Now I've just come ashore, East O' The Sun, West O' The Moon, written on the body
Title: Now I've just come ashore
Author: slidellra
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Rating: R
Length: short
Why I'm reccing this fic: slidellra has a true gift for language, pacing and storytelling: she's able to convey so much in a small space that even her shortest snippets have great meaning and resonance. I adore her writing, and I'm particularly taken with this piece. I return to it again and again, in both text and podfic form, and it always gives me a warm-squishy-happy glow of contentment. (As opposed to one of her other fabulous stories, such as Practicalities, or Ray and his thinking/feeling/wanting cock which just makes me feel, uh, glowy in other ways). S marries the best kind of erotic fiction with a poignant statement about intimate love in this fic, and sure, the sex in this is smokin' (blowjobs at the breakfast table, anyone?) but it's also tied to a sense of warmth and security. The last line leaves me breathless each and every time.
In the morning there was coffee. When Ray's friends and family wrote to him, tactfully worded letters, considering, hinting at how out of place he must be up in the far-ass freezing north, and how welcome he'd always be back in Chicago or Arizona, he always flashed on the coffee.
Most mornings he woke alone in the bed, with that caffeine smell in the air. He'd get up, piss, do his zombie stumble towards the kitchen, pour a mug, and just make it to the table. Sometimes he put on pants, but mostly he just flopped, naked and crusty and gross, to drink deeply and wake up slowly. Even if Fraser was gone, there was always coffee. Ray remembered what it was like to wake up to a quiet, stale apartment, having to make the coffee himself before he was properly awake. And sometimes, when he dealt with the freaked out letters, or the Canadian fish-eye in town, he wondered if anybody else, the people he'd left behind or the people he'd come to live among, had any idea of home. 'Cause it wasn't a town or even a country. It was waking up right, and he was doing that for the first time in years, so he was home, damn it.
Now I've just come ashore
Title: East O' The Sun, West O' The Moon
Author: Hth
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski, Vecchio/Stella, Fraser/Vecchio
Rating: R
Length: long
Why I'm reccing this fic: Hth's ability to capture character voice using first-person narration is a pretty amazing achievement, and I think that particular skill is on perfect display in this trilogy of stories. Each piece is narrated in first-person POV by Fraser, Vecchio and Kowalski, respectively, and each piece is pitch-perfect in the way it captures each man and his complicated sexual and emotional connection to the other two. I think it's probably my very favourite due South fic (at least from a technical angle) and I re-read it at least three times a year. The subject matter is fascinating: Hth explores grief and terminal illness, unexpected parenthood, love, sex and sexuality, and Fraser and his Rays are revealed to be deeply flawed and brave men who seek connection and redemption at a high cost. I'm still a little awed by the narrative talent on display, but the story itself is a fascinating and involving read that should fill anyone's requirement for angst. I know there's a criticism to be made here about the use of the hated "Stanley" moniker, but I find it makes sense given the context and the explanation Hth's Fraser supplies. It's the only downside in a truly marvellous story, and I hope everyone who hasn't already read it (all two of you) will give this story a chance.
From across the room, a short, burly man has caught Stanley's eye. "You two play?" he asks, tapping the side of the pool table with his cue. I see the spark of competitive passion flare up behind his carefully cool exterior.
"You play, Frase?" he asks me, as though relaying the message. Of course, he knows the answer.
"Not well, Stanley."
"You mind if I...?"
"Please do." He just sits there, staring at me. Eventually I realize what he is waiting for, and fish into a pocket for his glasses. I carry them everywhere. God knows he was always haphazard at best about it.
He approaches pool like other men approach hunting or police work, with a cold and measuring eye, with caution, stealth, and cunning. It fires my blood to watch him; I am seeing him at his most raw, everything in him narrowed down to the fight, the challenge between himself and the laws of physics.
