Website/link to fic: http://kellie.mrks.org/. Also available at the Due Slash Archive.
Fanlore page: tbc
First DS fic posted: 1999.
Full disclosure: A fan. Kellie was among the first (if not the first) DS writer I read.
Pairings: Mostly F/K, but also F/V/OFC and F/OMC. Other C6D crossover pairings.
Style and strengths:
That these stories, written between 1999-2003, still get heavily recced is testament to Kellie's talent. She writes fantastic romance and angst (and not without humor), as well as screen-melting hot porn. But ultimately what I love about Fraser/Kowalski in these stories is the joy they find in each other, whether it's a first-time or established relationship piece. And she truly gets Fraser, through his POV and glimpses into his past: who he is behind the barriers he's put up around himself, and what it takes for him to lower those barriers.
Other DS/C6D activity: Kellie has written some C6D crossovers: DS/HCL, HCL/Tales of the City, Buried on Sunday/Masterminds, Getting Married in Buffalo Jump/Paris or Somewhere (several co-authored with Aukestrel).
Somewhere Else to Be (DS, AU!F/K, NC-17, 440kb).
The fandoms I had read before this didn't really do AU's, so I didn't know what to expect with a story where Fraser wasn't a Mountie and Kowalski wasn't a Cop. But she captures their essential qualities here to create a wonderful story about two decent, odd, lonely people who find each other.
"Hey, Doc! This baby giving you trouble again?" the tall, slender man in mechanic's coveralls asked, looking surprised. "You're gonna ruin my reputation here."
Benton Fraser flicked a thumb nervously across his left eyebrow. "Yes, well, I'm sure whatever is wrong must be my fault, Stanley, I'm just not very good with mechanical things," he said, absolutely truthfully. He was positive that what was wrong was his fault, as he had spent the better part of an hour working on the fan belt with a file to be sure it broke without looking like it had been cut.
"Ray," the scruffy blond said.
"Excuse me?" Benton asked, puzzled.
"My name's Ray. Not Stanley."
"Ah." Benton looked again at the embroidered patch which embellished the man's coveralls over the smooth curve of pectoral muscle. It plainly read 'Stanley,' just as he'd remembered. "Forgive me, I thought. . . ."
The other man looked down, following his gaze, and then back up, flashing a quick, spontaneous grin. "Yeah, well, okay, so my name really is Stanley, that's my first name, but I go by my middle name, Ray. The boss sees Stanley on the job application, though, and that's what goes on the patch. Three years I work here, and he still never got it through his head that I go by Ray, and then the new guy took over and I figure why fight it? So, just think of me like Superman or something. By day I'm mild mannered mechanic, Stanley Kowalski, by night I'm . . . Ray."
Ben was diverted by the flight of fancy. It was part and parcel of the easy manner and open friendliness that Benton found so appealing about the other man. Stanl. . . or rather, Ray, was the only person he knew in Chicago who didn't treat him like some sort of consumable, like the young women in his classes, or like a pariah for getting the fellowship that slightly less than half of the department had wanted to award to someone else. He knew it was pathetic for him to resort to sabotaging his own vehicle for a few moments of real conversation, but he was, frankly, desperate. He wasn't sure how he was going to survive another day of this.
When he'd accepted the fellowship, nine months in Chicago had not seemed like such a bad idea, and it would give him access to the collections he needed for his research; and though he'd been lonely, the first month or so hadn't been so bad. But each successive month got worse as departmental politics failed to resolve themselves and he discovered that some American women were rather . . . forceful about their attentions, leading him to have a strict open door policy during his office hours. He'd grown more and more homesick, and then on top of it all, summer had hit, and the combination of negatives became almost more than he could bear. Which is what had driven him here, of all places.
Without a Net (DS, F/K, NC-17, 164kb). Kowalski goes undercover as an Argentine drug lord, seriously. I love Ray-going-undercover fics, and the first half has the plot, action and wackiness to feel like an episode script. The second half is where the NC-17 rating comes in.
Ray moved forward, extending a hand. "Carlos Gomez," he said smoothly. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lewis. Shall we do some business?"
'Shall?' Fraser thought, bemused. He wasn't sure he'd heard Ray use that word before. Ever.
Lewis stared at Ray for a moment, then reached out to shake his hand, eyeing him questioningly. "You don't look Argentinian," he said suspiciously.
Ray laughed, seemingly at perfect ease. "You should tell my mother that. It would make her very happy. She is always worried someone might think our family line has degenerated from our German forefathers simply because we changed our name forty years ago."
Fraser found himself somewhat awestruck by the ease with which Ray lied, and the way in which he had altered his usual patterns of speech, smoothing them into something convincingly non-American. He realized suddenly that he'd been selling Ray's abilities short, based on his lack of discernible attempt to imitate Ray Vecchio, other than a few perfunctory attempts early on, involving his wardrobe, and behavior around women. Those things had been out of character for the Ray he had eventually come to know, and had clearly been in imitation of Ray Vecchio. Eventually even those had been abandoned as unnecessary, given the fact that everyone at the 27th was well aware of the situation.
