Due South: Tacit (The Sound of Silence Remix)
[ Fraser/Kowalski | R | 696 words ]
Words were so terribly dangerous. They drowned out everything else.
Original story: Tacit by malnpudl, 1,500 words.
Remix author: nos4a2no9
Tacit (The Sound of Silence Remix)
He had always loved silence.
In silence one could hear all the other sounds of the world: the soft crunch of leaves, the muted drift of snow, the faint whisper of running water. In silence the world revealed itself, and he had never quite adjusted to the noisy rush of the city or the cacophony of thousands of voices echoing in the crowded streets.
His world had always been so still and quiet. Every important conversation in his life had been conducted in the pause between thought and action. A look. A glance. An extended hand. Perhaps his muteness now--here, in this moment, with Ray’s body pressed so close to his, Ray’s skin warm and mobile and alive under his fingertips--came from that place of stillness and silence.
He could not find the words he needed to express how this felt.
“Frase,” Ray moaned, throwing his head back so that his lips brushed Fraser’s cheek. “Please, now. Please.”
Still Fraser didn’t speak. He fumbled with his longjohns and worked his penis into the hot, sweat-moist place between Ray’s thighs, finding relief there as though entering Ray from behind.
Coward, whispered his heart.
He worked his hand into Ray’s thermals, gliding over smooth, warm belly and trailing through thick, wiry pubic hair until he found Ray’s cock, already wet at the tip, hard and full and waiting for him. He bit his lip when Ray squeezed his thighs and thrust back. The pressure and friction around his own cock was so intense it almost qualified as pain. He wrapped a hand around Ray’s penis (so warm so good so right) and began to move.
He brought them both to orgasm, to a place beyond any need for language at all. In the warm, drifting place of satiation, there was no need for explanation. Or apology.
Such moments didn’t last, however. The next morning Ray tried to broach the subject, and Fraser fought a profound sense of panic. There were so many questions he couldn’t answer in the bright light of day. Couldn’t ask. Instead he shifted the conversation to the condition of the sled.
Words were so terribly dangerous. They drowned out everything else.
Ray seemed, finally, to understand. He didn’t press, didn’t ask any further questions. After that third night in the tent, Ray’s lean, strong, elegant hand wrapped tightly around Fraser, his penis buried in the hot clasp of Fraser’s thighs, Ray seemed to realize how much better it was to be silent. They moaned and panted and drove hard against one another, but that dreaded word (Why?) was never uttered. Drifting to sleep afterward, Fraser felt sick with relief.
But the blizzard changed everything. Ray had threatened to “talk” (he’d phrased it in coarser terms, of course, and sealed his warning with a kiss) but when Fraser woke to the howl of wind and a blinding snowstorm, Ray had been persistent. Unavoidable. His smile belonged to a feral animal sighting its prey. Fraser had secured a small reprieve by leaving to find water and supplies, but when he reentered the tent Ray was still wearing that wolf-grin.
“Well, Ray,” Fraser said, swallowing past the lump in his throat and trying for a passable imitation of hearty good cheer, “It looks like we're not going anywhere today. I suppose we'll have to find a way to entertain ourselves."
"Is that so?" Ray said. Good Lord, that smile. Fraser blinked, and watched as Ray reached down into the depths of his sleeping bag and pulled out a small container of Vaseline. He tossed it at Fraser, and the tube struck him in the chest. Fraser fumbled for it and stared down in shocked silence.
"Good,” Ray said, stretching his arms above his head, his whole body one long lean line of temptation. “That'll give us plenty of time to talk."
Talk. Fraser licked his lips. Ah.
And perhaps…perhaps the words would come. Of course they would. Words always did. But Ray was willing to speak another kind of language, too: the nomenclature of action, and motion, and meaning.
A new world of sound. Two voices, speaking as one.
“Oh, dear,” he said, and watched Ray move.
Words were so terribly dangerous. They drowned out everything else.
Original story: Tacit by malnpudl, 1,500 words.
Remix author: nos4a2no9
Tacit (The Sound of Silence Remix)
He had always loved silence.
In silence one could hear all the other sounds of the world: the soft crunch of leaves, the muted drift of snow, the faint whisper of running water. In silence the world revealed itself, and he had never quite adjusted to the noisy rush of the city or the cacophony of thousands of voices echoing in the crowded streets.
His world had always been so still and quiet. Every important conversation in his life had been conducted in the pause between thought and action. A look. A glance. An extended hand. Perhaps his muteness now--here, in this moment, with Ray’s body pressed so close to his, Ray’s skin warm and mobile and alive under his fingertips--came from that place of stillness and silence.
He could not find the words he needed to express how this felt.
“Frase,” Ray moaned, throwing his head back so that his lips brushed Fraser’s cheek. “Please, now. Please.”
Still Fraser didn’t speak. He fumbled with his longjohns and worked his penis into the hot, sweat-moist place between Ray’s thighs, finding relief there as though entering Ray from behind.
Coward, whispered his heart.
He worked his hand into Ray’s thermals, gliding over smooth, warm belly and trailing through thick, wiry pubic hair until he found Ray’s cock, already wet at the tip, hard and full and waiting for him. He bit his lip when Ray squeezed his thighs and thrust back. The pressure and friction around his own cock was so intense it almost qualified as pain. He wrapped a hand around Ray’s penis (so warm so good so right) and began to move.
He brought them both to orgasm, to a place beyond any need for language at all. In the warm, drifting place of satiation, there was no need for explanation. Or apology.
Such moments didn’t last, however. The next morning Ray tried to broach the subject, and Fraser fought a profound sense of panic. There were so many questions he couldn’t answer in the bright light of day. Couldn’t ask. Instead he shifted the conversation to the condition of the sled.
Words were so terribly dangerous. They drowned out everything else.
Ray seemed, finally, to understand. He didn’t press, didn’t ask any further questions. After that third night in the tent, Ray’s lean, strong, elegant hand wrapped tightly around Fraser, his penis buried in the hot clasp of Fraser’s thighs, Ray seemed to realize how much better it was to be silent. They moaned and panted and drove hard against one another, but that dreaded word (Why?) was never uttered. Drifting to sleep afterward, Fraser felt sick with relief.
But the blizzard changed everything. Ray had threatened to “talk” (he’d phrased it in coarser terms, of course, and sealed his warning with a kiss) but when Fraser woke to the howl of wind and a blinding snowstorm, Ray had been persistent. Unavoidable. His smile belonged to a feral animal sighting its prey. Fraser had secured a small reprieve by leaving to find water and supplies, but when he reentered the tent Ray was still wearing that wolf-grin.
“Well, Ray,” Fraser said, swallowing past the lump in his throat and trying for a passable imitation of hearty good cheer, “It looks like we're not going anywhere today. I suppose we'll have to find a way to entertain ourselves."
"Is that so?" Ray said. Good Lord, that smile. Fraser blinked, and watched as Ray reached down into the depths of his sleeping bag and pulled out a small container of Vaseline. He tossed it at Fraser, and the tube struck him in the chest. Fraser fumbled for it and stared down in shocked silence.
"Good,” Ray said, stretching his arms above his head, his whole body one long lean line of temptation. “That'll give us plenty of time to talk."
Talk. Fraser licked his lips. Ah.
And perhaps…perhaps the words would come. Of course they would. Words always did. But Ray was willing to speak another kind of language, too: the nomenclature of action, and motion, and meaning.
A new world of sound. Two voices, speaking as one.
“Oh, dear,” he said, and watched Ray move.