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crack_van2005-02-05 10:37 am
rileyc.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2005-02-05 10:37 am
Prelude by Actizera - (Rated R)
Hi, I'm ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rileyc, and will be driving the Oz van this month, and thanks to a couple of wonderful challenges I have a bevy of outstanding fic to choose from. We'll begin with this one:
Fandom: Oz
Pairing: Beecher-O'Reily
Author on LJ: actizera
Author website: Actizera's Fic
Why this must be read: Because the author captures the feel of S1 Oz -- and S1 Beecher and O'Reily, in particular -- so perfectly. The reader is right back there, looking at Oz through Beecher's eyes and experiencing the misery and desperation (desperate to make a human connection, just to know he's not alone) right along with him.
O’Reily doesn’t move—not away, at least. But Beecher thinks he might have moved a little closer, because he can feel the warmth of his breath, the rhythm of his breathing, faster, hotter, heavier now, against his face. Except for it being coke instead of H humming in his veins, all of it, all of this, is so familiar—the smell of him, his comfortable, comforting heat, the proximity without any menace attached to it. O’Reily won’t touch him; he’ll just be there, watching, getting out of it...whatever it is he gets out of it.
And yeah, it really doesn’t take long at all. Beecher’s arm feels like it contains enough unspent energy to bring him off ten times over, and his cock’s sending urgent messages on all frequencies to let him know it might actually be up to that challenge. He twists the sheets on O’Reily’s unmade bed in one sweaty fist and pumps his hips to meet his hand, closes his eyes and tries to focus on nothing but the friction against his erection, and then rifles though his mind for something—anything—that might speed things along. First Miss Sally, then Diane Whittlesey, then—God forgive him—Sister Pete...but what finally finishes him is a catch in O’Reily’s breathing, a soft sound that Beecher knows wasn’t only in his imagination, one that tells him he isn’t doing this alone—that his own hand might be the only one touching him, but he isn’t alone. When Beecher’s hips snap with the sudden force of his orgasm, he isn’t trying to forget that O’Reily is lying next to him, shielding him from the rest of Em City. Not anymore.
Getting inside Beecher's head is one of the tougher tasks around this fandom, butactizera is someone who hits a home run out of the park every time she explores this territory. Go, read, and send feedback.
Prelude
rileyc, and will be driving the Oz van this month, and thanks to a couple of wonderful challenges I have a bevy of outstanding fic to choose from. We'll begin with this one:Fandom: Oz
Pairing: Beecher-O'Reily
Author on LJ: actizera
Author website: Actizera's Fic
Why this must be read: Because the author captures the feel of S1 Oz -- and S1 Beecher and O'Reily, in particular -- so perfectly. The reader is right back there, looking at Oz through Beecher's eyes and experiencing the misery and desperation (desperate to make a human connection, just to know he's not alone) right along with him.
O’Reily doesn’t move—not away, at least. But Beecher thinks he might have moved a little closer, because he can feel the warmth of his breath, the rhythm of his breathing, faster, hotter, heavier now, against his face. Except for it being coke instead of H humming in his veins, all of it, all of this, is so familiar—the smell of him, his comfortable, comforting heat, the proximity without any menace attached to it. O’Reily won’t touch him; he’ll just be there, watching, getting out of it...whatever it is he gets out of it.
And yeah, it really doesn’t take long at all. Beecher’s arm feels like it contains enough unspent energy to bring him off ten times over, and his cock’s sending urgent messages on all frequencies to let him know it might actually be up to that challenge. He twists the sheets on O’Reily’s unmade bed in one sweaty fist and pumps his hips to meet his hand, closes his eyes and tries to focus on nothing but the friction against his erection, and then rifles though his mind for something—anything—that might speed things along. First Miss Sally, then Diane Whittlesey, then—God forgive him—Sister Pete...but what finally finishes him is a catch in O’Reily’s breathing, a soft sound that Beecher knows wasn’t only in his imagination, one that tells him he isn’t doing this alone—that his own hand might be the only one touching him, but he isn’t alone. When Beecher’s hips snap with the sudden force of his orgasm, he isn’t trying to forget that O’Reily is lying next to him, shielding him from the rest of Em City. Not anymore.
Getting inside Beecher's head is one of the tougher tasks around this fandom, but
actizera is someone who hits a home run out of the park every time she explores this territory. Go, read, and send feedback.Prelude
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