Northern Comfort (DS/HCL, Fraser/Billy, NC-17, 250KB). The one that made want to see Hard Core Logo so I could find out more about Billy and Joe.
Now that he was close, Fraser could see that although some of the bruises and scrapes on Billy's face were recent, there were others, older, nearly faded. And there was a faint scar-like mark on his lower lip, as if it had been split. Dragging his gaze away from that beautifully modeled mouth, he mentally shook himself again. He had to get himself in hand.
"Were you in another fight recently?" he asked, incurably curious.
The blue eyes flashed open, and the pain in them was depthless. "No."
"Ah," Fraser said, confused, and disconcerted by the emotion revealed there. "I just thought, well, some of these bruises appear to be older than the others."
Eyes closed again. "Yeah. A week and a day now. Just eight days. But it wasn't a fight. Not really. I didn't know. Didn't understand. My fault. I should've told him. God. Oh, god." The rough, smoky voice broke, and the man curled over, burying his face in his hands, weeping as if his heart were broken.
Fraser hovered over him, distressed by his pain, wanting to help, not knowing how. After a moment he awkwardly reached down, put a hand on one bony shoulder, then hesitantly put his other hand on the other shoulder, and drew the other man to him, holding him gently as he sobbed. As if it were not at all unusual, the other man's arms slid around his waist, and he hid his face against Fraser's's stomach. Fraser could feel the heat and wetness of tears as they soaked into his undershirt. He didn't pull back, though a disapproving voice within him told him he should, and after a moment he found himself gently stroking the spiky hair, finding it surprisingly soft to his hand, though a trifle 'crunchy' from the styling products used to produce that look. The storm lasted only a short while, and then the other man seemed to startle, realizing he was weeping in the arms of a stranger, and he drew back, covering his face with one long-fingered hand.
"Christ! Sorry, you must think I'm a fucking headcase."
"I think you're a man in a great deal of pain, but you seem perfectly sane to me."
The hand didn't move, but he saw the corners of Billy's mouth twitch in a stillborn smile. After a moment he wiped his eyes, and lowered his hand, looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. "So, is dealing with fucked-up semi-hysterical guitarists usually in your job description?"
"My job description has never been any too well-defined. I'm sure I could find justification for nearly anything within it." Fraser paused a moment, gathering his resolve, then forged on. "Would you like to talk?"
Turning (DS, F/K, NC-17, 661KB). The epic COTW/post-COTW story. Fraser deals with the unresolved issues around his mother's murder and his relationship with his father. It has dark elements (including nightmares), but also enough humor and romance to keep it from being too angsty. This story also has one of my favorite "first kisses."
He laughs a little. "Cat got your brain? Look, Fraser, you've saved me from a murder rap, kept me from getting nuts over my ex-wife, helped me free an innocent woman, and let me make a fool of myself on a baseball diamond. You put up with me making cracks about your country, calling you names and even hitting you. I've followed you off rooftops, into lakes, underwater, out of airplanes, up mountains, down crevasses . . . what the hell does that all tell you we are?"
"Co-dependent?" I venture, rubbing my eyebrow.
He laughs, a real, honest, wonderful laugh, trailing off into helpless giggles. Finally he catches his breath. "Yeah, that too probably, but there's another word I like better."
He rolls his eyes. "Don't be dense, Fraser. You gonna make me say it?"
I nod. "Yes." I think I know what he's saying but I want to hear him say it. I need to hear him say it.
He sighs, takes my face between his palms and brushes his lips across mine again, then pulls back a little. "Love you, Benton freaking Fraser. Now who's unhinged?"
"Both of us, apparently. Thank God," I say, leaning forward, taking his mouth in a kiss that's not gentle at all, putting into it all the love and need I feel for him, all my good intentions and resolve to leave him evaporating in the face of his revelation.
Inducement (DS, F/K, NC-17, 38KB).
It's hard to rec a single PWP, so I picked this one for the "statue duty" teasing.
She scurries off and I watch her go, until I hear a noise behind me that sounds suspiciously like a choked-off laugh. I turn fast, and catch the crinkles around his eyes just disappearing. Oh yeah. It was a laugh. I almost got to him. Fraser's told me about how Vecchio-- the real one-- used to always come up to him when he was on statue duty and try to get him to react. So I figure, hey, I'm supposed to be Vecchio. . . so I walk past him, deliberately, go lean on the wrought-iron fence where I know he can see me and hear me, even though I keep my voice low and my tone nonchalant.
"So, Benton Fraser. Want to go back to my place and fuck after dinner?"