He approaches pool like he approached Canada, as though it wanted to defeat him, and as though there were no room in him for anything but victory. He once said to me, in a rare moment of words and warmth not long after we began the search for Franklin's hand, that he felt "maxed out" on failure, and although I struggled with the idea for some time, wondering how to assure him that his failures were inconsequential in comparison to the totality of the fine man I know as Stan Kowalski, eventually I came to understand what he had tried to tell me. Eventually I learned to let him be. Stanley is not the sort of man you can hold in your arms and breathe words of love into and expect the shadows simply to dissipate. Falling in love with
Stanley is frightening and exhilarating, because it forces you to stand quietly by while he speaks with his regrets, burns his bridges, and chooses the hardest path possible. He earned this impossible beauty that now belongs to him doing just that.
His freedom, his grace, his balance, his strength, his pride -- they were not gifts from me, much as I might have wished to be the giver. He built them in ice and blood and courage, and he wears them well.
The way he eyes the angle of his shot, the way he leans low over the table with his head down. I have never been flexible like Stanley is; my spine could not possibly snake that way, not after so many years in an RCMP uniform, which has a collar that the slightest slouch or slither will drive deep into your throat. It is as effective as obedience training. You will become iron and upright, or you will torture yourself to death. He wears his typical indoor uniform of blue jeans and t-shirt, and he looks...flexible. Chicago in his "style," even now - how could he be otherwise, with that hair, the bracelets, silver and leather, that clutter up the artistic line of his wrist, the edge of that tattoo glimpsed from under his sleeve, that swagger in his walk that only comes from being observable by hundreds of strangers every day of your life - but Yukon from his soul. Being native to this part of the world means being implacable in your resolve, immovable in your faith. It means knowing that you belong where you are, even when all of heaven and earth seems to disagree in the strongest possible terms. Oh, yes, Stanley is native to my country now. I brought him home with me in more than one sense.
East O' The Sun, West O' The Moon
Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down
The Steadfast Tin Soldier
Title: Written on the Body
Author: Colleen
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski, Mark Smithbauer/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Length: Long
Why I'm reccing this fic: This four-part story is probably an unusual choice for "due South fic of my heart" because it only tangentially involves Fraser and Kowalski and the world of due South: I'd say it actually skirts the line of original fiction. Mark Smithbauer, the hunky hockey player and Fraser's childhood friend from "The Blue Line," is the central figure in this tale about an unexpected May/December romance. Further complicating things is the fact that it's an AU: "The Blue Line" never happened, and when Fraser appears midway through this story it's as shocking to the reader as it is to Mark Smithbauer. The spectre of Dira's Hockey AU looms large here, but I think Colleen does a great job of creating her own unique story about the highs and lows of a career spent in professional sports. Smithbauer is still in the NHL when this story begins, and he is trying to hold his life together and conceal a devestating secret. He's also determined to be alone, and sex for him has always been about satisfying a need, not about making connection. Into his life comes a young farm-team rookie named Todd, who seduces Mark with an easy, sensual charm and soon installs himself in Mark's bed and heart.
Their road to romance is a rocky one and is full of unexpected twists, complications and disappointments: the first half deals with Mark's selfish inability to connect, Todd's inexperience, and the difficulties and insecurities both men feel over establishing a long-term relationship. Once Fraser and Kowalski enter the picture things seem to shift into another gear, and by the end the story reveals itself to be a beautifully elegiac statement about the nature of undying love. Like Hth's story, this one plays with theme and character to produce a fully-dimensional portrait of a human life in all its beauty and complexity. And despite the nature of Mark's secret (I don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't yet read this wonderful story) "Written on the Body" is, at the end, a celebration of life. Colleen could have easily recast this as an original novel, and I feel so lucky to have come across it in the due South fandom. It's an amazing read, and I hope you'll give it a shot if you haven't already.
The Townhouse was packed with like-minded queers, creating steam of their own in the crush of bodies. Mark rolled in around one a.m. Jared was working the door and his brother Jake was behind the lower bar. Mark had had 'em both, over the years, lanky black-haired twins from Oak Park. Nothing out of the ordinary, familiar faces, familiar places. Mark had grown comfortable in his routines, until one smile changed it all.
