twenty-two years accumulating?”
Paybacks were a bitch. “Yes.”
“You’ll recall that I helped you move those books, half of them twice.”
“I recall.”
“I should think you’d be glad to return the favor.”
I closed my eyes. “Of course, Timmy. I’d love nothing better than to help you sort through and move your Lincoln Logs and Tinkertoys. Not to mention your Erector Set.”
Timmy kicked my foot. “We’re not talking about toys. All that stuff went to charity years ago.”
“So what are we talking? “Altar boy vestments? Muscle magazines?”
“Just some stuff I had Maureen store before I settled down here in Albany.” He examined his immaculate fingernails. “Before I met you.”
I sat up. “Before you met me? You mean you were actually alive and accumulating stuff before you met me?”
Timmy grinned, showing off his perfect white teeth. I wanted to jump him right then and there.
“I had a rich and fulfilling life before I met you,” he said. “What with the Peace Corps and all, I did a lot of moving around. You know how it was. You were a wanderer yourself.”
I didn’t often burst into song, not being the bursting type, but I couldn’t let that one pass. Timmy clamped his hands over his ears; he knew what was coming.
“Oh well, there's Joe on my left arm
And there's Jerry on the right,
And Benny is the boy well that
I'll be with tonight,
And when he asks me
Which one I love the best,
I tear open my shirt and
There's Bosie on my chest,
Cause I’m a a wanderer
Yeah, the wanderer
I roam around, around, around, around.”
“Are you done?” Timmy cautiously uncovered his ears. “My God, you’ll get us evicted.”
“Then we’ll have to be really, really quiet,” I said, leaping out of my chair and into his lap. He grunted in surprise and maybe a little pain, but that didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around me and kissing me senseless. One thing led to another, and we were on the floor, casting aside clothing and inhibitions and making love like a couple of teenagers desperate to finish before somebody’s mother walked in on them.
Transistor
Pairing: Donald Strachey/Timothy Callahan
Length: 3500 words
Author on LJ:
storyfanAuthor's Website: none, but links to her stories can be found on the right-hand sidebar of her journal.
Why this must be read: Storyfan's StracheyFic is uniformly engaging, no matter which universe she's writing at any given time. However, she does have an unequaled flair for capturing the flavor and cadence of Donald's bookvoice as well as reproducing the affectionate-yet-decidedly-spirited snark that flows between our bookverse boys. In this story in particular, we get a generous sampling of all the goodies that make bookverse an exceptional world to play in -- the grumphing and snarking, the ever-present sexual undercurrent and the humor, and above all else, the enduring love and devotion that Don and Tim share!
Timmy cleared his throat. I sighed internally, too tired to counter the forthcoming dose of Catholic guilt.
“Remember when Brigit was going to throw out books you’d spent twenty-two years accumulating?”
Paybacks were a bitch. “Yes.”
“You’ll recall that I helped you move those books, half of them twice.”
“I recall.”
“I should think you’d be glad to return the favor.”
I closed my eyes. “Of course, Timmy. I’d love nothing better than to help you sort through and move your Lincoln Logs and Tinkertoys. Not to mention your Erector Set.”
Timmy kicked my foot. “We’re not talking about toys. All that stuff went to charity years ago.”
“So what are we talking? “Altar boy vestments? Muscle magazines?”
“Just some stuff I had Maureen store before I settled down here in Albany.” He examined his immaculate fingernails. “Before I met you.”
I sat up. “Before you met me? You mean you were actually alive and accumulating stuff before you met me?”
Timmy grinned, showing off his perfect white teeth. I wanted to jump him right then and there.
“I had a rich and fulfilling life before I met you,” he said. “What with the Peace Corps and all, I did a lot of moving around. You know how it was. You were a wanderer yourself.”
I didn’t often burst into song, not being the bursting type, but I couldn’t let that one pass. Timmy clamped his hands over his ears; he knew what was coming.
“Oh well, there's Joe on my left arm
And there's Jerry on the right,
And Benny is the boy well that
I'll be with tonight,
And when he asks me
Which one I love the best,
I tear open my shirt and
There's Bosie on my chest,
Cause I’m a a wanderer
Yeah, the wanderer
I roam around, around, around, around.”
“Are you done?” Timmy cautiously uncovered his ears. “My God, you’ll get us evicted.”
“Then we’ll have to be really, really quiet,” I said, leaping out of my chair and into his lap. He grunted in surprise and maybe a little pain, but that didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around me and kissing me senseless. One thing led to another, and we were on the floor, casting aside clothing and inhibitions and making love like a couple of teenagers desperate to finish before somebody’s mother walked in on them.
Transistor