"Hey... wanna dance?"
Mark turned, almost choked when he saw Todd Kanichuk standing front of him. Stripped to the waist, with his tee-shirt swinging from the back pocket of his jeans. Hips moving with a cobra-like sensuality to the backbeat.
"What the fuck are you doing here, rookie?" Mark glared and didn't wait for an answer; took his drink and headed for the other end of the bar.
"Same as you, I bet." Todd's voice carried after him.
He turned, took a good look at what was on offer. Yeah, on offer, nobody with a fucking pulse could mistake the hungry look in the kid's eyes. Mark had no illusions left, though, not now, almost five months to the day since his life fell apart.
"Sorry, kid. Don't go getting any ideas into your pretty rookie head."
"No ideas." Todd raised his hands, could have been the picture of innocence if not for that wicked grin.
"Good," Mark affirmed, characteristic brevity helping to cover the quaver in his voice. He turned away, but Todd was there, still with that wolfish smile; he fished a piece of ice out of Mark's drink with two long fingers and held it up, dripping, under the swirling lights.
Mark held his breath; Todd took the ice cube and slid it down Mark's chest, down to his navel, back up to swirl around one nipple.
"On the other hand," Todd whispered, Mark shouldn't have been able to hear him, yet he practically felt every word, "what if you take me home, eh? What if you fuck the hell out of me?"
Mark swallowed hard, fumbled his drink back onto the bar as Todd gave the ice cube one last swirl over Mark's left pec and then slipped it into his mouth.
The kiss was cold, first, then hot as the ice dissolved and Mark felt himself pushed back against the bar, knees almost buckling. He slid one hand up to cup the back of Todd's head, the other down the back of his jeans, and the kid made a soft noise, ground his hips against Mark's. This was just... too fucking much, couldn't be real, couldn't be happening. He tried to step back, step off, but there was nowhere to go. Todd raised his head, licked his lips with a smile.
"C'mon, eh," he said, voice low and rough in Mark's ear. "Let's go."
mark's story, written on the body
interlude: contact
todd's story, written on the bones
epilogue: find the river
Author: slidellra
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
Rating: R
Length: short
Why I'm reccing this fic: slidellra has a true gift for language, pacing and storytelling: she's able to convey so much in a small space that even her shortest snippets have great meaning and resonance. I adore her writing, and I'm particularly taken with this piece. I return to it again and again, in both text and podfic form, and it always gives me a warm-squishy-happy glow of contentment. (As opposed to one of her other fabulous stories, such as Practicalities, or Ray and his thinking/feeling/wanting cock which just makes me feel, uh, glowy in other ways). S marries the best kind of erotic fiction with a poignant statement about intimate love in this fic, and sure, the sex in this is smokin' (blowjobs at the breakfast table, anyone?) but it's also tied to a sense of warmth and security. The last line leaves me breathless each and every time.
In the morning there was coffee. When Ray's friends and family wrote to him, tactfully worded letters, considering, hinting at how out of place he must be up in the far-ass freezing north, and how welcome he'd always be back in Chicago or Arizona, he always flashed on the coffee.
Most mornings he woke alone in the bed, with that caffeine smell in the air. He'd get up, piss, do his zombie stumble towards the kitchen, pour a mug, and just make it to the table. Sometimes he put on pants, but mostly he just flopped, naked and crusty and gross, to drink deeply and wake up slowly. Even if Fraser was gone, there was always coffee. Ray remembered what it was like to wake up to a quiet, stale apartment, having to make the coffee himself before he was properly awake. And sometimes, when he dealt with the freaked out letters, or the Canadian fish-eye in town, he wondered if anybody else, the people he'd left behind or the people he'd come to live among, had any idea of home. 'Cause it wasn't a town or even a country. It was waking up right, and he was doing that for the first time in years, so he was home, damn it.
Now I've just come ashore
Title: East O' The Sun, West O' The Moon
Author: Hth
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski, Vecchio/Stella, Fraser/Vecchio
Rating: R
Length: long
Why I'm reccing this fic: Hth's ability to capture character voice using first-person narration is a pretty amazing achievement, and I think that particular skill is on perfect display in this trilogy of stories. Each piece is narrated in first-person POV by Fraser, Vecchio and Kowalski, respectively, and each piece is pitch-perfect in the way it captures each man and his complicated sexual and emotional connection to the other two. I think it's probably my very favourite due South fic (at least from a technical angle) and I re-read it at least three times a year. The subject matter is fascinating: Hth explores grief and terminal illness, unexpected parenthood, love, sex and sexuality, and Fraser and his Rays are revealed to be deeply flawed and brave men who seek connection and redemption at a high cost. I'm still a little awed by the narrative talent on display, but the story itself is a fascinating and involving read that should fill anyone's requirement for angst. I know there's a criticism to be made here about the use of the hated "Stanley" moniker, but I find it makes sense given the context and the explanation Hth's Fraser supplies. It's the only downside in a truly marvellous story, and I hope everyone who hasn't already read it (all two of you) will give this story a chance.
From across the room, a short, burly man has caught Stanley's eye. "You two play?" he asks, tapping the side of the pool table with his cue. I see the spark of competitive passion flare up behind his carefully cool exterior.
"You play, Frase?" he asks me, as though relaying the message. Of course, he knows the answer.
"Not well, Stanley."
"You mind if I...?"
"Please do." He just sits there, staring at me. Eventually I realize what he is waiting for, and fish into a pocket for his glasses. I carry them everywhere. God knows he was always haphazard at best about it.
He approaches pool like other men approach hunting or police work, with a cold and measuring eye, with caution, stealth, and cunning. It fires my blood to watch him; I am seeing him at his most raw, everything in him narrowed down to the fight, the challenge between himself and the laws of physics.
He approaches pool like he approached Canada, as though it wanted to defeat him, and as though there were no room in him for anything but victory. He once said to me, in a rare moment of words and warmth not long after we began the search for Franklin's hand, that he felt "maxed out" on failure, and although I struggled with the idea for some time, wondering how to assure him that his failures were inconsequential in comparison to the totality of the fine man I know as Stan Kowalski, eventually I came to understand what he had tried to tell me. Eventually I learned to let him be. Stanley is not the sort of man you can hold in your arms and breathe words of love into and expect the shadows simply to dissipate. Falling in love with
Stanley is frightening and exhilarating, because it forces you to stand quietly by while he speaks with his regrets, burns his bridges, and chooses the hardest path possible. He earned this impossible beauty that now belongs to him doing just that.
His freedom, his grace, his balance, his strength, his pride -- they were not gifts from me, much as I might have wished to be the giver. He built them in ice and blood and courage, and he wears them well.
The way he eyes the angle of his shot, the way he leans low over the table with his head down. I have never been flexible like Stanley is; my spine could not possibly snake that way, not after so many years in an RCMP uniform, which has a collar that the slightest slouch or slither will drive deep into your throat. It is as effective as obedience training. You will become iron and upright, or you will torture yourself to death. He wears his typical indoor uniform of blue jeans and t-shirt, and he looks...flexible. Chicago in his "style," even now - how could he be otherwise, with that hair, the bracelets, silver and leather, that clutter up the artistic line of his wrist, the edge of that tattoo glimpsed from under his sleeve, that swagger in his walk that only comes from being observable by hundreds of strangers every day of your life - but Yukon from his soul. Being native to this part of the world means being implacable in your resolve, immovable in your faith. It means knowing that you belong where you are, even when all of heaven and earth seems to disagree in the strongest possible terms. Oh, yes, Stanley is native to my country now. I brought him home with me in more than one sense.
East O' The Sun, West O' The Moon
Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down
The Steadfast Tin Soldier
Title: Written on the Body
Author: Colleen
Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski, Mark Smithbauer/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Length: Long
Why I'm reccing this fic: This four-part story is probably an unusual choice for "due South fic of my heart" because it only tangentially involves Fraser and Kowalski and the world of due South: I'd say it actually skirts the line of original fiction. Mark Smithbauer, the hunky hockey player and Fraser's childhood friend from "The Blue Line," is the central figure in this tale about an unexpected May/December romance. Further complicating things is the fact that it's an AU: "The Blue Line" never happened, and when Fraser appears midway through this story it's as shocking to the reader as it is to Mark Smithbauer. The spectre of Dira's Hockey AU looms large here, but I think Colleen does a great job of creating her own unique story about the highs and lows of a career spent in professional sports. Smithbauer is still in the NHL when this story begins, and he is trying to hold his life together and conceal a devestating secret. He's also determined to be alone, and sex for him has always been about satisfying a need, not about making connection. Into his life comes a young farm-team rookie named Todd, who seduces Mark with an easy, sensual charm and soon installs himself in Mark's bed and heart.
Their road to romance is a rocky one and is full of unexpected twists, complications and disappointments: the first half deals with Mark's selfish inability to connect, Todd's inexperience, and the difficulties and insecurities both men feel over establishing a long-term relationship. Once Fraser and Kowalski enter the picture things seem to shift into another gear, and by the end the story reveals itself to be a beautifully elegiac statement about the nature of undying love. Like Hth's story, this one plays with theme and character to produce a fully-dimensional portrait of a human life in all its beauty and complexity. And despite the nature of Mark's secret (I don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't yet read this wonderful story) "Written on the Body" is, at the end, a celebration of life. Colleen could have easily recast this as an original novel, and I feel so lucky to have come across it in the due South fandom. It's an amazing read, and I hope you'll give it a shot if you haven't already.
The Townhouse was packed with like-minded queers, creating steam of their own in the crush of bodies. Mark rolled in around one a.m. Jared was working the door and his brother Jake was behind the lower bar. Mark had had 'em both, over the years, lanky black-haired twins from Oak Park. Nothing out of the ordinary, familiar faces, familiar places. Mark had grown comfortable in his routines, until one smile changed it all.
"Hey... wanna dance?"
Mark turned, almost choked when he saw Todd Kanichuk standing front of him. Stripped to the waist, with his tee-shirt swinging from the back pocket of his jeans. Hips moving with a cobra-like sensuality to the backbeat.
"What the fuck are you doing here, rookie?" Mark glared and didn't wait for an answer; took his drink and headed for the other end of the bar.
"Same as you, I bet." Todd's voice carried after him.
He turned, took a good look at what was on offer. Yeah, on offer, nobody with a fucking pulse could mistake the hungry look in the kid's eyes. Mark had no illusions left, though, not now, almost five months to the day since his life fell apart.
"Sorry, kid. Don't go getting any ideas into your pretty rookie head."
"No ideas." Todd raised his hands, could have been the picture of innocence if not for that wicked grin.
"Good," Mark affirmed, characteristic brevity helping to cover the quaver in his voice. He turned away, but Todd was there, still with that wolfish smile; he fished a piece of ice out of Mark's drink with two long fingers and held it up, dripping, under the swirling lights.
Mark held his breath; Todd took the ice cube and slid it down Mark's chest, down to his navel, back up to swirl around one nipple.
"On the other hand," Todd whispered, Mark shouldn't have been able to hear him, yet he practically felt every word, "what if you take me home, eh? What if you fuck the hell out of me?"
Mark swallowed hard, fumbled his drink back onto the bar as Todd gave the ice cube one last swirl over Mark's left pec and then slipped it into his mouth.
The kiss was cold, first, then hot as the ice dissolved and Mark felt himself pushed back against the bar, knees almost buckling. He slid one hand up to cup the back of Todd's head, the other down the back of his jeans, and the kid made a soft noise, ground his hips against Mark's. This was just... too fucking much, couldn't be real, couldn't be happening. He tried to step back, step off, but there was nowhere to go. Todd raised his head, licked his lips with a smile.
"C'mon, eh," he said, voice low and rough in Mark's ear. "Let's go."
mark's story, written on the body
interlude: contact
todd's story, written on the bones
epilogue: find the river